Page 3 of Hades

He looked up at Zara. Even now, after all the torment he’d put the woman through, the terrible atrocities she’d endured, her spirit broken, her flesh torn, and still she could look at him with a grimace on her pretty, unmarred face.

What a victim she was.

A sad little victim, crying with her fat, contemptible tears balancing on her eyelashes.So sad, sweet love.What sadness she’d had on her breath, in her heart. He could hold her, take her to hell with him, burn together in the flames.

She’d belong to him forever in Hell’s dungeon.

He wouldn’t feel guilt. It was an emotion Hades wasn’t well equipped to recognize. Would he even know what it felt like to stir in his chest?

Too late to analyze it now. Maybe Hell had an inhouse shrink.

After all she’d had choices, didn’t she?

He’d never again hold her down and pump her full of his come, hear her terrified screams and pleading for leniency that made him stone-hard; he’d never look at her and watch the emotions fasten to the back of her eyelids, what a toy, what a monster in the making, he nearly had her, just a bit of time and he would have succeeded. Ah, well.

Death was inconvenient and approaching fast. He’d really wanted to do more with his life. He could just about remember his plans from long ago. The dreams and hopes.

Such hopes for one so young. Stupid delusional dreams that meant nothing.

He could laugh about now, maybe not right now, not when Hawk was looking at him like he was just waiting for the last breath to leave his body.Fuck you, fucker, suck my dick.He just bet he would, too.

But another time, he’d laugh that he’d once thought things would end differently.

His blueprints were set long before he was even created for evil.

Oh yeah, created, that was right.

Kyle was the original Mr Hyde. A demon made at the hand of someone else. Did it matter thathewas the someone else? Such small details. He was one thing and now he was another.

He coughed and spat blood on himself. Ugh, he fucking hated being dirty. He was going to die in filthy clothes, in clothes he’d stolen from someone’s back yard, for fucks sake, he wasn’t even in his own colors, instead he was wearing store bought threadbare Adidas tracksuit bottoms with a hoodie that didn’t smell all that good to start with when he’d stolen it. Now his shallow grave, somewhere theSoulsdug for him, would look like they’d buried a common hobo.

How the mighty did fall.

It was no way for a president to check out of the mortal coil.

Fuck you, you fucking fucks! I’ll die my way.

Would he have given Rider Marinos a different send off? Ah. Probably not. But he was the villain in this picture, and he hated that guy. He really fucking hated him. Rider with his hero complex for rescuing tiny animals in distress, his eyes found the one of the moment, he tried to smile, and it came out as a grimace as pain lanced his nerve endings, cold seeping in deeper, taking him under. And then he switched his gaze to the man… the man he knew things about… the first one Rider rescued. Asshole only needed a fucking cape to go with his superiority complex.

Heroes were myths of weak men, he reflected with his last minute of life rapidly vacating his ruined body. He slumped against the wall like discarded trash, hands soaked in crimson as he tried in vain to staunch the blood overflowing from too many holes, hope perished last, wilted in the blistering sun, lanced like a boil, hope was for the weak and helpless, Hades would go out as he’d lived, the villain of his own story.

Do unto others as they do unto you.That was how he’d interpreted that particular passage. But do unto them so much fucking worse.

He was no hero, not to his men, those departed fools, he supposed he’d see them in Hell, fucking joy. He didn’t like them all that much, they’d served as a necessary cog, after all demons needed henchmen and they’d worshiped him as a god.

He’d miss the worshiping.

Going.

Going.

So close. He felt it taking him down. Shallow breaths claimed his chest, unbearable pain battered his head. Every inch of his body shutting down. He knew his brain would be the last to switch off, oh yes, leaving the best until last.

His eyes went up. She looked like ice masked in fire. A beautiful disease he’d wanted to cure.

Why couldn’t she have shattered into tiny, glorious pieces for him?

She looked so much likeher. So, fucking like her he wanted to spit.

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