Disclaimer: All of the characters and references made belong solely to Yana Toboso, and all those who are affiliated with the 'Black Butler' series. I have no claim whatsoever.

Author's Note: This particular story takes place in an alternate timeline. Therefore, I would consider it a Black Butler AU. The events occur ten years after the supposed end of season one, where the storyline that I have imagined takes a different course. However, I will disclose no more. If you wish to learn the secrets of these events, and the ones that follow, you will have to read. Updates will come when they can. I am a very busy person, after all, but I will put forth as much effort as I can. This story was inspired by a particular roleplay that I have been involved in for half of a year now, and as such, is dedicated to the partner that allowed me to bring this story to life. One Hell of a Butler deserves One Hell of a Story, don't you think? I won't be outdone, even in something as insignificant as fictitious writing. To all who read this, please enjoy.

Chapter One: The Storm

Silence.

It was unnerving, really, or would have been, had he not been who he was. Had this not been the type of silence that was most familiar to him; the silence that signaled the beginning of the end; the silence that graced the tense air moments before the destruction of the storm occurred.

And occur it would.

Not a creature's breath broke the silence in the dark alleyway, lest it catch the attention of the Death that loomed above, and be stolen away. The rusted, eroded metal of the fire-escape made not creak nor whine as his laced boot gently applied pressure in exchange for balance. The other boot was firmly planted on the smooth stone of the roof from which the fire-escape jutted, his lithe body leaning slightly forward in order to give a single cerulean eye the prefect vantage point. This position would have proved more dangerous had the rain yet soaked the metal and stone (not that he really had to be concerned should he fall). But the storm had not yet come.

And when it did, the rain would stain everything crimson.

A dark-gloved hand ran lazily through ashen locks, bringing itself back down to rest on the decorative holster strapped to his small thigh. Body relaxed yet senses alert, his nimble fingertips gently traced the filigree on the butt of the customized pistol, ready and waiting. Patience is a virtue…

He had never been virtuous.

The only reason that he hadn't advanced on his prey was the simple fact that the longer he stalled, the more hours he could clock in. But he wasn't stalling, really. Simply waiting; he found that although he abhorred doing so, he was rather good at it…or had been. He was silently thankful (though to what, he did not know) when his thoughts were steered away from the subject that they were teetering dangerously close to as the cool night air thickened around him, coiling tightly around his throat and freezing his lungs from the inside out. His every muscle tightened as the silence reached its sanity-splitting crescendo. It lasted for barely five seconds, until a soft, hesitant, nearly inaudible 'click' of a boot meeting the cold cobblestone of the alleyway's end tore through the dreadful silence like a clap of thunder.

The first raindrop had fallen.

The single sapphire eye narrowed as he crouched low atop the roof (though his small stature alone could have hidden his slim silhouette against the moon), still leaning slightly over the fire-escape to properly observe his target: male, Caucasian, brunette, nearing forty, between 5"7' and 6'0' at 170 lbs, with a small scar just above his left cheekbone. This was certainly his prey. His delicate hand now fully encasing the handle of his pistol, the boy lifted his stone-planted boot and secured it beside the other, balancing precariously on the rusted piping. Inching slowly and silently along the top level railing, he watched his prey ignorantly stroll into his line of fire. Upon reaching the edge of the railing, he gently bent his ankles, tilting his body at an angle as he slid down the slanted railing to the next level, his dark coat rippling in his wake. As his feet left the railing, his left hand swung up and wrapped itself around the pole that his boots had just abandoned. Right hand still wrapped around the pistol in its holster, he swung his bottom half downward to introduce his booted soles to the fencing on the lower level from which he dangled. The entire process was completed silently. The metal didn't release so much as a whine as it supported his weight. The sound of his shoes meeting the metal fencing was timed carefully, masked by the rhythmic 'click-clack' of his preys footsteps (like raindrops on the cobblestone) as he waltzed through death's open door. His prey proceeded to light a cigarette, and didn't so much as pause to take his drag in his advance.

Delicate lips curved upward in a satisfied smirk as the hunter took note of the fact that he had not been detected. He slowly slipped his pistol from its holster, cloaking the reflection of the moonlight as it glinted off of the silver barrel with his mottled coat. Not yet ready to take aim, he lifted the tip of the barrel up to his covered right eye, facing upward, the tip just writhing itself underneath the bottom of the black cloth. He didn't bother to make sure that the safety was on; not only would it make a noise that might alert his target to his presence, but it wasn't as if he really needed to worry should he be shot (not that he would be stupid enough to shoot himself. He was technically still a rookie, but really…). Agreeably, it wasn't the safest way to remove an eye patch, not the smartest habit, but both hands always seemed to be occupied, and he did need that eye to properly see his target's-

Silence. Sudden, anticipant silence. The raindrops had stopped falling. For just a moment, the world seemed a step off, and his heart seemed half a beat slow as he realized that his target had stopped just below him in the alley. Why had he stopped? Had he been detected? His questions were answered when the man took the cigarette from his thin lips, crushed it beneath his shoe, and reached into his inner coat pocket. When his hand re-emerged, the boy was relieved to see that it held nothing more than a in ornate old pocket watch. He breathed a silent sigh of relief.

'He's just checking the time?' An inward, haughty 'hmph' at the irony. 'He won't have to worry about such a thing for much longer…'

The true irony of the small action only feel upon the boy when his target quietly opened the pocket watch and it began to softly sing to him. It sang a familiar tune that told the story of a falling bridge, and the countless, hopeless, desperate attempts made to keep it standing. His target's annoyed mutterings about "being late" were lost in the vicious reverse cycle that the boy was thrown into. His mind was dragged backward through time and space, hearkening back to a time in which a stone manor stood ominous and impenetrable, protecting the very heart of the London Underworld. When the word "Watchdog" had sent criminals fleeing to the hills, skittering into the shadows like the filthy rats that they were. When time was his master; his only master…and when he was only truly master of one thing. An entirely new wave of emotion washed over the boy at the final recollection. A wave of unwelcome emotion. A wave of unwelcome memories of previously welcome sights, sounds, words, touches, and feelings. His covered eye pulsed and stung painfully (why would it do so? He had been abandoned!) as his mind and heart (were it still there in his cold chest) were flooded anew.

Strong arms pull him against warm protection as marble wings symbolically crumble around them…

His gun-toting hand began to tremble.

Brimstone smoldering deep within vermilion eyes; burning him alive as the flames of years before…

His breathing is ragged…his target will hear him!

Brimstone is swallowed by uncharacteristic disapprovement, curiosity, struggle, longing…

He isn't here, he isn't here, he isn't here, he isn't-!

Cold knuckles caress his cheek, deceptively soft, knowing what is yet to come…

And his eye keeps burning and burning and-!

"And now…Master."

The pocket watch is shut. The music stops, and again, there is silence. Dead silence. It was unnerving, really, or would have been, had he not been who he was. Had this not been the type of silence most familiar to him; The silence that seeped through the darkest crevices of his mind as he lie awake at night; The silence that had been his only companion on that dreadful waking, when he had rejected him (but he must not think of him, no, never again); The silence that signaled the calm before the storm, before something life-altering occurred…

And occur it had.

The silence had been there when he had told him it was the end, and the morning after when he had awoken on the Tower Bridge, alone, sleeping on cold metal like he had all those years before, and when he realized what had happened, and while he had waited for something else to happen. How long had he waited for him? He had waited and waited and waited and waited, and-!

The rain began to fall again.

He had never been patient.

His left hand released its grip on the rusted railing and he swooped down to take his prey. His boots squarely met the pavement directly in front of his target, his dark coat fanning out around his small, crouched form. His target blanched and leapt backward, hindquarters meeting the cobblestone in a flurry of flailing limbs. As the boy slowly rose to tower over his prey, the man took in his appearance and assessed his situation. When his eyes dropped to the gun in the child's hand, his complexion paled further.

"Wh…wh-who…what…what do you want from me?" he shrieked.

Scowling at the volume of the man's voice, his grip on the handle of his gun tightened; a silent warning. He spoke in a smooth, monotonous tone.

"John De'Carte, current manager of the exporting branch of Osiris Industries. Thirty-eight years old and already tried for two murders. Found innocent on both accounts. Guilty of both. You have a wife and three children. Your most recent 'activities' include investments in an illegal prostitution ring, and, even more recently…" He pointedly glanced back toward the bar which his target had emerged from moments ago. "…overdosing on Opium. A drug dear to my own heart." He added sarcastically. "How unfortunate for you. I no longer have the authority to punish you for your aforementioned actions, but your last little accident had given me free reign over your fate anyway. A pity, really…you almost escaped me."

A smug leer stretched the boy's cold complexion. The man stared up in confusion and horror as he struggled to adjust his sight in the dim alley.

"W…what? H-how did you know all of that? Just what the hell do you want from me, kid?"

The boy's visible eye flashed dangerously at the man's last word. Clutching his gun tighter to his side, he sharpened his tone.

"While I may appear young, I assure you, sir, I am no child."

He caught the telltale metallic glint that travelled from the man's side to his hand too late. He silently cursed himself for allowing his injured pride to distract him. He had waited too long…again. His target's bullet was lodged in his skull before he had even had time to twitch his finger on the trigger of his own weapon, and then John De-Carte was up and running. His frantic silhouette had disappeared into an adjacent alleyway before the child' corpse could hit the ground. His singular blue eye widened as blood trickled between the cobblestone like tiny rivers. Then the silence was back again…that dreadful, ominous, preceding silence…

And this time, there would be a storm.

Mere seconds ticked by (fifteen, to be precise) before the boy decided that he had waited long enough. With a violent lurch of his spine, the child peeled his body away from the pavement and stood. Without so much as a ragged breath, he reached up with a gloved hand, grit his teeth, dug two dainty fingers into the new wound on his forehead, and plucked the bullet from its cozy crevice. Tossing it to the side with a scoff, he brought out a silken handkerchief to clean the blood from his face. He then proceeded to throw in on the ground in disgust of the compulsively cleanly habit. Honestly, he was allowing himself to become more and more like him each day. The back of his glove replaced the handkerchief, wiping across his forehead smoothly, but the blood kept flowing. Eventually it would stop, but it had been quite the deep wound. The boy scoffed in annoyance of the fact that he had allowed that incompetent idiot to shoot him in the face.

"Oh, well," he thought nonchalantly.

He strode purposefully toward the alleyway that De'Carte had disappeared into, cocking his gun in the silence; like a clap of thunder.

"This game is more entertaining when they run, anyway."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

John De'Carte ran as quickly as his legs could take him, his lungs so strained that they felt near to bursting. He cut corners, leapt chain link fences, and slipped through abandoned buildings to throw his young pursuer off of his trail. He must have lost him…that is, if there was anyone to lose. No! He was certain that he had hit his mark! The boy must be dead…so…

Why was he still running? Why did it feel as though death were still on his heels? Perhaps it was guilt? He had just killed a child, after all…but had he really had another choice? The boy had made his intentions clear, and he was so odd. How had he known so much about him? Perhaps he was a hired assassin, given information by an employer? If so, what had he meant by 'having the authority to punish him'? He had heard the stories in the Underworld about a one-eyed child known as the Watchdog of the Queen, dealing punishment to those who opposed the crown, but it simply couldn't be!

The Earl of Phantomhive had died ten years ago in the Fire!

Moreover, how had he known that he had been leaving an Opium Den? Had he been spying on him? And what the hell did he mean by 'overdose?' Well, it was too late now. Dead men tell no tales, right? He pushed open a slightly ajar door to his left, leading into what appeared to be an abandoned factory of some sort. Once he had thoroughly blocked his entrance, he collapsed against a run down water heater, panting heavily and sweating profusely. Just a few moments, he told himself as he began to wipe the fingerprints from the handle of his gun with his ascot. Just a few moments, then he would dispose of the weapon outside in the alley (he'd be damned if he'd go to jail for murdering some psychopathic, insignificant, crippled brat!) and find his way to the main road. From there, he would go home and pretend that nothing had happened. It was lucky that he had killed the brat when he had. He could feel the Opium beginning to take effect. He leaned his head back against the water heater and closed his eyes. What harm could it do to ride out his high first? After all, it wasn't as if he could find his way home in such a state. His breathing now back to a calm exchange and his heart rhythmically beating out a staccato 'ta-tump, ta-tump,' he reveled in the silence that he had earned. Not even the drops of water assaulting his face from the leaking ceiling above could bother him…but…

The previously appreciated silence became a crucifying proof.

It wasn't raining.

Then what was leaking from the ceiling? Upon closer examination, it did feel rather warm…perhaps the water heater still ran? Then why wasn't it warm, and why wasn't it making any noise?

"What's the point of asking a dead man those questions, Mr. De'Carte? 'Dead men tell no tales...right?'"

The soft voice cut through the silence like a clap of thunder. De'Carte's eyes shot open to meet another gleaming pair looming above them. A rather mismatched pair: one bright blue, glassy, yet deep as the ocean it resembled, and burning with a fire that not even an ocean could douse. The other was a pale, piercing purple, with a faintly glowing outline of what could only be described as a pentagram in the iris. Yes, the gaze was quite intimidating, but it was the face itself that hitched De-Carte's breath in his throat. Too terrified to even emit a yelp of surprise, he scrambled across the floor, his pistol forgotten in the darkness behind him, to the opposite side of the room, distancing himself from the water heater and the pretty figure crouched atop it. He reached up a trembling hand to wipe the water from his face, only to find upon closer examination that it was red. Blood. It wasn't water. It was blood. The child's blood. Even as the boy slipped down from his perch to the floor, it streaked down his pretty face in rivulets from the semi-closed hole in his smooth forehead. He was so frightened that he almost didn't catch the meaning, irony, and impossibility of the child's words.

"…b…b-bu…wh…h-how? How? YOU SHOULD BE DEAD!"

The child grinned. Not maliciously, nor condescendingly. As though he were truly amused.

"Fool." He said, matter-of-factly. "I am."

At this, he lifted his gun. De-Carte felt his heart leap into his constricted throat. None of this was possible. Perhaps he had taken too much Opium. Dead men didn't stand up and walk! And he had barred the door! How had he gotten in?

"Whether you are pondering that yourself or planning to ask me, you are still asking questions of a dead man, you simpering filth."

He advanced. Dec-Carte was befuddled, and his vision was beginning to blur. He internally panicked as the word 'overdose' assaulted his cloudy memory.

"H-how? Are…are you reading my mind?"

The child gave another amused grin, and raised his gun to tap a fragile cheekbone just below his unusual eye.

"You really are an idiot, aren't you? Dead men tell no tales…but, I suppose if we did, we would tell them to each other. I don't see you thoughts, fool…" At his, his marked eye flashed dangerously…like lightning in the darkness.

"I see you soul."

And, true to his word, through the child's gleaming eye, there it was, glowing blue-white like some ethereal being shrouded by mortal flesh just below the man's left clavicle. The child had to suppress the though of 'lucky,' as he was denied the revenge of shooting the man in the head. He had to aim for the soul, or he wouldn't get the Deathplay…then his superior would have his head…and he would have overtime. He'd be damned if he'd take overtime for a whimpering, deceitful, below-the-belt Neanderthal. He was tired of answering stupid questions, and he was tired of waiting. Certainly he'd accumulated enough hours for a bonus. Besides, this game was rather unamusing anyway. Who would want to play a game with an idiot? He brought his gun back down, the barrel directly aligned with the unusual light emanating from the man's body. His prey choked out his final words.

"…W..w-who…who are you?...WHAT ARE YOU?"

The boy almost laughed (if only he could remember how to). Of course it was another question. A true idiot to the end, then. Oh well…he supposed answering one more stupid question couldn't hurt. It was the man's final request, after all, and if his teacher had taught him anything, it was to show respect for the dead. Without so much as easing on the trigger, he met the man's terrified gaze unblinking.

"I am Ciel Phantomhive, agent B29 of the London Division…"

The lightning flashed once more.

"…and I am…"

A single clap of thunder.

"…a Grim Reaper."