Disclaimer: I do not own The Lion King, or any of its characters or events. They are the property of the Walt Disney Company. If I am honored to have Disney representatives read this work and they request that I remove this from the Internet, I shall do so, but can make no guarantees that it has not been saved by a third party. Also, I am only including a disclaimer and copyright on this first chapter. Anyone wishing to view later chapters must agree with the terms of both.

Copyright: All original characters and events are my property. I will allow anyone to use said characters or events however, as long as I am credited and it is not for profit of any kind or business use.

Author's Notes are denoted by parentheses, flashbacks are denoted by asterisks, thoughts are denoted by italicized text, and emphasis is denoted by bold text.

The Lion King: My Name
Chapter 1: Will You Be My Friend?

(You'll have to read The Freak for this story to make sense. It's a mere 111,000 words so far, haha.

This story will have EXTREME depictions of violence and torture. It will be extremely gory. Regardless, I'll be rating this T, because there will not be any sexual intercourse, nor will there be much language.

Also, this is not a self-insertion. At least, I hope not.)

"I was only nineteen... I didn't want to die..."

The World War II documentary was clicked off, and the tall, lone youth stood up, turning on the lights of his one-room flat.

"Times have changed."

He ran a hand over his face, and realized that he hadn't shaved for several days. But it didn't matter.

Life, for him, had too many obstacles for him to care about such a trivial detail.

"Ever since I was kicked out of my house, things went bad."

His parents had never loved him. They'd never even given the illusion that they had. And once he turned eighteen... how long ago? ...he couldn't remember when his birthday was.

Regardless, the moment he was legally an adult, his parents had disowned him, and forbade him entry to their home. On an academic level, he couldn't blame them.

"It's not my fault I don't know how to socialize or show emotion. They didn't raise me to do those things."

He thought back on the years... painful, hollow memories dominated his mind. Had he ever had a friend? No, he didn't recall that he ever did. No... there was no one on Earth that would remember his name...

Was he ever loved?

The answer to that question was even more obvious.

"I don't want to die. But I don't want to live, either."

Life, for him, had lost meaning. He had a job, but he hadn't gone to it for some time now... he just didn't have the desire to do anything but loaf around in his room, thinking.

And he'd arrived at a conclusion.

"I'd write a suicide note. But I don't know what name to sign it by. My name... I can't remember it. Because I haven't heard it in so long..."

But the GLOCK 19 that he'd purchased several weeks ago didn't require his name to do its duty.

Inspiration hit the youth, however, and he pulled out an index card, and quickly jotted a single sentence onto it. Stepping out into the cold, damp air of the city that he lived, he racked the slide of the automatic, and concealed it under the old, raggedy hoody that he'd had for years now.

Times Square was a long walk. And he had no money for a taxi. But the trip was worth it.

People were everywhere. Talking, eating... holding hands... being acknowledged as... alive...

He clenched his teeth, closing his eyes. When it came right down to it, it was still hard to do this deed...

But the youth was able to get over his fear by simply remembering the worst times of his life, which was, simply, every day he'd spent alive.

"I don't know where I'm going," he said out loud, but no one stopped; no one cared.

"I don't know. But it's got to be better than this FUCKING PLACE!" he suddenly screamed, and his hand dove into his jacket.

He counted. His weapon had fifteen rounds in it. Fourteen 9mm shots roared into the air, causing people to scream and run for cover, thinking that he was going to hurt them.

That wasn't going to happen. He just didn't give a damn—people could live, people could die... but things would always be the same for him. Whether he killed one other person or a thousand, no one would ever care about him.

But maybe... this would make them care.

The youth put his pistol to his temple, the cold steel of the automatic felt strangely natural, even serene against his skin.

As he predicted, not one person begged him to stop. To put the gun down. They only looked on in wonder, at the shell of a person that he'd become.

But they didn't care.

One last, final gunshot rang out. Blood spurted from the youth's head, and he slumped to the ground.

Dead.

A crumpled-up piece of paper peeked out from his left hand. On it, five simple words were written.

"Will you be my friend?"

"Why has Master called us all here? So suddenly?" the sabertooth wondered, looking around at his comrades as they waited for the one that had called them there.

The voice came without warning.

"We have our warrior."

He was falling, falling, far, far down. The wind against his face felt strong enough to rip the very flesh from him.

And soon, it did.

Shrieking, holding himself with hands that were rapidly disintegrating. He howled as the last shreds of skin were torn away from him—

And then, he burst into flame. The pain was incredible. Every fleshy part of his body burned, slowly, in the agonizing heat that he could do nothing to stave off.

And then, suddenly he hit ground.

By now, he was nothing more than a skeleton. But his bones did not break... he was just a skeleton.

The youth looked up, his vision blurred, and looked around.

"I thought Hell would be hotter."

The grassy, barren wasteland that he found himself in was surrounded, on all sides, by trees. There was nothing living...

Or so he thought.

He heard a soft, skittering sound from his side. And jumped to his feet.

His terror was understandable. Approaching him was an entire nest of driver ants. Oh, they had no venom. But their vicious, too-strong jaws were visible to him even from where he stood.

He screamed, and tried to run. But the ants were already upon him. The horrible insects smothered him, entering his body, crawling all over him—

"Stop," said a single, commanding voice.

And the ants immediately froze, as if dead. And then, they vanished, turning into dust that the wind quickly carried away.

The youth stood again, looking around for the source of the voice. He wasn't an emotional person... but right now, he was scared.

He could see nothing... but he felt as if something, or someone, was circling him, watching him, judging him.

"Excellent..." the voice grinned.

"...What's excellent?" the young man asked, disinterestedly.

There was no reply for a moment. And when the reply came, it was waves of incredible pain, as intense as the agony he felt when he was falling...

He shrieked, and ran his bony fingers over his body, as if trying to tear the pain away from him—

And just like that, it stopped. The youth gasped, groaning, clutching himself, as if bracing for another assault.

"You had no emotions in your life," the voice said, and the skeleton felt a painful jab of pain.

"I cannot give you any," it continued, "but what I can do... is to make you physically feel... what you should have felt every day of your life..."

The pain was turned on again, for what felt like a much, much longer time. The youth screamed, but that earned him no mercy.

"And so I wonder," the voice said, easing off of the torture for a moment, "how do you feel... towards all the people in your life...? The people that would have made you feel like this, if you were but a little bit weaker? The people that, let us face it... killed you?"

The skeleton groaned, even as he thought on the voice's words. He thought: all those years he'd spent without a friend in the world. All the hate others had for him, because he didn't understand emotions. All the emptiness.

"I... hate them," he growled, panting, getting to his feet.

"Good..." the voice chuckled, then, the widest assortment of extinct animals appeared, walking towards the youth.

But he felt no fear. The only thing he could feel now was a physical manifestation of emotional agony...

"We will help you get revenge... some day. But you must become strong. You must learn to fight. You must do my bidding... because the stronger I become, the stronger you will become... and the more capable of killing you will be..."

The skeleton nodded, coldly, and awaited instruction; the desire to kill... everything... burned bright inside of him.

"Servants," the voice said, causing his followers to perk up, "give our warrior your power..."

They all bowed in unison, and joined paw, talon, and hand. They then started to chant, a low, disturbing sound. The Earth shook, parts of the ground falling out to allow beams of red light to shine from the ground—

"Usiku, no!" Kovu said, quickly jumping in between the black hyena and the other dark lion, ignoring the heart-wrenching pain he'd felt at the loss of his sister.

The ex-Outlander got the powerful claws that were intended for Tanga, and wrestled Usiku down with the aid of Kiara, Shenzi, T, Banzai, Ed, Sarabi, Nala, and Simba. Indeed—it took all of them. Usiku's rage was intense and pure.

Tanga had lowered himself into a powerful fighting stance, but blink as he saw... something... to the Northeast.

"No..." he gasped, and when Simba looked up, the tan Lion had a similar reaction.

"Where is your warrior?!" the old, dark lion yelled, just an a powerful wave of evil washed over them.

The tan lion's eyes narrowed, even as he braced himself; others were not so lucky, and were knocked over by the intense dark energy that rolled over the lands.

"We don't have one!" the Lion King called back, as a loud, dry howling echoed through every lion and hyena's ears.

"No, you must have one! Where is he?!"

The tan lion was about to speak again, but couldn't.

"If it was Freak... then we're all doomed."

"I don't know! We have to leave," Simba called, as the Pride Landers started to huddle next to each another, as to warm their hearts from the coldness that was overtaking the land.

"Father, we have a quick way to get to the Pride Lands. It's over there—" but as soon as Kovu pointed to the east, Simba shook his head.

"No, we can't go there!" he said, as another, more powerful wave of evil hit everyone like a sledgehammer, "we'll have to go to the south!"

"But Daddy," said Kiara, nearly lifted off her feet as she crawled over to her mate, "then we'll have to go through the Lower Plains again... and then through the unexplored lands to the east of the Eastern Volcanoes... and then through the Falme Kindakindakai!" she shuddered at the mention of the land with which the Pride Lands had never managed to achieve real peace with... even now, officially, they were in a very long, very fragile cease fire.

"WE'RE NEVER GOING TO GO THROUGH THE UNEXPLORED LANDS!" Simba yelped, remembering the story his father had told him about the rite-of-passage that he and Scar had made there, "WE'RE GOING TO GO THROUGH THE EASTERN VOLCANOES... EVEN THE HARDSHIPS THERE WILL BE NOTHING COMPARED TO THE HORRORS TO THE SOUTH OF THE FALME!"

"And we need to get to the Pride Lands quickly. Ironic that the holiest place in the land is but a day's travel, and a river from the place where the Great Spirits... now... have no control... Father... you'll be unable to guide me. Until we defeat this evil alone..."

"Come on, let's go!" Simba yelled, loping off towards the south, knowing that if they remained so close to the Forbidden Island without the protection that the Pride Lands offered... they'd die.

The youth, if that's what he could be called, felt himself... with the paws of a lion.

He was still bipedal. But he was tall, at over seven feet. He was as black as Kivuli, Usiku, or Uvuli, and as lithely muscled as Freak.

Yet, his fingers were dexterous. He could manipulate objects as carefully as a human might.

He had a mane. It was crimson red, like that of Mufasa's. But his hair was rough—running an unprotected digit would be tantamount to placing it to an automatic sander.

He wore pants—they were made of the tough skin of a wildebeest, and his belt was fashioned of rhinoceros hide.

He looked at his paws, and flexed them. Instantly, claws shot out—but they were not those of a lion.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" rasped one servant, a deinonychus, tapping his own overlarge claws on the ground.

He retracted his claws, and felt his face. Two large, razor sharp teeth; ideal for cleaving flesh from bone hung out of his mouth.

The sabertooth grinned.

He sniffed at the air, and picked up the scent of everything within three hundred yards. Not so useful for finding prey... but it nullified the stealth capabilities of anything.

His eyes were powerful. He looked at the treeline, six hundred yards away... and counted the fleas on a rat's back.

But he was not invincible.

Not yet.

True, he was an offensive powerhouse. But his bones were not unusually strong. His skin was not impenetrably tough. And he had no other means of defense.

"It matters not," said the voice, sensing the warrior's concern, "you will be able to kill anything that approaches you..."

The youth looked to the east. Laid across the ground were weapons... weapons from every era, every age, every variation. Machineguns, grenades, knives, hatchets, bows and arrows, even slingshots... every tool of death was his for the taking.

"Chose wisely," the voice cautioned, "ammunition doesn't grow on trees."

The warrior merely shrugged, and picked up a familiar weapon... a GLOCK 19.

It felt lighter in his stronger grip, and he noticed, approvingly, that it had been customized: a superior barrel and a lighter trigger would make killing that much easier.

He placed that into a holster, and strapped it onto his belt, along with two extra magazines of thirty-three rounds apiece.

Next, he attached a broad, sharp scimitar-like sword to his back. It was not a long blade, so drawing it quickly would be doable.

Three small, westernized tantos went on his back, above his hip, so that he could draw them and stab, quickly, or switch his grip and throw them in seconds.

A comb-grip pump-action shotgun went next to his sword, in a scabbard, easily accessed with one appendage. He placed six extra shells on a side-saddle, perfect for quick access, and draped a bandolier of shells over his chest.

A short, robust handbow, or one-handed crossbow, sat at his left thigh. It needed no scope, not with his vision, but its integral sights were dead on. It was all but silent—perfect for quiet kills at ranges of up to a quarter mile. A small pouch of arrows wound around his leg, just above the handbow, giving him a dozen or so shots for it.

To his right side, he attacked a powerful .338 Lapua rifle. It hung freely, but the warrior planned for this to be his main arm... he would carry it in his paws most of the time. This one could actually use a scope, and aid his shooting. Perfectly accurate out to over a mile, it would deliver enough power to a target to destroy even a lion... if he aimed carefully.

Four ten-round magazines for the rifle were shortly strapped to the front of his belt.

"I don't have armor," he noted.

"No..." said the voice, "I cannot give you anything but tools of death. We have not won this war yet."

"War?" he asked plainly.

"Yes... but you don't need to worry about that now. All you need to worry about... is fulfilling my every command. I may not be able to contact you directly as much as I'd like... but my servants will be able to.

"...Fine..."

The youth looked back down at the weapons, and attached a solid, sharp hatchet to his left back, and four hand grenades to his chest with the use of a pouch and sling.

"But that's not all..." the voice chuckled darkly, earning some laughter from his servants.

"Touch that tree..."

The youth tilted his head slightly, a mark of the part-animal beast that he'd become, and did so.

"Now... focus on the rage you felt moments ago..."

He stood for a moment. To most outward appearances, he was motionless. But the tightness in his eyes, then slight twist of his lips told all: he was concentrating, hard.

And when the youth looked at the tree again... it was gone. A mere pile of ash on the ground.

A general murmur of approval rolled among the servants, quickly cut off by the voice of their master again.

"You don't need to eat. You don't need to sleep. You don't need to rest. All you need to do... is kill."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"...What's my name?"

"...Your job is to bring death wherever I order you to. Hence... from now on... that will be your name. Death. Kifo."

"Kifo..." the warrior repeated, then bowed down.

"I shall bring meaning to my name... Master..." he said, not raising his head.

The voice chuckled, and for a second, Kifo felt as if a warm, powerful hand had been placed on his shoulder.

"And who knows, warrior," the voice said, starting to trail off, "maybe, some day... you will even earn a friend..."

(I lied. al-Mujahid out.)