"Yours is not to ask why
Yours is to do and die"
KMFDM, "Professional Killer"
When all this started—no. That sounds like I take no responsibility for any of this, and in truth, I chose it. It is the one thing I can truly claim. I could have said no, when the hand was extended to me. I could have just gone into that good night, and let it all go.
Instead, when I could feel myself dying on that operating table—truth be told, I think I did—it was like I touched eternity, saw the face of God. The long tunnel with the brilliant light at the end. Hearing my loved ones call my name. All that crap they tell you that happens when you die...
And then I turned my back on it.
They teach us, you know. Oh, the others—the other Traditions, that is—they have their beliefs. Not always the right ones. (Though I suppose the question is, who, or what, is right' I suppose that's better asked of a philosopher. Or a psychologist. Or a sociology professor. I digress, though.) To them, all we are are pumped-up assassins, taking what profits we make and creating more little killers like the rest of it. It discounts what we actually do, but there are few who care to see past the stereotypes. It's better on this Earth. Mine? It was shattered before I ever left it, a charnel wasteland, shrine to the Nameless' hubris. Or perhaps one to the foolishness of the other Awakened, those who should have seen the warning signs, but couldn't put aside their petty squabbles for long enough to put a stop to the trainwreck that was about to happen.
Still. They teach us. To separate ourselves from the act. Don't get me wrong. We're killers and murderers, each and every one of us. A simple appellation with a not so simple definition. Because, what do we do, anyway' After all, while at times, payment does exchange hands, that is never the point. There's more. A lot more. And most people never scratch the surface.
Killing is only part of it. The Wheel turns. My kind and I, we guard Fate. We guide it. To reduce us to thoughtless killers undermines the truth. Sometimes, in an individual life, their path goes so wrong, that the only way to 'fix' it is to become Atropos, she who cuts the cord of one's life, and send them off to the cycle of reincarnation. The mortal shell is flawed; usually, the soul within can be preserved, to take its place again, and find a better way.
I have become Death, shatterer of worlds.
I am Euthanatos.
When all this started—no. That sounds like I take no responsibility for any of this, and in truth, I chose it. It is the one thing I can truly claim. I could have said no, when the hand was extended to me. I could have just gone into that good night, and let it all go.
Instead, when I could feel myself dying on that operating table—truth be told, I think I did—it was like I touched eternity, saw the face of God. The long tunnel with the brilliant light at the end. Hearing my loved ones call my name. All that crap they tell you that happens when you die...
And then I turned my back on it.
They teach us, you know. Oh, the others—the other Traditions, that is—they have their beliefs. Not always the right ones. (Though I suppose the question is, who, or what, is right' I suppose that's better asked of a philosopher. Or a psychologist. Or a sociology professor. I digress, though.) To them, all we are are pumped-up assassins, taking what profits we make and creating more little killers like the rest of it. It discounts what we actually do, but there are few who care to see past the stereotypes. It's better on this Earth. Mine? It was shattered before I ever left it, a charnel wasteland, shrine to the Nameless' hubris. Or perhaps one to the foolishness of the other Awakened, those who should have seen the warning signs, but couldn't put aside their petty squabbles for long enough to put a stop to the trainwreck that was about to happen.
Still. They teach us. To separate ourselves from the act. Don't get me wrong. We're killers and murderers, each and every one of us. A simple appellation with a not so simple definition. Because, what do we do, anyway' After all, while at times, payment does exchange hands, that is never the point. There's more. A lot more. And most people never scratch the surface.
Killing is only part of it. The Wheel turns. My kind and I, we guard Fate. We guide it. To reduce us to thoughtless killers undermines the truth. Sometimes, in an individual life, their path goes so wrong, that the only way to 'fix' it is to become Atropos, she who cuts the cord of one's life, and send them off to the cycle of reincarnation. The mortal shell is flawed; usually, the soul within can be preserved, to take its place again, and find a better way.
I have become Death, shatterer of worlds.
I am Euthanatos.