Iconoclast slept. And like almost every night since Calamity had given him the power to free the world, he was tormented by nightmares.
"No...." He whispered, twisting in Firefly's bed. "No.... Mary.... no..."
He was walking with her along the street. He began singing one of the songs from the play they had just seen, and she laughed at his poor reproduction.
"I only ask what I'd ask any superstar
What is it that you have got
That puts you where you are? Oh, ho ho
I am waiting
Yes I'm a captive fan
I'm dying to be shown
That you are not just any man!"
It had been a lovely and amusing play.
He was still singing as dark silhouettes emerged from an alley, and approached them. "No, don't stop.... Keep singing." One figure mocked, as the silhouettes turned into demonic shapes. The shapes cackled and hissed, sharp teeth gnashing as they ripped the couple from each other's arms. "Roger!" Mary pleaded.
"Leave her alone! Please, I am a priest, we have no money!"
The demons paid no attention as they restrained him and attacked her. They made him watch, threatening to kill her if he didn't. She screamed and the cross on her neck seemed to glow as everything faded into black. The cross grew in size in his vision, becoming a gigantic, flaming afterimage, burnt into his mind.
.........
The demons departed, and he cried as he held his wife's body in his arms. They had beaten her, the cross on her neck still flaming. It laughed at him, promising forgiveness for the demons and emptiness for him.
........
Roger ripped the pictures from his walls, tore down the hanging crosses. He took every bible, ripping the pages out and piling them with every other holy symbol in his house. A splash of gasoline and a match set it all ablaze. The crosses burnt, accusingly, growing in his vision, until all he could see was fire.l
.......
The demons, laughing as they were set free. "You're honour, there is no way that Mr Moore could accurately identify these men, not on such a dark night!" More demons whispered in the ears of the jury, the attorneys, the judges. Roger felt nothing but anger as they walked away.
.......
The demons, shrieking in fear as he killed them. But the crosses tattooed on their skin glowed, filling his vision, accusing him. The crosses turned red, and stabbed into him like knives.
The visions replayed in his head over and over. Mary dead, burning crosses, demons laughing, red knives. Mary, burning, demons, knives. Mary, demons, knives. Knives Mary crosses. Mary!
"MARRRRY!" Iconoclast shot up, breathing ragged. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Light flooded in through the open window, illuminating the room.
He realised that he was crying. Again. Iconoclast felt a mild flash of annoyance as he turned his tear ducts back into mere flesh. But every morning, they always turned back.
"Who's Mary?" A small, curious voice asked from the window. Still rattled from his nightmare, Iconoclast started, turning to see a young boy looking through the window. The window had been smashed at some stage, and the boy paid little heed to the jagged remains of glass as he leant against the windowsill. Iconoclast froze.
The silence stretched on.
"Is Mary you're wife? How come you are dreaming about her, if she isn't? I bet she is."
Iconcolast stared at the boy. "I should kill him." He thought.
"You aren't saying much. Hey, how come this window is broken? I was just exploring over there when I saw it."
"Or turn him." Children made good Ghouls, but only in numbers. People were much less willing to fight children, but they were correspondingly much less useful in combat. They needed numbers to kill. And both morality and numbers were usually useless against Epics.
"You're an odd fellow, aren't you? Haven't seen you around, so you can't be an Epic. Which Epic lives here? Firefly isn't it? Mummy says that it is ok to talk to people in these parts, the Epics here aren't dangerous."
Despite himself, Iconoclast smiled. "How could a child in slavery be so happy? Let him go back to his mother."
"Child... I won't kill you. Run on back to your mother." The boy looked confused, but was silent as Iconoclast got out of bed. He had a long day of chaos ahead of him, and he needed to get to it as quickly as-
Suddenly he realised that his hands were wet.... and warm. He looked down, confused, and saw this his fingers had become talons at some point, and they were covered in glistening, fresh blood. A chill went through him. But... he had spared the child, hadn't he? But Roger Moore knew without looking that he had not.
He felt tears glisten in his eyes. "What... what have I become? I... I can't even control myself anymore. Is.... is this freedom? Is this.... what Mary would have wanted?"
He used his powers, changing his annoying tear ducks back into flesh once more and returning his fingers to normal. He then changed his appearance, turning into a muscular, blonde figure. He felt his fears slip away, his concerns subsiding. He scoffed. "Who cares about one child? I have killed many children! It is the price that must be paid for freedom. After all, the founding fathers did say that the tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of weaklings and tyrants.... or something like that." Smiling evilly, his teeth becoming points, Iconoclast left the room and started towards the cellar. It was time to begin.
It was time for chaos.
