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I.
The Eye of Michael is passed around by anyone desperate. Don’t all weaker beings look up to some higher power to try to explain why the world has torn them into pieces and laughed into their wounds? Every poor, wretched soul in this place holds its name like a prayer on their lips. If they pray to this god, they think someone will come and free them from these chains. The chains of poverty only made lighter by usefulness in the moment.
He has never been religious. What god would ever exist in this desolate wasteland? What god would let him suffer every day like this? To be touched by others. To be used. To be worthless.
He does not need to pray. He does not need a god. He will take his fate by his hands and he will do what he needs to. One by one, the strange metal that some have whispered about. One by one, bloodied hands and searing pain in his skull. One by one, finding important people who have access to what he needs. One by one, He bides his time. He will escape.
II.
A fuck up. That’s what he was. Panicked, barely able to breathe, he looks around quickly and tries to make a break for it, when he thinks he’s clear.. Someone had seen. Someone who should not have, had seen. They would come for him soon. He was a liability. They couldn’t risk someone like him existing. Too much power. Scum wasn’t allowed to upset the balance.
Maybe…maybe…maybe he’s strong enough. Maybe he can escape. Maybe, he with his own two hands can pry open the door out of this place and free himself.
The sound of a gun pierces the air and while he is powerful, it is not enough. The searing pain blinds him. Screaming he falls, clutching his side. He tries to turn to the offender. Lifting his right hand, he dares to defy the order that god has placed him in. He dares to go against this person who life has said is above him. The world is tilting, fading. Spots consume his vision. He’s hurt in so many ways, but not like this. Another shot. The pain is louder than the sound. Through his hand, into his arm.
He opens his mouth to scream, blood pools from his lips.
Maybe there is a god, and he is being punished.
III.
He wakes but he does not. Drugged. The world is spinning and hazy and tilted and he can barely string thoughts into colors and pictures let alone sounds or words.
He is no stranger to touches. He is no stranger to his body not being his own. He is no stranger to the fact that he is little more than a toy, but its stings so much more. It drowns the last spark of hope that he has ever had.
“...so pretty…” The disgusting shadow of a man coos at him. He is not even bound, but he is bound by the haze in his system. Hands that fail him just like the god everyone prays too. Tears prick at his eyes in anger.
If he is to suffer with no hope, can he not just die?
But he does not die. He lives. In cycles. Haze and cloudiness from the drugs. A moment of desperation as he feels his body almost return to him. Freedom. Freedom. He can taste it. He will free himself. A moment of despair as he is drugged once more. A moment of weakness as his last coherent thought is, ‘If there is a god, save me. Save me. Please.’ And the cycle repeats.
IV.
Then one day….God listens.
His body is almost his. He braces himself for the injection. He braces himself for the cycle. He braces himself to succumb to the haze, to be dragged down back to a hell that he has never earned.
And it never comes.
What comes instead is screaming. What comes instead is the entire roof falling in. The entire building collapses. He watches blearily as the shadow of a man is hit by falling debris. He watches as the world is painted the most beautiful shade of red he has ever seen in his life. The color of freedom. The color of hope. The color of retribution.
But his joy is so short lived..because soon he himself experiences the raining bricks and metal. Pain, sharp pain stabs at him, but it is but a dull whisper to the sounds of pain he has endured for countless days.
God has given him a chance and he will not lose it! He will not squander this. He will grab God’s hand with every single ounce of personhood that he has ever had, that he has ever wanted.
With whatever mental strength he has, He practically explodes from the debris.
The sun is setting in front of him. The sky bleeds with the blood of those that have wronged him, yellow into orange into pink into red. The debris is marked with the rivers of blood of monsters and scum alike.
But not a single part of that compares to him. An angel. Drenched in white. Untouched by the bastards of this world. Wings and tendrils of silver. This is the most beautiful color he’s ever seen. A fondness perhaps developed by the silver threads he’s ripped from the cruel world and bestowed upon himself. Pale blond hair and pale blue eyes. Eyes that turn to him, passive and unimpressed.
Somehow, this is how he has always imagined God.
He opens his mouth to thank him but nothing comes out. Is it that he has not used words in so long? Is it that any word he speaks feels like it could never truly express the mountain of feelings he has experienced? Is it that a part of him feels unworthy to even breathe the same air?
“Humans truly are rodents…” God narrows his eyes at him. A tendril tilts in his direction.
Oh. If this is how he dies, then he would welcome it. After all, he already has everything he ever wanted. The suffering of the bastards of this world. There is so much more he could do but just as the tendril approaches him, he reaches out with his power and stops it. It is not that he wants to defy God, his savior…it is only. He does want to lose what he has gained. He can prove himself…he can…
The widened eyes that God gives him. The sheer look of disbelief…He will never forget that look.
Then, a disgusting monster crawled out from the rubble. A disgusting monster holds a gun at God.
What a fool. What a fucking fool. No one can kill God. God, who has leveled an entire town? Defeated by a pathetic worm and a gun?
He doesn’t have to do anything, but he wants to. Not out of gratitude necessarily, though he feels that. No, he does it because this disgusting man should know his place.
“Disgusting.” He snarls, fury pointed at this pathetic shell of a man. “How dare you…” Eyes widen in rage, he raises his hand to the man, clenches his fist, and with a power he wasn’t ever sure he full had, He watches as the bastards explodes into pieces, luckily not a drop touching God.
After all, it would be a crime to stain him with human blood.
“...Impressive…” God says, and He feels a warmth bloom deep within him and rush his senses so hard that he falls to his knees. God withdraws the tendril that almost attacked him. Disbelief is tinged with something almost fond. Is he merely looking to see what he wants? Is he merely hoping for too much?
“Tell me human…” God approaches him, cupping his face to force him to look up at him. When did he get so close? “Do you desire to serve me…? Can you make yourself useful…?” His voice is beautiful. Like silk and the way he thinks rain must feel after a drought in the desert. Refreshing in a way that he has never known. Tears prick at his eyes.
“I was born to be yours, my savior.” His voice cracks, betraying him. “I will do anything to serve you, my God.” God feels like the sun to a man that has never seen the light. It’s so warm. He wants to burn his image into his brain, but at the same time, he is too bright. His eyes fall to the ground. Can he really look at him this long? Can he allow himself that?
“God…?” The blond chuckles at that and his heart squeezes in a way he has never known. “Ah, to you, I suppose I am. Tell me human, what is your name….?”
“I…I do not have one.” He answers honestly. Perhaps once long ago he had a name, but it has been eons since he has been his own person. What use would a name have him? He was many things, but what they called him was never his alone.
“..no name…? That will not do. Even these rodents have names and you do not…?” He cannot look God in the eyes when he says that. Does that make him less worthy? Does that make him not want him? It is not his fault…
“Legato…that will be your name…” God brushes his thumb against his cheek.
“Legato…” There is no suppressing the shiver that goes through Legato. There is no stopping the hiccup that leaves his lips. He does not want to look weak, but to have God give him a name and speak it so beautifully…Tears shamefully start to form. He’s overcome.
“Legato Bluesummers is your name now…and you….” His hand moves back down to grab his chin and have Legato look up again at him. “Belong to me. You are now the property….of Millions Knives. You live for me. Do you understand?”
“I live for you, Lord Knives.” Legato says it like a prayer because it is one. A prayer as much as it is an amen as much as it is a thank you. Legato has died a thousand times, but on this day, in this moment, this is the first time he has lived.