It is in our darkest days that we are truly alone. The blood does not wash off, the face in the mirror is ugly, and our world is in ruins at our feet.
They killed Lillith. Mammon, too, but he was an asshole. Sweet Lillith drank with me on Earth as the locusts devoured the holy people and we were never shy a meal. A beautiful era. Rivers heavy with blood and life riddled in famine and pestilence. I long to recreate those times, but our steps must be slow if we are not to forget why we are truly here.
Lillith. Mammon. Kali. Namtar. All fucking dead.
Perhaps I’ll send them Krampus next and see how they fucking like it.
The humans had a purpose, and that purpose was not to find the bitch at the center of Cori and get the Mecha working again. We disabled them once after losing them; doing so again will be excessively difficult. The vampire has an uncanny ability with machines. I fear that she, among all, can actually do it.
The Chosen will soon be among the dragons. I never thought it would happen — never thought I would see such a magnificent sight. I am so excited for what awaits him. I must find a way to get eyes on the planet.
I believe the Dealer to be their gatekeeper. He is the only voice not driven by hatred.
I must also drive their hatred further.
Lillith, sweet thing, loves to play inside of creatures. Organs used to be her specialty but lately it’s blood; erythrocytic communication of healing or disease, necrosis. Nanites. She took a baby from her mother and incubated her; it was the first time we had tried a pod on a human we had not grown ourselves. Her mother screamed for her; most do. She went to the camps, or died, or something. I can never keep track.
The baby was named Rose. Prickly flower. She never learned to fight — the undead demon knew we were tracking her, snapped her neck, put a grenade in her mouth, and shot her into space.
Maybe she’ll do the same with her clone. Maybe she will when she learns that there are others. I can’t wait to see, but I must tell Belial that he does good work.
She shows such promise yet.
Ship logs of Abbadon, Earth orbit, year 2325, Tuesday. He notes the skies are blue, and the people awake in the camps are singing.