I was once called Ramiel. A name that meant something, a name that carried weight. But names are just sounds, just symbols. They can be given, and they can be taken.
The battlefield stretched endlessly, a blank void where nothing ever was, nothing ever would be. It was the perfect stage for a war that was never meant to be won. I commanded the legions, issuing orders with precision, my spear carving through the enemy ranks. I fought because I had to, because we all did. Because to do nothing was to surrender before the battle even began.
But we were always going to lose.
I won't call it destiny. Angels are not bound by such things. But inevitability? That, I cannot deny. And the name of that inevitability was Michael.
One motion, one word. That was all it took.
The golden chains. The voice that carried the absolute Will of Heaven. The feeling of something being ripped away—no, everything being ripped away. My name, my power, my very being. Stripped down, cast out.
Then came the lives. Countless, meaningless. Some, I remember. Some, I don't. A doctor, desperate to save lives, to fight against the very concept of death, only to wonder if it was all just another war he was doomed to lose. A priest, whispering prayers to a god he barely believed in, wondering if the words had ever mattered. And now—
Now, I am a soldier. A commander, to be precise. A leader of men, bound by duty, by strategy, by war. Another battle, another existence.
And I wonder—what is this life even for?
"Get your head out of your ass!"
That was Sergeant Mendietta, a comrade—at least for now. His voice cut through the chaos, sharp, desperate. We were surrounded. Again.
I sighed. Not like this was the first or last time I was on the losing side. It always seemed to go this way. The irony wasn't lost on me—no matter the world, no matter the cause, I always ended up here. Fighting, struggling, inevitably losing.
What amazed me, though, was them. Humans. Their lives burned out in an instant, and yet they clung to them with such fervor. Desperation, hope, fear—it all drove them forward, made them fight like cornered animals. And for what? Another day? Another pointless existence? I never really got it.
But I played my role. I always did.
"Mendietta," I called out, voice steady. "Listen carefully. We don't have time for mistakes."
He turned to me, eyes sharp, waiting. Trusting.
I told him the plan. The flanking maneuver, the fallback point, the positioning—everything he needed to hear. Everything he needed to believe.
He didn't know the real purpose.
They would be funneled right to me.
The moment came swiftly. A flash of gunfire. A sharp impact. Pain bloomed, hot and deep. My body staggered, then fell.
Ah. So this is how this one ends.
I could hear shouting, distant, frantic. My vision blurred. Darkness crept in at the edges. Mendietta's voice called my name—no, not my name. Graham. This time, I was Graham.
I almost wanted to apologize. But what was the point? This was just another chapter closing. Another role finished. It made no difference.
Goodbye, then. Not like this life was any different from the others.
I wonder what I'll be next. A king? A tyrant? A demon maybe? Something—anything—to escape this unbearable mundanity.
A laugh bubbled up, unbidden, weak but real.
And then, nothing.