New Jersey, 2007.

Marcel Davis had spent the last ten years of his life in fear. He always was a superstitious man who because of that joined one of the most dangerous cults in New York. The DecemberKillings was known by few, but feared by all who knew about it. Members of DecemberKillings believed what they called the Transmission, a connection between two realms of existence. They call the realms the Drowning Black Heaven and the DecemberWorld, and believe to exist in the latter. When mortals die in one realm, they reappear in the next in a constant cycle. Drowning Black Heaven is supposed to be perfect and harmonious, a utopia. Because of this belief, they took it upon themselves to send people to the heaven so that they can spend a lifetime there before returning only to be sent back. Marcel willingly joined DecemberKillings believing that their cause was noble, ever since lived in constant fear of the fellow members. Marcel had taken his last name Davis to protect his identity while refraining from ever lying to the members. He embraced this new path and was trained to load and fire a pistol, strike quickly with a knife, and hit hard in hand to hand combat. Once his training was complete, Davis took it upon himself to ensure that everyone he loved made it to the heaven. After only a month, Davis had sent all of his immediate family to the utopia he believed in so heavily. He continued this lifestyle for years, spending every night conducting assassinations, and every day living with guilt. Each passing second, he seemed to believe in the cause less and less. Was each life he’d taken grateful to him for what he did? Or did nothing await you after death? Or perhaps what lies after death is eternal suffering? Davis contemplated aspects of the Transmission with more and more speculation until he didn’t believe it all together. Still, once you join the DecemberKillings, there’s no turning back. Davis received his orders for the day and had until 8:00 A.M. tomorrow to execute them. This routine was familiar, but felt more like a threat the more he thought about it. Today he was supposed to ‘liberate’ a man called Matthew Allen, 24 years old, 5’8”, and lived somewhere in Jersey City. These kinds of descriptions were also familiar, but seemed stranger to him now. He’s told the name, age, and height of the man he’s after but not where he is? Was DecemberKillings waiting for him to fail so they could punish him? Or is this supposed to be enough information? Why hasn’t he had any trouble before? Davis followed his regular pattern, asking around and getting a location. He was able to find Matthew’s apartment and knocked on the door. No response. Davis felt the doorknob and opened the door. It didn’t seem to be locked. He silently closed the door and examined the room. It was simple but comfortable, just a couch, coffee table, and television in a living room connected to a small kitchen and a hallway. Davis heard the murmuring of voices in a bedroom and placed his right hand on his pistol which was concealed under his jacket. As he neared the door to the room, he noticed it was slightly ajar. Peeking through slightly he could see a man standing in the room with his cellphone in hand and back to the door, occasionally turning his head letting Davis examine his features. Davis slowly drew his pistol in one hand and retrieved a silencer attachment in the other when he heard footsteps from outside. Whoever it was, they began to open the door. Panicked, Davis accidentally pulled down on the trigger. Witnesses coming through the doorway and on the phone while the man was bleeding from his hip. A non-lethal shot. Hurriedly, Davis rapidly fired several shots towards whoever was coming through the door in a sloppy display that would embarrass his instructors. It wasn’t until they fell to the ground that Davis could recognize them as a woman and a child. Neither was spared. In a fit of anger, the man Davis was sent to kill tackled him to the ground. His pistol fell across the hallway into the living room. As they struggled on the ground, Davis reached for his knife and dispatched the man. The people on the phone were screaming to call 911 until Davis crawled over and hung up. Beaten and blood-covered, he painfully stood up and went for his gun when he realized it was pointed at him. The figure holding it was somewhat angelic, appearing female and with two feathered wings. The face was covered by a simple porcelain mask hiding any emotion, if any. Where you would normally find the eyes there was nothing but darkness, complete blackness. Davis fell to his knees with pain, he knew this figure meant the end of him; it was death itself, he knew it to his core. Except it wasn’t, it couldn’t be. He had spent years serving death, why would it come for him now? He lied in wait for the final blow, hanging his head down. Clearly seeing his readiness the figure began to cry, or at least that’s what it seemed to be. Blood came spewing out of the eye sockets in the mask, blood that Davis realized was of the man he’d killed. The angelic figure wasn’t death. It was murder. The act of ending the very existence of another being, strictly unforgivable. Davis lifted his head to examine the figure when the shot came, but instead of a bullet there came a tiny flame that pierced his chest. He felt a burning sensation throughout his entire body, the most painful feeling he’d ever experienced. It was his time now. He prepared for whatever lies ahead, noticing that the gun was in fact in his hand. Marcel knew that he would finally discover if his actions were righteous or terrible.