Chapter I: Failure

For an ending, it had always seemed anti-climactic. A kidnapping, a bullet and one mistake was all it had taken. Ciel Phantomhive was dead. Not even he could have changed that.

Despite what he had sworn that he would accomplish, Ciel never reached his goal. A single shot to the back of the neck, and a meal five years in the making was gone. It was such a mundane way to go, and to add even more reason for spite, it had happened while the boy was protecting that obnoxiously naive fiancée of his. Against what should have been better judgment, the boy charged recklessly into a situation that needed tact. For that reason, it was Ciel's fault to an extent, but that was still no excuse for not managing to rescue him in time. Where had he been that he couldn't have stopped it?

He couldn't recall the reason anymore.

He didn't want to believe it was his mistake, yet the more he resisted the idea, the more certain he became that it had to be. There must have been something he could have done differently to change the result. That was why he had chosen to forget it. Regrets had no place among his kind. It was disgrace enough to provided five years of thankless service to a cause that never came to fruition. The least he could do for his dignity was create a scenario in which the end had been beyond his control.

Time passed, as it always did. And, as much of a stock phrase as it was to claim, nothing was the same anymore.

As the decades rolled past, humankind continued to evolve. Superpowers rose and fell, pointless wars were waged, and countries began to reform themselves. Travel methods became more convenient, and countries forged enough opponents and alliances to encompass the entire world within their struggles—twice, no less. Nuclear warfare changed the nature in which the political stage would function on the surface. It was a drastic revolution, but the one thing it never changed was the nature of the individual.

Humans were fixated upon themselves and the supposed moral high ground that they were all fabricating. The ever changing world favored those with ambition, and those with ambition didn't aspire to philanthropy. Ready minds which shaped the modern age were marked by a selfish desire for instant gratification and little thought to the consequences.

When it struck his fancy to ascend to earth, creating a contract never took long. People practically jumped at the chance to have their dreams come true for the small price of a conceptual self they didn't understand. The trouble was that the task had become much too easy and the game still wasn't worth it. Humans had become such careless, unrefined scum that taking his sustenance felt like swallowing a pill, tasteless and ungratifying.

With each identity he created, he was becoming more selective with his targets. Not just any person would satisfy his appetite. A soul with ambition, with basic goals beyond greed, at the point of desperation, with just enough of a conscience to be aware of the consequences but driven enough not to care, that was the type of soul he craved, and none of the potential meals the world had to offer fit the standard. There was a reason his criteria had become so specific. Every time he thought about what he wanted to taste, his mind wandered back to that one he never got to try.

The name which he had been given by that boy suited him more than the others which he had been stuck with. Sebastian had lived in other identities, but he couldn't recall the way that it sounded when each of those masters made demands of him the way he could Ciel's.

It was a cliché to become so obsessed with "the one who got away", but it was nonetheless accurate to his situation. The boy had slipped out, right from the middle of his clutches. More than the nature of the world over time, that was what had twisted him into regarding humanity with rising cynicism, and that cynicism was reaching another peak right about now.

The currently contract free demon had settled himself down in wait. He didn't anticipate anything exciting to take place within this gathering area. He was only here for two reasons, one of which was to waste as much time as he was able to spare. He was accomplishing that quite well by watching the crowd, but the people passing by just made him feel all the more apathetic.

The air was littered with noise, voices squawking the least refined slang that had touched his ears yet. The current generation either dressed sloppily in oversized outfits tailored for someone five times their size or what should have been underwear. They chattered away, using words that he could only wish he didn't know the meanings of. Long ago, he would have been annoyed. By now, he was accustomed enough to it that he passed by without looking their way.

He passed through the hallways of the indoor marketplace that humans referred to as a 'mall'. Mainly adolescents frequented it upon being released from government created facilities for (in most cases failing) education they continued to refer to as school. It was late enough in the day that there were some other adults there as well, so he didn't especially stand out among them, but they were still the minority in the sea of adolescents swarming the path. He paid that no mind as well while he continued on his way, his mind focused on his other reason for being here—to visit a dear friend.

Wide hetero-chromic eyes stared at him as he approached, one a pallid green and the other a smoky blue. As he came into her view, she stood up and approached the window. Her mouth opened to reveal the tops of her fangs, and her tail swayed behind her with so much force that it seemed to thump against one of the cardboard boxes set beside her in the display. Sebastian smiled through the window, gazing into the depths of her eyes in admiration. "Hello, Aurora. You are as lovely as always," he told her adoringly.

He'd happened on this pet store purely by accident, but ever since he'd found it, he made a point of coming to visit her for the past week or so. It was consistently the highlight of his day to spend those few brief moments in her presence, and she seemed to have taken enough to him that the same might apply.

Sebastian raised a finger up towards the glass and ran a finger across the surface, tracing the outline of a squiggle. Aurora watched intently, keeping her focus. She braced herself, wiggled her butt, and finally, pounced at the glass. Both of her paws attempted to grab the foreign object on the other side, their surfaces pressed against the clear panel.

It was moments like this that nearly made it tempting to take a master, if only for the excuse to keep a cat. Not all humans were allergic to these fluffy balls of sheer adorability as Ciel had been. Some even went so far as to like them. One of his previous mistresses had. Sebastian could remember how much he with ended up despising that woman, but she was probably his favorite from the past century because of the cat. He was on the verge of melting. How could she be so adorable?

"Were I able to keep you, I would. It is a shame that my living arrangements would be beneath your standards," he told her. She mewed back.

There were no words within the human tongues to fully explain how much Sebastian wished that he could take a cat with him. In just a few short minutes, his time would inevitably end and he would need to report back home. It nearly made him wish that there might be an exploitable loophole by which he could stay here. This, come to think of it, could be arranged with relative ease.

It wasn't a loophole, not in the direct sense of the word, but it would be a reason. Not any person would do to be consumed, but he didn't need a delicacy. He could cope with someone less than satisfactory. So long as they didn't speak incessantly, and would be willing to keep a cat, they would do.

Sebastian lowered his hand when Aurora's enthusiasm seemed to drop. His fingers stilled against the window. Aurora closed her eyes and turned her head, rubbing her cheek against the glass affectionately. "Perhaps, by tomorrow, the circumstances will have changed."

The houses on Stony Brook Avenue were set directly in the middle of the suburban sector of the neighborhood. It took ten minutes in either direction to reach any sign of civilization other than a few local schools. Each house was cast into an idealized image from the outside. Not all of the families that lived in them were constructed in a way that could be viewed as typical, but they maintained a sense of cohesion in spite of this. Regardless of how that family was constructed, it formed a common ground. Every building on the street played host to at least one group of people that could constitute one, with a single exception.

A pale blue Victorian-style Gingerbread house with dark blue shutters and a white roof, labeled as number 103, stood on the corner of the street. The front garden was covered in white and gray stones, with the vegetation confined to three strategically placed tea-cup shaped flower pots to add color to the otherwise plain display. The driveway was nearly always empty and the door on the free-standing garage rarely moved. The latest standard dinner time of seven in the evening would pass, and it never brightened with the signs of life the other houses consistently showed.. As far as the neighbors were concerned, this house may as well have been lived in by ghosts. To one boy, it was the only place he had to go.

The straps of strained plastic bags dug further into the creases of his hands with each step. He trudged along, taunted by the sound of rustling every time he swayed on accident. When he turned around the corner of the street and his house came into full view, he was filled with a sense of relief, if only because it meant he would be able to put everything down soon. With newfound motivation, he let out a short sigh, and marched forward, listening to music through his headphones as he trudged on.

He walked around the edge of the house to enter at the back door. Once there, he set down half of the bags to free up his right hand, and reached into the pocket of his jacket to take out his key. As he leaned down, a silhouette in the window caught his eye. An indistinct lump stretched up to peek at the source of the noise. Before he had the chance to get a second look, she had already jumped away. He presumed he knew why.

As he anticipated would be the case, he was greeted at the door with the same, single face that paid him any attention on a consistent basis. For a passing moment, the sight of her brought a melancholy, hesitant smile upon his face. He pulled the key out of the door's handle, picked the bags up, brought them into the hallway and shut the door.

As he took off his shoes and tossed them into a nearby closet, wide, begging eyes looked up to him with such adoration that he needed to spare a moment to pat her on the head. "Good afternoon, Laylie," he greeted with slightly more spirit than he ever would have used if in the presence of a person. It was a forced happiness, but it was strong enough that it seemed to satisfy her.

He put his keys into their designated basket, dropped his school bag by the front door and yawned into his sleeve while he walked away. Eulalie, the household cat, obediently followed along behind him to oversee his actions.

He dragged the bags of groceries to the kitchen table and set them down beside the pile of bills that he planned to write over the weekend. He reached into the first bag on the table to put the meat away first, and unpacked everything else after. Roughly a song and a half of work later, he was finished. He put the plastic bags away so the cat couldn't try to eat them and left the kitchen. He walked up the stairs, took a turn towards the right, and stopped at the door on the very end of the hall.

In contrast to the size of the house, the room was notably cramped. There was literally a walk-in closet in the home that was bigger than this, but the space was still his, so he made the best of it. The three walls facing opposite the door had been shaded with a pale teal, and the remaining wall was black, covered in sketches and graphs scrawled in varying vibrant colors of chalk. Black curtains were drawn across the windows to blocking out the sunshine. There was a day bed tucked into a corner, a book case beside it, and a work desk with a small television and a VHS player was pressed against the wall on the opposite side.

He pushed past the narrow opening between the door and his desk, and turned towards the closet. He opened up the sliding door and pulled out a green storage bin. He snatched two bags of supplies from the inside before shutting the door and taking a seat at the desk.

With a quick reach upwards, he turned on the dim light above the desk and arranged his project. Inside of the larger storage bag, there was a decorative flower with painted edge. He took a needle strung with jewelry cording, stabbed through the flower, and slipped a series of beads through it. He synchronized with the music he was listening to while he fell into a calm repetition. As he worked, the battery of his mp3 player started to die. He replaced the background noise by turning on the tv and putting on an old movie that he wouldn't need to pay attention to in order to remember.

Hours passed by on the digital clock, a rough image of the passage of time relayed with the progression of the film. Cian had watched this particular one so many times that maintaining eye contact with the screen was far from a necessity to know exactly what was going on. "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die," he recited along almost sub-consciously along with the movie as it played through.

At the back of his mind, he knew his neighbors were certain to have arrived home and already finished eating long ago. The thought of sitting down for a decent dinner hadn't occurred to him, and it wouldn't, either. Each second was consumed with the needle, beads and those same few repeated words.

The VCR automatically started to whir when the tape reached its conclusion. He rose from his seat, opened the window, and overlooked the impending weather of a mid October evening. Not even a single cloud rest upon the evacuated horizon. The blur of illuminated street lamps kept the moon or stars from shining. If he hadn't known there was supposed to be something up there, it would have seemed blank.

He looked towards the digital clock beside his bed. It was past eleven. To the vast majority, this would have served as a cue to go to bed. To him, those numbers meant it was nearly time to leave. He reached into the back of his closet and changed out of his school uniform into something more suitable for the intended task.

He turned off the lights and turned on the air purifier. On the entirely off chance that his father would decide to return home, a stuffed animal and a body pillow were positioned to look like he was sleeping. His father wouldn't bother to check beyond these precautions if he ever bothered to look in the first place, leaving him free to go about his business without question. He reached beneath the bed, grabbed the handle of his tote bag, and left the room. He kept the door open just wide enough that Eulalie would be able to leave if she needed to.

He stopped outside of the front closet and grabbed a long dim gray duster with a hood. He checked the inside left pocket and pulled out a ring with three keys on it, one of which was a copy of the key to the house. This allowed for him to leave his usual key behind, lying just where it was supposed to be. He was nothing if not meticulous. With that last potential issue attended to, he locked the door behind him and left.

While it was not entirely deserted, the suburban streets certainly came close to it within the dead of night. The air was brisk with an unexpected chill, and a light rain had begun to fall. The hood of his coat blocked the temperature from reaching his ears, but the remainder of his face wasn't nearly so immune. Raindrops hit against his nose and cheeks. He turned his head down to avoid the drizzle, huddled into his coat, and kept heading for his destination.

Soon enough, he happened upon what he was looking for. A wooden sign, painted in a shade of a dark green with golden embellishments that read 'St. Augustine's Church and School'. The sidewalks were marked with stones and plants guiding the way. The flowers had yet to wither, but the trees were showing tints of the warmer colors on the spectrum, casting signals of what would inevitably come.

The school had an entirely different atmosphere at night. He had never been here before after hours. It was so chaotic, loud and crowded in the day that it was a shock to know it could be so tranquil and desolate. He knew without a doubt that he was the only person here. Who else would bother? He wouldn't have come either, if he hadn't found one of the universal keys used by the janitorial staff a few days ago. He spun the key ring around his finger thoughtfully before clutching it in his hand and slipping it subtly up his sleeve. A good citizen was supposed to return such an important possession, but when someone had been so negligent as to lose track of it in the first place, he could safely assume he would be much more responsible with its use. It wasn't as if he was planning to do anything harmful. There was just something he wanted to try.

The church building stood out from the others due to the archway and pillars set above the front entry. Images of angels had been carved into the worn marble surface. An inscription had been at one point set beneath, but the Latin phrase had since been distorted and dirtied beyond the point of recognition. He pressed his hand to the front door. As he expected, it didn't budge. He set the key into the lock and twisted. The door released itself instantly, allowing him to get inside. He set the lock back behind him to ensure that no unwanted entrants would be able to trespass along with him and surveyed the chapel in privacy.

Stained glass windows lined each wall, most of them set within shades of varying dark blues and browns because of the dim to nonexistent lighting the night sky provided. To remedy this issue, he flipped the light switch beside the entryway, revealing the pews, aisle and altar as well. Each window presented another story in the same stylized, nearly nonsensical symbolism as the last had used. He walked along the center row, unbuttoning his jacket, but keeping it on for the time being. Despite being inside, the church was just as bitterly cold as the outdoors. He'd wait until the last minute to avoid a chill.

He brought out his supplies from the inside of the tote bag, and brought out a digital camera and a collapsible tri-pod. he searched through the lens until he found the proper angle to catch the light. The entire image was set in plain view, and the bulbs upon the ceiling were set in such a way that they illuminated the occasional speck of dust that might lift into the air. The visual was as close enough to what he imagined as it ever would be, so he took off the jacket, revealing what he was wearing beneath it.

There was a reason other than the weather he'd worn such a long, bulky coat. He hadn't wanted to reveal what he was wearing beneath it. He was dressed in a ruffled off-white shirt which dipped downwards at the back left side into what resembled a train with a few glass beads stitched along the edges, a navy blue vest with silver trim, matching shorts and covered boots. The collar of the vest had a layer of black lace set over the top of it, and the cuffs of the shorts matched. The rose pin which he had been creating earlier that evening was set into his hair. Overall, the outfit was intricate and embarrassingly effeminate.

If within the sight of others and distinguishable as himself, he never would have dared to dress in this. He would much rather this be worn by a girl, but he wanted to start getting shots to make a portfolio for college and it wasn't as if he was willing to ask anyone for a favor like this.

He approached the camera and tried to set the timer by twisting the designated dial only to discover the button was stuck even more stubbornly than he was. Twisting it was useless, and pulling created the risk of breaking it. With a sigh, he was forced to accept that it would take less of his time to click the button and allow the three minutes that the timer was set to elapse take place than it would to keep doing this. He pushed the button downwards, and the clock began to roll.

He followed the lens of the camera to ensure that he would set himself within the frame without standing directly in the way of it, and came to a stop when he found the correct location. Then, another issue arose. Posing for an image was acceptable and expected, but allowing it to be plain or forced wasn't. If he wanted a striking image, it had to appear natural and spontaneous. How would he be able to plan for that?

He noticed the stained glass window behind him. The ledge of the stained glass window was narrow, but it might be possible to balance on it if he positioned himself just right. He pulled himself up onto it, using his right leg to maintain his balance while his left dangled towards the floor. His visible eye faced the outside, and to create space, he set each of his hands upon his chest. It was his intention to lower his left shortly before the picture would snap to place the sleeve within view. For now, it was more comfortable to lean his cheek against the glass and lose his mind wherever it would wander

His surroundings at this moment made him uneasy. There were no fans set to whir, no birds chirping or cars speeding past the street. It was a full, perfect, still silence, and in it, the minutes dragged on forever.

Faces set within stained glass stared down upon him, fixated and smiling. He suspected that it had been designed with the intention of displaying joy. When he looked at it, he saw it as exuberant to the degree of being disingenuous, and in that smile, somehow he found maliciousness.

This whole building felt the same way. On the surface, it was beautiful, but it never felt right. The walls were built on what he thought of as the lies and delusions of organized religion. He couldn't bear the silence in a place like this, where so many people placed faith that he thought of as a joke. It was with intent of shattering that silence that the words first escaped the confines of his mind and entered the air.

"While I doubt that words so trivial would reach your ears, whomever you happen to be, if you happen to be, there are better places to set your focus," he spoke to the window in quiet confidence. It was a foolish act, because he knew the window wouldn't answer, but this was a rare opportunity to release what he thought without facing the repercussions of revealing his thoughts to someone else, so there didn't seem to be any outward harm in murmuring to himself.

"Should you still choose to overhear me, you're a disillusioned moron with far too much of an ego for your own good. You ask for worship, but what have you done right to deserve it? Your supposed position implies a duty you've neglected, and that negligence just brings us to disrepair. The few who bother to uphold morality are used as doormats for those who don't. Every day, people are desecrated and murdered in interpretations of your name, and what does it do? Thousands more are ravaged with diseases, droughts and famine, and what benefit does that draw? Even as a test of faith it degenerates into suffering. With the design of the world, everyone with something to offer has been made to pay for it. If it is a test, you're a sadist and a failure. Those who can watch the world and smile have learned to ignore it, and whether or not this is caused by their obliviousness or general stupidity depends on the person in question, but it's always there. You may claim that negativity has not been forged by your hands, but there is a point of mercy to redirect and intervene, which you adamantly refuse to take.

"Those who claim to speak your word say that society has strayed from your presence and is falling because of a change in ideals. What they fail to incorporate is the possibility that it should be inverted. Faith does not fade through science, logic or awareness. It is because of your disregard that it's not only impractical, but downright impossible, to think a being as useless as you is worthy of praise. For all that you've done, this may as well be hell itself, so why bother speaking to someone who doesn't care? Apathy is enough. You're at fault, and if you don't know it, it's only because you're too delusional to notice!"

Somewhere along the line, his emotions had begun to get involved. For someone who supposedly didn't care, his slandering had become quite impassioned. He could hear the echo of his words travel across the hall. It served as a reminder that he meant to be quiet, so he hushed his voice accordingly.

"If you aren't at fault and you've given up, take responsibility. Our mistakes are your mistakes, and to allow this to continue under the illusion that you didn't play a hand when you could prevent it does no good. You aren't merciful. You aren't even sane. If you're intent on letting us die, destroy us directly, and if you can't, then at least strike me down. And let it be known that I hold more faith in this world if I have spoken these words to the walls alone," he concluded solemnly.

His wait came to its end with the flicker of the flash bulb. His distraction had lead to him not keeping track of time. He had set his gaze upwards to the window's frame, out of direct focus, without so much as considering the pose that would result. If nothing else, the distraction had made his picture a natural one.

Those vindictive words couldn't travel far, but they remained. Spoken words held power when they were filled with strong emotions, drawing in the forces that thrived on the essence of what meaning they contained. Messages of criticism and blasphemy, saturated to the brim with negativity, served as a lure. It was not by God, but he had been heard.

The entity once known as Sebastian had taken to scavenging this evening. He'd initially intended to make a decision as quickly as possible when he'd first set out this afternoon only to be quickly reminded of how scarce suitable people were. It was difficult to find someone who could be read on the cover enough to guarantee that they wouldn't be a complete waste of his time, even when he was being mindful of his intended purpose more than his taste.

For the past few hours, he'd been listening to any and all pleas strong enough to reach his ears. Regardless of where they were on earth, he could hear them well enough to determine where they were and appear to investigate. It was a long process to go through and even worse when he was so selective, but it was something he couldn't help.

The voices kept forming at the same pace, pleading for someone to fulfill what they desired, and he'd been trying to listen to every one of them. Yet, at the same moment when that one individual had started to speak, everyone else was silenced. He remembered that voice. The accent was different, but the tone was identical, and it drew him forth like a magnet. No direct commands were being administered, merely complaints, but it was compelling enough of a sensation that before he was even fully aware of his actions, he'd already been drawn in to the vicinity it had come from.

Stepping foot inside of the church was fully within the realm of possibility, but not a pathway he wished to travel, so his watch was kept from a moderate distance, within a barren tree, facing the window. What he saw left him in awe.

There was no way for him to mistake that face. The similarities were so exact that there was no possible way it could be anyone else. A fragment of the past was sitting behind the window. Through some stroke of fate, Ciel was there.

The instant that Sebastian laid eyes on him, his hand began to burn in a fairly distinct patter that lead him to suspect what was happening. He pulled off his glove and looked down towards the back of his hand just in time to finish seeing the seal of a pact appear.

Sebastian had never heard of an instance such as this before. It was a rare circumstance that the soul of a human who would make a deal with a demon managed to escape. That a human who would take such a measure as to sell their soul would face a death that created redemption was even more so. Martyrdom and self-sacrifice was one of the most honorable actions to take upon one's final moments. It didn't negate all evil acts, but it did redeem, and apparently had done so to enough of a point that Ciel had been sent back down. He couldn't be admitted into heaven when he was still bound to fall, but he must have been cleansed just enough that someone would feel bad for damning him anyway, so the other powers that be sent him back.

It was the soul, not the body, which a demon would bind itself to. The previous conditions were no longer attainable within reason, and he would have expected that fact to negate everything. It didn't. Because it was a transfer of the soul to a new identity, the tie was still there. This may have been the very first recorded incident of an escaped soul reemerging.

The words wouldn't reach Ciel from the other side of the surface, but he formed them nonetheless. The words were enough to cause a chill to run through the boy's veins, causing a shiver that he attributed to the cold.

"Good night, young master."