Tear me from myself

[Zereth Lancer]

In this hole
That is me
The dead are rolling over
In this hole
Thickening
Dirt shoveled over shoulders

I feel it in me
So overwhelmed
All this pressured center rising
My life overturned
What dare the despair
All these scars keep ripping open

Peel me from the skin
Tear me from the rind
Does it make you happy now?

Tear me from the bone
Tear me from myself
Are you feeling happy now?

In this hole
That is me
A life that's growing feeble
In this hole
So limiting
The sun has set; all darkens

Buried underneath
Hands slip off the wheel
Internal path-way to contention

Peel me from the skin
Tear me from the rind
Does it make you happy now?

Tear me from the bone
Tear me from myself
Are you feeling happy now?

Are you
HAPPY

Are you
HAPPY

Are you feeling happy?

In this hole
That is me
Left with a heart exhausted
What's my release??
What sets me free?
Do you pull me up just to push me down again?

Peel me from the skin
Tear me from the rind
Does it make you happy now?

Tear me from the bone
Tear me from myself
Are you feeling happy?

Peel me from the skin
(Peel me from the skin)
Tear me from the rind
Does it make you happy now?

Tear me from the bone
(Tear me from the bone)
Tear me from myself
Are you feeling happy now?

Does it make you happy?
Are you feeling happy?
Are you ****ing happy?
Now that I'm lost, left with nothing

Does it make you happy?
Are you feeling happy?
Are you ****ing happy?
Now that I'm lost, left with nothing?

His fist descended, like the wrath of God, and a mortal face was not made to withstand such wrath. Bones cracked, cartilage shattered, and skin split. Blood was the result, and pain it's partner. The force of the blow sent the stunned individual to the ground, to collapse in a heap that it would never rise from. Death waited for that man on the ground, a portal opening before him to usher him into whichever afterlife he believed in. His husk was left behind, a memento of his life. Pity no one would remember him for anything but the sins he committed. To people he cheated, the items he stole, the women he raped, and the lives he destroyed. This was not murder. This is justice. Yet, before Death could pull him through the portal, he cast his empty eyes back to look upon his former shape, the bodies equally crumpled around it, and the man that stood above it all. Large in body, clothed in black and crimson, with dark hair and burning eyes. The man was a demon, a demi-god, a being of unnatural power so intense his very nature set fire to the heavens and made the Gods weep. Such a creature should never be allowed to walk amongst mortals. Such a man should be condemned to the pits of hell to never see mortal light. Whoever had released such a creature was a fool indeed, or cruel and filled with malice. He would have looked longer, but the call of Death was strong and the eternal slumber welcoming. He went, and was no more.

Zereth looked down at the corpse at his feet, and then the blood on his hands. How had it come to this? One order of sith surpassed by another, but to no avail. It was a never ending cycle of disappointment. There was simply no order, group, nor faction of men or aliens that existed that he could align himself to. They were all selfish beings with no sense of honor, no code of existence, and no sense of moral principle. They were unrestrained beasts opened to primitive desires. Power consumed them, greed directed them, and bloodlust sustained them. They were monsters. Nothing more. He could never allow himself to fall into such company, not again. It was degrading to his senses and every minute spent with them was another step into chaos. He would not allow himself to become a monster, to become a weapon of chaos and destruction. Honor bound him to a life better then that.

He turned, and ducked. The crimson blaster bolt sailed over his head and scoured the wall behind him. The shooter lowered his weapon and fired again, but Zereth was not there anymore. The man gasped for he felt the blade warm with blood against the back of his neck. And then he knew no more as his severed head floated to the ground. No sooner had it touched the floor then another hail of blasters rounds pierced the dark room, turning everything red. He turned to face the enemy, his blade rising and with a flick of his wrist he sent all the blood gathered along it's length aside, leaving the Jiraiya Katana pure. Fire rained down upon him, and in the heat and dismal glow of the red energy he thought about what he was doing here.

Nar Shaddaa, a planet devoted to the criminal, and he had come here on a mission. Employed by the private military contractor Titan Corp. to eliminate several men who had caused trouble on several planets and annoyed many of their clients. Zereth was in a bad mood already and had a desire to inflict injury upon others, but to just go out and beat and kill would make him a thug and a murderer. This made him a vigilante instead, and there was honor to be had here by stopping such terrible men. And that is why he was here, in this old, crumbling structure fighting for his life against dozens of armed men. One man against many, the odds were not in his favor, but he would triumph in the end. Already the entrance guard had been slain without trouble, killed with a primitive sword that their laser weaponry and vibration blades had been unable to overcome.

They had already lost this fight. They were just too stubborn to realize it.

The parlor room had a hallway at the end at the top of a few rising steps, and within the wide hallway stood many armed men, all firing wildly in the dark at the man in the red cloak, who was just standing there. And then he wasn't. There was only his red, ragged cloak hanging in the air, now pierced by blaster fire. It fluttered to the ground, the illusion broken. Zereth fell from the rafters, landing just before the men, his blade already spinning outward. It flew back and forth, slashing at everything so quickly it was but a blur that the human eye was ill equipped to follow. Hands were removed at the wrist, legs at the knee, and ultimately the head as the unlucky bastard fell downward from the lack of limbs. They were decimated in moments, five men sent to the kingdom of death. Zereth stepped over the corpses cold and indifferent, wearing the blood of the fallen. Another group of men stood at the other end of the hallway. One possessed a very illegal disruption rifle, which was charging up and aimed at Zereth. Pitiful humans. Then, with a wave of his hand, one wall of the hallway was ripped from it''s foundation and slammed into the opposite wall, crushing those caught between. There was silence for a moment, and then more shouts. They knew he was here now.

Looking up, he blew a hole through the ceiling with a thought, and jumped, catching the edge and pulling himself up with enough strength and dexterity employed to send him up and into the air, a flip midair, and then down into the chest of the man standing there. There was a sicking moment where time slowed as Zereth brought his blade down and into the center of the man's chest, and stayed there, riding the man's body to the ground. The blade was left behind as Zereth rose, his hands disappearing into his pockets a moment. The three other men were already leveling weapons and shooting, but Zereth was off again. He moved to the wall in a flash, and up it, along it, and over the heads of the men. His hands reappeared and metal stars of pain flew from his fingers tips and embedded themselves in the faces and chests of those below. They shrieked in pain, writhed on the ground a moment, and then were silent. Zereth stretched out his hand, and his katana removed itself from the corpse it was embedded within, flew across the room, and landed in his hand. Once again it was flicked, blood sent aside to leave behind a pristine blade unencumbered by the weight of blood.

He turned, there was another doorway, and beyond it more armed men.

This was just getting started.

[Zereth Lancer]

The door exploded inwards, blown right off its hinges and into the group of men waiting there. Zereth came a moment later, his red eyes piercing the dark room. His katana was gone, replaced to his back, and in his hands he held two metallic objects. They looked like the handles of swords without the blades, two handles long and slender, a hole at the top and a wicked spike at the pommel. Gloved hand thumbed sliding plates on the objects and the holed edges sparked to life just as Zereth cleared the threshold of the doorway. Two blades of energy came into existence, one was red, the instrument of his bottomless rage, the other white, the purity of his soul. Symbols, icons, and weapons, the lightsabres spun to life in his hands.

Blaster bolts hailed down upon him from everywhere as men fired out from behind furniture and the corners. It was a small room. Perfect for a last stand. But perfect was not the right word to be used here. The energy blades spun in his hand, intercepting the enemy fire and sending it right back at them. His arms swiveled around his body, his wrists ever rotating as he continuously moved the weapons to cover every angle possible. One by one the criminals were felled by their own weapons or their brothers, and in the end none stood. Burning flesh hinted the air, stinging his nostrils as he surveyed the wreckage. Corpses. Nothing but corpses. So morbid, but he found bitter satisfaction in the accomplishment.

The corpses were gathered, stacked in a pile at the center of the room. Zereth took a fist full of fabric from the shirt of the slain and gathered it in his hands. He whispered under his breath, his words slipping through the air like a breeze. In his hands the cloth warmed, and then burst into flames. His hands cupped the flame, safe from the flame inside the telekinetic bubble. Then he closed his eyes, feasting on the essence of the flame. His whispers grew faster, his chin rising until he was looking upward toward the ceiling. The room warmed, fires starting here and there. A chair burst into flames, singular drawer in a chest of drawer began burning independently of the rest of the chest, and then the clothing of the bodies finally caught flame and began to burn, consuming the corpses with them.

"Dust to dust," he said, his voice raising above the previous whisper. "Naked you came into this world and naked you will depart. Away with you, to Death's domain with you. May you find salvation in the afterlife, or find punishment in the pits of hell. Begone, and may the world forget you oh children of Satan." Around him the room erupted into flames, threatening his life with their consuming fire. "Cleansed by fire may you find purity again." He concluded and then turned, heading out the remains of the doorway and into the hallway again, which was already catching fire as the flames spread. There were more criminals to be killed, but he let them alive. The flames would consume them. None would leave, and if they did he would hunt them. It was the new balance. For the galaxy to allow him to live, a necessary evil, then he would have to balance the weights by killing those creatures of evil and deceit, so that darkness might balance with light.

And so he found his place in the galaxy, as executioner.

A window was blown open before him, the glass shattering outward and the support cross-section falling apart and floating away. His limbs were slipped through and he likewise the rest of his body until he was outside, one hand holding the rim of the window to anchor him into place. He cast one look back, his red eyes gazing back the way he had come, past the hole in the floor, past the bodies, toward the burning inferno that was consuming the structure from the inside out. Satisfied, he let go, letting himself fall away into the night.