Edward charged into the front lines, his knights following, the moon glistened the blood spray released by the thrust of English-forged blade past German-forged plate. They were to take this hill, he wasn’t told as to why,  They were meant to outnumber and outpower the German forces, both of which were terribly false. He glanced to his left to spot someone he knew being overwhelmed, two opposing knights fought him. Edward, emboldened by his rage, blocks an incoming mace and swings down his blade, as luck would have it his blade went through, decapitating the faceless knight’s shoulder.

Running past the screams. The shouts. The decaying. He was able to reach the familiar man. Only to see a blade go through his head. Edward stopped cold. The knight's eyeless helms pointed at him. They charged. He charged. He was reckless. An unlucky blade found his soft neck. His head fell off his shoulders.

Edward woke with a jolt, the newly risen sun looming on the horizon, light shined off the blood tainted metal soldiers strewn across these dreadful hills. He stood up, still in a daze, he almost immediately tripped on something round. He stood back up and picked up the round item. It was a head. His decaying head. With a shout he dropped his head and promptly threw up. 

What the hell happened? He lives, yet he was sure that was his own head, his own helmet embroidered by his family's crest… Was he a spirit? He felt his body, it is of flesh and blood, he actually felt more invigorated than ever before.

“So… Amidst battle, an immortal is born?” A voice echoes from the exact hill Edward was meant to take, a German soldier, no. The General. Dressed in charred black armour, atop a pale horse with a scar across its left eye, a menacing burn streaked across his defined jawline. Edward’s invigoration was quickly replaced, not by rage, but dread. The man did not appear human. It may wear a human facade but those eyes carried no emotion. No life. Only a kind of hunger, undying and predator in nature. A hunger set on Edward.

“What do you want, what do you mean ‘immortal’!?” Edward demanded, teeth clenched and body tense, trying his damndest to give off the impression of fearlessness.

“I mean immortal. As in you yourself are one, you saw your head, yet you still have your head. It has been too long since I met another like myself.” They spoke again, he kept a straight face despite the overpowering smell of death that lingered like the smell of fresh bread in a bakery.

“I…Immortal? I cannot die? Why, why would God allow this curse upon me?” Edward cried out, the promise of heaven and joining his comrades at the pearly gates slipped through his fingers, the sands from a now broken hourglass.

“Oh how naive, there is no God Englishman; if there were, then maybe you wouldn’t have been put in charge of your fellow knights! You caused their deaths, you lead the charge and yet, you live as they become fertiliser for grass!” He barked, a toothy snarl grew across his deathly visage, his voice cools, “perhaps you can join me, as I look to make all like us, so this never happens again.”

“Then I shall avenge them,” Edward whispered, then shouted, “I shall then avenge my fallen brothers! I pledge my so-called eternal life to ending yours, Ulrich, rider of the Pale horse! No matter the alliances nor time, through peace and conflict it does not matter, I shall be the cause of your fall!”

Ulrich laughed, confidence exuding from him, he didn't respond any further and merely trots off, over the hill, and past the horizon. The scavengers are circling in the sky, their hellish cries no longer having a breathing audience.

2009, January 1st, New York City, Edward:

Blaring sirens echo off the crowded streets of New York City, mixing together with the angry calls of taxi-drivers and drunken fools, truly the first day of the New Year. A man adorned in a fedora and a trench-coat, brown and black and plain, stood just barely at the edge of an alleyway, the goulash of whatever is in the nearby dumpster tainting the smog filled air. A familiar smoke fills his lungs as he moves the cigarette from his mouth, a plume of smoke escaping with an exhale. His steely grey eyes scan the partying crowds, his hand caresses his stubble as he takes another drag from the cigarette, the downsides not a worry. He snuffs out his cigarette and walks inside a building, a neon sign hangs from the side declaring “Private Eye”.

As soon as Edward enters the clean reception room, hanging his hat and coat on the rack right by the door, his dear receptionist remarks:

“Hey, Edward. I know your busy doing nothing, but I got some papers sent by your benefactor, they say, poor them... Says they need your help with cracking down on that new street drug called… Amrita?” After squinting at some papers, she outstretches her arm, hand clasping a yellow folder, blonde hair in a bun complemented by her red glasses, one eyebrow raised.

Edward slides forward and slips the folder into his own hands, “Ah, thanks Rebecca, always such a doll. For future reference, Amrita is a Hindu belief, a nectar of sorts that grants immortality to their gods.” He half-heartedly waves as he enters his office, the room is dimly lit to conserve on bills, the surfaces cluttered and floor recently vacuumed, and despite the tinge of air-freshener in the air, the neighbourly stench of cigarette lingers still. Landing in his chair with a sigh, Edward tosses the file on the table, flipping through the reports of this “Amrita” being affiliated with heightened physical prowess, with prolonged usage being reported to cause necrosis and even cause the user to go insane, the pictures are not charming. Edward stores the file in a lockable drawer, right below a false panel in a section full of other papers.

“Damn, I was hoping for at least one hour before my next case. No rest for the wicked.” He stands back up and leaves his office, putting his coat and hat back on, and waves, door ringing. It’s begun to rain.

Jesús:

Red and blue lights race down the asphalt, sirens blaring as a unfortunate teenage boy slipped through the cheering crowds celebrating New Years. He is dressed in ratty jeans and a hoodie, a pistol holstered in his jeans, loaded. In his hand is a duffel bag full of plastic bags full of syringes, something called “Amrita”, though the boy didn’t care what it was, he didn’t get paid enough to care. He sneaks into an alleyway and waits. Waiting for Gabriel, his assigned “partner” for this job, the guy who knows who wants this poison.

“Jesús! There you are rato (rat), your late, where were you pequeña mierda (little sh*t)!” A raspy voice shouts from deeper in the alley, “You got the goods?!”

“Si, Si, I got the mierda (sh*t)... Why do we sell this stuff, it kills…” His complaining is interrupted by Gabriel.

“Shut it Jesús! Amrita pays well, the guy who makes this sh*t even pays our boss to sell it, means we get paid more! This is a good gig Tipo (dude), don’t f*ck it up!”

“You mean you get paid more estúpido (asshole)!” Jesús snarls, though before Gabriel can retort, a voice echoes down the concrete walls.

“So, you kids selling Amrita? Well, that works out wonderfully. See, I’m doing an investigation about it, and would really like it if you two made this easy.” The two spin around, guns out, pointing at the unwanted guest. Dressed like those stereotypical noir detectives, was some guy, holding up a private investigator badge. So Jesús and Gabriel do as they were told to do in the face of fools: empty a magazine into them. 

Seventeen bullets times two ripped through this guy. He didn’t drop. Didn’t flinch. Kept walking towards Jesús and Gabriel. The two dashed down the maze of alleyways, and the detective followed. Trash and water are kicked up as their shoes slam the ground. Left. Right. Right. Dead end. They spun around, panting, the detective right behind them  looked unfazed, breathing calmly. Eyes locked on them. In a last ditch effort, they unloaded two more magazines each into the thing. Round after round after round, still unflinching, then one goes into his head. He just pulls out the bullet like a splinter.

“Th…The f*ck are you?!” Gabriel shouts, legs trembling, hands gripping his empty gun and the duffel.

“I told you, kid, I’m a private investigator, hired to look into Amrita. The drug you sell, if what you said was true… What's in the bag?” The man takes a step forward, Gabriel takes one back, slips, and scrambles backwards. Jesús is stiff. Frozen. This is too much like last time. He can’t even force himself to move his fingers to pull a phantom trigger. He hadn't even noticed that his gun was on the ground. The man strides forward, ripping the duffel from Gabriel's unclenched fingers. A thought came to Jesús’ mind, a stupid and impossible thought, a chance out, even if the chance was someone like him. Sirens could be heard echoing off the building’s walls.

“Take me with you, please! I don’t care that you did in my parents, just take me away!” The words fell out of Jesús’ mouth like a waterfall. An uncontrollable plea. 

“The hell you talkin’ bout hombre (man)!?” Gabriel shouted, eyes still glued to the detective, it’s attention glued to Jesús.

“I want out!” He already began, might as well finish, “ I’m done slinging poison, I was looking for a chance, and your the one who’s getting me out…Por favor, sir.”

A long moment passed by, flashlights drew closer, shouts came from behind, police illuminated by the moon covered by the city's smog. The detective chuckled, shifting the arm holding the duffel bag to his side, “Alright kid, I will, I know a place that takes in street kids like yourself. As long as you take me to your boss… I need to have a little chat.”

Edward:

Half-heartedly escaping the cops, Edward and Jesús, as he said his name was, left the alley system. Edward simply asks the kid to lead the way back to his boss’ place. The kid led on as requested, but began to ask a few questions.

“So… What are you? Like, we unloaded clips into your ass and you didn’t even flinch hombre (man), you some kind of superhero, like in the comics?” Jesús questions, talking with his hands and mouth, innocent to his rude mannerisms.

“Well, I’m not anywhere near a hero, and I am quite cross about these holes in my coat, but as for what I am? I’m a human, just cursed to never die. Don’t know why or how, and I’d rather not speak on it.” Edward bites his tongue, hoping he wasn’t too harsh.

Jesús continues to ask questions, seemingly ignoring the bite in Edward’s voice, “What place takes in kids like me, who are they?”

“Old friend of mine once was a doctor. Good woman, albeit a tad aged now, will get you somewhere good, a family perhaps.” A hint of a sad smile played on his lips.

The two walk downtown, and Jesús leads Edward down a winding path through alleyways and streets, and after ten more minutes the two come up to a filthy and deserted courtyard, only inhabited by a heavy looking metal door, voices and music can be heard muffled behind it.

Rats scurry past as the two approach the door, Jesús steps forward and strikes the door to a specific rhythm and Edward stands to the side out of sight. The doors slit opened, closed, and the hinges creaked, unleashing the smell of alcohol and a merry mariachi band’s serenade. The large man behind the door quickly rushes deeper, most likely to announce someone has come inside. Jesús walked in and Edward slinked in behind, the music stopped as they entered what looks to be a bar, everyone glared at him with both eyes and their guns.

“El Diablo (The Devil)! It has been far too short amount of time since last we met. What reason do you have for coming to us today? To screw me over once again? And why is one of my runners with you?” Sitting alongside four armed guards is a bulky man, tattoos lining his body, a joint and a submachine gun in either hand.

“Hernandez, terrible to see you too! May I ask who's supplying you Amrita?” Edward demands, he takes a few steps forward, the guards take a few back.

“No. Not this time monstruo (monster). You expect me to give up this gig?! No, this is too profitable for me…” He is interrupted by the gun now pointed to his cranium and a vice grip around his neck, sweat drips down his forehead as he gags.

“I ask only once more. Where. Are. You. Getting. The. Drug?” Edward demands once more, his grip tightening.

Hernandez only points to a door and coughs “second to the left”, Edward nods and strides to the indicated door, kicking it down and traversing down the stairwell. Jesús rushed to his side, not wanting to be near the cartel guys he deserted, then led a cop to. The stairway was dark and musty, it would only be lit by the singular lightbulb at the top in front of the once door, the same one Edward kicked down, subsequently taking the light with it. The creaking stairs end to a brighter concrete hallway, barely clean, Edward enters the second door to the left without skipping a beat.

The door swings open to a prim and proper lab, as much as a drug lab could be at least, notes can be seen neatly stacked on a desk to the far wall, graffiti art of a white horse with a scar across one eye above the desk. Taking a suitcase lying by the door, Edward shoves a collection of notes and papers into it. Pleased with the amount there, he then begins the search for any indication for where the creator of the drug could be.

“Hey, kid! Hernandez is the one who forced you into this profession, right!?” Edward shouted, face buried in the search for chemicals, looking for their brand and the amount there.

“Yeah… What of it?” Jesús replied, concern growing as Edward’s bloodhunt continued.

“Was just wondering. Go wait outside. Outside the building, I mean, won’t you?” Edward demanded, Jesús not seeing another option obliged Edward’s command. Hearing the kid leave the lab, Edward writes the brand of a chemical his quarry is most low on on his arm, taking diligent care to break a few things, and to call the police, before leaving and going back up the staircase. Hernandez is standing now, respectfully agitated by this intrusion, Edward only fuels his flame:

“I let you off last time, but using children to sell your merchandise? A new low, and one the cops would love to hear.” To keep him stuck here, Edward shoots the drug boss's leg, with a cry Hernandez is on the floor. Lighting a cigarette, Edward strolls outside, meeting with Jesús. They begin the trek to his office, police officers rushing past them.

“Don’t worry kid. He won’t force you to sell any more poison, not anymore.” Edward ruffles the kids' hair, “I need to stop by my office for a moment, make a few calls, gather some things.” Another hour passed before they made it to the office, 

Rebecca comments, “So, taking in strays now… Oh, damnit Edward! Did someone shoot you!? I always told you it would happen one way or another!” She rushes up to him to inspect the wounds, only to realise that they don’t exist.

“Don’t worry Rebecca, I’m fine. I got a lead on the maker of Amrita, and a location. Some abandoned chemical factory just outside of the border. I just need to compile somethings and… Check something.” He shuffles into his office, Jesús close behind.

Jesús:

Entering the dim office, his nose is immediately assaulted with the stench of nicotine smoke, he brings his jacket sleeve to his nose in an attempt to hold back the smell. Despite the cluttered ambiance of the room, the furniture is fancy, on a pair of shelves are a collection of trinkets presumably from different countries. Above the desk Edward is currently sifting through, on a mantle, is a gleaming blade, it’s beautiful edges look like a mediaeval sword.

“Hey… uhh, Edward, right? Why do you have a sword?” Jesús’s attention is on the sword and the sword only.

“Oh, because that’s from my knight years,” Jesús stares at him incredulously, sensing his doubt Edward continues, “Yep. You are looking at a British knight, and after you’ve seen me pick a bullet from my head, you can’t believe that?”

Jesús shrugs, not entirely believing him but knowing he isn’t lying. He continues to look over Edward’s trinkets, who lifts his head up while looking into an empty folder. The folder drops, and a mixture of sorrow and rage conflicts over his face. He picks the sword from the mantle and picks up the phone, asking for a ride. Jesús’ inquiries of what is going on go unanswered.

He turns to Rebecca, and with a lying smile suggests, “Well, it seems he is back… It was nice knowing you, Rebecca, but this must be done. You’ll find the factory’s location on my desk.” Before she could respond or even understand what he said, he and Jesús left the building and sat on a nearby bench.

A grey car scuttles to the curb, Edward enters the front seat and Jesús begrudgingly shuffles into the back. Edward tells the driver about a chemical plant and the driver had to put pedal to metal to get there within ten minutes. Jesús had heard about the plant lying at the outskirts of the city, that it was closed to the public thanks to some bad accident. Edward takes out the sword from his coat and begins to sharpen it with some stone.

“Hey, sir. Why did you bring the sword, you have guns right, why don’t you use those?” Jesús shifts in his seat, closer to the door despite already being shoved against it.

“I want to finish the job, thought the fire in the tunnel would have been enough, burn away that mistake, my failures. Foolish me… Kid, what happened to your parents?” Edward hadn’t looked up from his sword, which didn’t look to need more sharpening.

“Five years ago or so, some guy in a gas-mask and trench-coat burst into my home, he was shot a few times but never reacted, which is why I assumed you were him back when we met. My mother had been a bit of an addict and she was taken, not before my father got in the man's way and, well, was dealt with. The man had told me.” Jesús stopped squirming in his seat, his eyes couldn’t leave the passing scenery, buildings slowly melting away in favour of trees.

Edward had stopped sharpening his sword, his head twisted back and staring at Jesús, “I… I’m sorry, I really am…” He didn’t speak for a few more moments before turning to to face him, “That all was my fault, in the beginning and end, I didn’t stop him in time...” Jesús eyes darted up at the idea of such a thing.

“No! You did what you could, you didn’t pull his trigger. You’ve done nothing wrong!” Jesús knew deep down he was wrong, but felt he had to help this man somehow.

“I didn’t pull the trigger, but I failed to cut his fingers off.” The car stopped outside the dilapidated factory, Edward stepped out, whispered something to the driver. The two waved to each other as that little grey car scuttled to the sunrise. Jesús knew that look in his eyes, as he felt the same about his parents, or the people he inadvertently killed from time to time: pure and unending guilt burdening their souls, even if they were not the cause.

Edward:

Edward looked onward to the enclosed chemical plant, a tear still present upon his cheek, its dilapidated grey concrete walls, faded red towers, and overgrowth glorified in the rising sun, like modern art. Nature always wins, so why is it we still live?

Edward wordlessly walks down the cracked and green road leading up to the facility, the revving of an engine disappears behind him. Lurking down the path, he comes to the great metal doors, and with some careful twists of his tools, the chains and lock fall from its handles.

Edward didn’t know if it was his newly cleared head, or the familiarity of the sunrise and situation, or the fact it was his last, but he took it all in. “See you on the other side.” His sword is gripped in his hands now.

 He slips past the gates and into the factory. The sun penetrated into the building and caressed him through the cracked and shattered windows, granting a soft glow to the verdant growth reclaiming this ruin, whose memories lingered in the air, whose structure creaked and groaned like it itself was living for much too long. Snapping back to reality, Edward slinked past the decrepit machinery, and down the concrete stairs into the basement. He found himself on a wide catwalk above vats of a green and bubbling liquid, illuminated still by hanging fluorescent lights, flickering and old, and above those very vats, stood a man adorned in a black trench-coat, a gas-mask, and a peaked cap hat with a scarred pale horse pin attached to it. He turned to face Edward, he as in Ulrich, rider of the pale horse.

“I was so hoping you could join me, Edward… How long has it been since you last saw me… Oh right! When you burned me and those innocent bastards in that tunnel!” Ulrich dramatically motioned his gloved hands around as he shouted, “It didn’t matter that they were innocent, right? As long as I BURNED, that is all that matters to you doesn’t it, Edward!?”

“I am driven by revenge no longer.” Try as he might, Edward can’t fully keep down his anger.

“You're terrible at lying, now. Give me my notes, perhaps we can do some good.” His hand outstretched, greedily waiting.

Edward took the notes from the suitcase, he peered at the formulas, perhaps Ulrich is right, maybe the world would be better off without death. No. Edward wipes the thought from his mind, and sets the papers aflame, “Don’t play God, Ulrich. Things like us should not exist, all things must die, even this building will be released some day. It’s time we let nature take us over once and for all.” Edward proclaims, taking a step forward, sword drawn.

Almost reminiscing of something, reminded by the fire, “When the flames licked my flesh, my memories went back to my wife and children who could have lived if I did this sooner, gave them my blood, but I thought naively such as you do now… The world could only be made better if I made it so, only I can gift everyone immortality so no longer will death and pain plague them!” Ulrich steps forward, arms wide as he continues his speech, “YOU caused ME! Now, I ask you, Edward, in all your indulgence of wrath, do you even remember your fellow knight’s, names, or faces?”

Edward lingered for a few moments, his head hung low, “No.” He always dreamt of them, but their faces were always blurry. Shame holds him tight.

“NO?!” Ulrich cries out, head shaking and fists clenched, “No… No!? No, no, no, NO! You ruined me, you burned me, killed my kin, out of the need for revenge… AND YOU DON’T EVEN REMEMBER THE PEOPLE YOU WERE AVENGING!? How dare you come to me, pretending your a hero, when in truth we both are SINNERS.” Ulrich breaks a part of the guardrail off and points the jagged edge towards Edward, he reacts by lifting his sword with two hands into a stance.

Ulrich throws the piece of metal at Edward, who dodges, but is struck by the following haymaker Ulrich slams down with. Edward’s sword slips from his hands, he swings upwards, knocking back Ulrich, who now clasps a knife. Edward grabs his sword, Ulrich’s knife plunging again and again into his neck. In his recklessness Ulrich is left open, Edward thrusts the sword into Ulrich’s chest, and pushes him forward, his knife clattering to the ground. Ulrich brings his hands down to Edward’s arms in futile attempts to break them, ending up being held up above one of the vats, held up only by Edward’s sword.

“I deny you the killing blow.” Ulrich kicks Edward, forcing himself to slide off the blade and into the vat below and Edward could only watch, the sizzling and smell of burning flesh is all that is known now.

“I’m sorry, Rebecca. Perhaps one day you’ll figure out this grim truth, things like us don’t belong. Life takes a toll, and it’s time I pay it.”

“Sincerely, Edward Sallow.”

…“BANG!”...”SPLASH!”...”SIZZLE!”.........