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War was an old friend for BadBoyHalo. He had been through countless of them during his thousands of years on this Earth, some of which he had faced alone, some he had good friends to fight and die by his side. This time, he had found companionship in a mortal boy that couldn’t be older than thirteen years old, he found him alone and sobbing over a mutilated corpse half buried in the dirt, blood staining his hands and mouth.
Bad approached the kid like one would do to a wounded animal. His eyes were wild, and he pointed a dagger at the demon. His hands were shaking.
“Fica longe de mim!” The kid shrieked.
“It 's okay.” Bad sheathed his sword. “I’m not gonna hurt you if you don’t hurt me.”
The boy adjusted his grip on the knife. “I don’t believe in you.”
Good, he could understand what Bad was saying. That was an issue in the war: plenty of unnecessary confrontations that could be avoided if it was not for language barriers.
“How old are you?” Bad tried to sound as non-threatening as possible.
“None of your fucking business.”
“Language.” He said automatically. The kid squinted at him. “Look, I’m just trying to be nice.”
“Why? Just to stab me when I turn my back?” The kid snarled. “It’s not going to happen again.”
Oh what had this kid been through?
He reached for his backpack, keeping one arm outstretched to calm the boy down. Bad took a container with the rest of the mushroom soup he had that morning and offered it to the other. He might miss it later, but he had a suspicion that the kid needed it more than him.
“Are you hungry? I have soup.”
The kid’s eyes went wide, his mouth salivating. “Comida de verdade?”
“You can take it.”
The kid reached out for it but quickly stopped himself. “Are you trying to poison me?”
“If I wanted to kill you I would just stab you, kid.”
It seemed to be enough for him. He sheathed the knife and drank the soup so fast that Bad was afraid he would drown in it.
“Thanks…”
“It’s okay.” Bad crouched down to the kid's level. “How long has it been since you last ate?”
The kid didn’t answer, he just stared at the corpse. Oh…
Cannibalism wasn’t uncommon in wars, Bad himself resorted to it more often than he would like to admit. But a kid this young having to do it was just heartbreaking.
“My name is BadBoyHalo.” The demon reached a hand to the boy. “ I can help you if you want.”
The boy shook his hand. “Okay, but if you try something I will stab you.”
“You can try.” Bad chuckled.
The kid was more lost than Bad thought. He didn’t remember how he ended up there, or if he had family out there, or even his name. But he was strong.
It didn’t take long for him to learn how to properly wield a sword. He was also quick to pick up on Bad's survival tips. Soon, he was able to handle his own in most fights, his small size and young age working well to lower the guard of his enemies so he could strike. The demon could not be more proud.
Bad was worried, though. It seemed like the kid was getting a taste for blood in every sense possible. He was too quick to rush into confrontation, too eager to sink his teeth in flesh, at every little noise his hand would fly to his sword, and he would lick his lips with the expectation of a big meal coming. It was useful in war, but what about after that? He knew there was a big chance the boy would perish but he was smart, strong, and too fudging stubborn to die in a place like that. Bad really hoped the kid would survive and one day get to have a normal life.
They stayed together for quite some time, and Bad grew to truly care for the boy like he was family, that’s why it hurt even more when they got separated.
It was a stormy night, and their improvised base got raided by an unusually big group of survivors. The boy was still recovering from a particularly tough fight from earlier, he wouldn’t survive this raid. Bad, on the other hand, had his demonic nature and thousands of years of experience as an advantage, so he distracted the raiders while the boy ran away as fast as he could to somewhere he would be safe.
They never found each other again. BadBoyHalo had lost countless people like that before, it didn’t mean that it got any easier to grief them (even if they might be alive). Eventually he was able to escape from that cursed place, and he liked to imagine that the boy did the same.
For years Bad traveled from place to place finding new adventures and meeting new people who would become dear to him, one of which would invite him for what should be a fun little holiday in a paradise island, which ended up becoming his new prison.
It wasn’t all horrible. He was lucky to be near good people, and he even got to be a real dad to a little dragon, whom he named Dapper, and sometimes he could even forget all the horrors he had seen in his long life. He was happy.
When a cargo ship crashed to the side of a cliff not far from the track that had brought him to Quesadilla Island, the last person he thought he would see was that boy he had found so lost almost ten years ago. A boy that now had a name. He stood on top of a rock formation and introduced himself as ‘Cellbit’, jokingly saying that he might kill someone someday. When his eyes met Bad's, a bright smile formed on his face, his teeth no longer bearing red stains.
Bad didn’t know what to think when he saw Cellbit again. He was scared he would be just as bloodthirsty as he was ten years ago, but the demon was pleasantly surprised. Instead of a wild kid he saw a man, still just as paranoid, but instead of chasing people in the woods and tearing their flesh with his teeth, he would spend days on puzzles and enigmas that seemed to pop everywhere he looked. For months Bad watched all the ways in which Cellbit had grown: he was an investigator, a leader, a husband, a father… a friend.
But he also watched all the ways he would be broken as the Island seemed keen on stripping Cellbit from everything it could, even of his own humanity. His body was marked by new scars that zig-zagged over older ones, and increasingly deeper eyebags framed his eyes every time Bad saw him. But he still kept his chin held high in defiance of the big white bear.
Bad almost thought the man was unbreakable after seeing him throw himself against the claws of the Federation again and again, witnessing how he kept himself together when their beloved children were taken from them, and he fought alongside him to bring back his dear friends who were drugged to keep them pacific through their grief. Almost.
For quite some time, Bad just thought the boy didn’t trust him enough to tell anything about his past. It wasn’t until a day when he woke up to the kid quietly sobbing that he discovered that in reality, he didn't remember. That bloodshed was all he knew, so when Cellbit found out that he had a family from which he was ripped and thrown into the cruel arms of war he just snapped. Suddenly dead maimed bodies of federation workers littered the island and Cellbit refused to listen to anyone, even to his sister.
Bad and Bagi had a plan to bring him back to reason, but unfortunately they never got to put it to work since they were suddenly just yanked off Quesadilla Island and sent straight to hell. Well… actually it was Purgatory, but it might as well be hell. It was yet another war, but this time instead of strangers he was ripping apart his own friends.
Bad didn’t have time for a mental breakdown. His team was counting on him. He walked in the shadows, slashing at anyone in sight as he saw the punctuation bar of his team rise with every kill. It was miserable, but it was necessary to save Dapper.
He was dragging his feet through the dry grass of the savannah, in the treeline near the red team’s spawn, a big campfire burned, filling the place with the heavy scent of burnt flesh. Well, now the death messages from the team made sense.
Suddenly, he heard a soft sniff coming from somewhere. He went to investigate, his sword in hand, ready to claim one more kill for his team, but when he saw Cellbit curled around himself facing the fire, he came to a stop. It was a scene he had walked into dozens of times before. Sure, back then he was a kid, his skin was less scarred, and he wasn’t wearing a gas mask for absolutely no reason, but Bad couldn’t help but feel the need to comfort him.
But there was already someone there.
“Cellbit?” Philza’s voice called from the shadows. He stepped out, leaning his weight in a makeshift cane. “I thought you were already sleeping with the others.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Cellbit mumbled and removed his mask. He looked miserable.
“Want to talk about it?” Philza sat next to the other man and wrapped one of his destroyed wings around him.
“Not really.” Cellbit leaned into the touch. “I just miss Richas, and I miss Roier.”
“That’s okay.” Philza nodded. “I know how that feels.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to dump my problems on you.”
“No, no. You are part of Bolas.” He tugged at his own gas mark that hung from his neck. “I’m here if you need.”
“Thanks, dad.”
Cellbit’s tone was playful, but it came so naturally to him that Bad couldn’t help but feel hurt by it. He had cared for that boy for so long, taught him so much, and not even once he felt Cellbit be that comfortable towards him. Cellbit respected Bad as a mentor, cared for Bad as a friend, but at that point he couldn’t remember what it was like to have a family. And as much as he wanted to, Bad couldn’t teach him how that was like, the war would never allow him.
His claws tightened around the handle of his sword. He sheathed it and retreated back to the trees. It was getting late anyway.