Chapter 3: Death and Final Momnets

Hate is a strong word to describe the feelings Allen has for Eric.

You see, Allen didn't hate Eric per say. Sure, he can be annoying as an angry chiwawa, a general nuisance, and a pain in the ass on a daily basis.

However, underneath all of those negative opinions Allen has for Eric. He's a good friend to have around, a perceiving individual if he wants to be, and a comrade that Allen can trust his back to.

That doesn't mean Allen has to be nice and take his bullshit daily. So no, Allen can safely say that he did not hate Eric. He hated the fact that he never fixes his own mistakes.

Every single month, every single god-damn time without fail. Eric somehow, some way finds a way to screw over their group. To being chased by a group of angry geese's, paying off a debt of $500 from bets alone or doing stupid, to getting the group into detention for something they had no part of, or that one time when the group was kidnapped by a group of middle schoolers because Eric promised them candy and he didn't deliver his end of the bargain.

So yes, Allen hates the fact that Eric finds a way to screw over the group and not fix it by himself.

Now it wasn't so bad. Sometimes it can be hilarious, profitable, and memorable even.

(Allen will keep the thought of Eric's bullshit as funny to his very grave.)

Even when it got annoying, Allen couldn't help but smile and just go with the flow of things and just. Escalate the situation even more.

While other times, all Allen wanted to do was beat Eric up until he couldn't coherently think anymore. But, that's what friends were for. You don't beat them because they just annoy you. {God he hated his own moral compass sometimes}.

You beat them to a bloody pulp when they deserve it. Like when the bastard's band of insects grouped up and stole his best friend, his family member, his beloved companion, his pet cat that was his world (besides his little brother of course). They dared, Dared, DaREd, laid their filthy hands on him and hold him like he was nothing more than a common object.

They were nothing more than fleas, begging to be stepped on. What right do they have to take something from him.

It still made Allen's blood boil to this day, his hands itching uncomfortable to break something, his fake smile falling apart into a that of a snarl, his feet not staying idle and wanting to bash someone's skull in.

*Sigh*

A pleasant sigh escaped Allen's lips as he remembered the tor-criticism he gave towards the worms that dared touch that was rightfully his.

And right now. . .

He threw his entire body onto the ground. Avoiding an outstretched robed arm, holding a gleaming machete, embedding onto the velvet carpet floor where he used to be. Splintering and cracking the marble floor underneath.

In the situation he was currently facing. . .

He quickly scrambled up to his feet. Fear, adrenaline, anger, and confusion danced wildly in his eyes, darting back and forth towards the gleaming machete and the group of cloaked individuals with various weapons in their hands.

He didn't think, didn't speak, he sidestepped without thought when he glimpsed a shadow in the corner of his vision coming close to him. He moved his right arm back, positioned his feet accordingly, and nailed a person in the gut, dropping a wrench from their grasp. Their black cloak fluttering and unraveling slightly. Revealing an akatsuki shirt underneath their cloaks.

Even when pumped with adrenaline and focused on not dying. Allen couldn't help but mentally nod his head in approval with the person's choice of wear.

He turned his head slightly to the left, looking towards the person to try and cut him in half and backhand the bastard in the face.

His spine shivered and tensed up. Twisting around and backing up a couple of steps without thought, Allen barely avoided a bat to his side. Allen quickly kicked another person to try and stab him with a bowie knife in the shin. Making her hiss in pain and not register the AK47 replica buttstock homing straight towards her left cheek bone.

A pleasant deafening crack could be heard, as the person fell like a stack of jenga. (Allen was 92% positive he broke the flea's jaw.)

{Good Riddance.} Allen's fear resided to the back of his mind. The facade of being portrayed as a sadist and wrath incarnation surfaced. He sneered with contempt and sadistic pleasure at the thought of breaking the insect's jaw.

He can safely say he hated Eric with a dying passion. . .

"For Kirby-sama"

A loud annoying voice spoke behind Allen as he heard something wheezing behind him. His body moved on its own accord. Making his legs give out and his back bending backwards awkwardly, with a loud uncomfortable pop towards it. A plain wooden baseball bat passed uncomfortably close towards his head. Making Allen fall backwards, his back hitting the red velvet carpet and immediately pushing off with his AK47, kicking the bastard in the chin with his right foot.

Allen with a second delay,{Because God-damn was that awesome.} and feeling weightless because he wasn't touching the ground. Was feeling giddy in a dangerous situation.

Gravity took place and he positioned his left foot to land onto the floor. Which didn't happen, instead Allen felt a jolt of pain in his left knee, making him wince and remember how this shit show of a situation came to be.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Breaking off from his group of friends, Allen walked towards the FGO (Fate: Grand Order) stand, still slightly dissatisfied with not tor-bugging Eric more.

*Sigh*

Shaking his head in mild disappointment. Allen slowly strided forward towards his destination. Passing various people on the way with different and unique costumes to them. His eyes swept the stalls and shelves, gleaming with mild excitement and curiosity.

There were Posters, figurines, plushies, costumes, fan-art, and small and large prompts of weapons displayed on the shelves and hanging on hooks.

{This place is Awesome!} With excited eyes and a jump to his steps. Allen walked like a kid in a candy factory and gazed upon fictional characters and their weapons.

Postures of different fate series, figurines decorated and laid bare across the shelves of most stands, and amazing fan-art that looked like it took hours to finish.

He could spot Saber's (Artoria) sheath leaning on a counter, her sword hanging up on a metal fence, Emiya's falcon blades on a display stand, Gilgamesh's sword of rupture EA in a display case, and a whole bunch of other prompts that made Allen salivate.

Yet, what made Allen truly stop and gape with awe was Berserker's sword, if you could even call it a sword. Leaning against a wall, away from the stands and near a almost deserted hallway. It was massive in size, standing taller than Allen and having the width of one and a half of him combined if his calculations were correct.

Upon closer inspection, Allen doubted himself if he was seeing things. This looked almost real. Like it was carved and made out of rock even.

Allen didn't realize he was in front of the Axe-Sword and was about to lay his hands on a real or wooden 'replica' of Hercules' weapon in the Fate/Stay Night series.

"It's a fine masterpiece, is it not." A deep amused voice spoke behind Allen's left side.

Allen will safely say he was startled by the noise and that's that. He didn't jump and yelp and try to hit the person to startle him. No sir we, he was better than that. . .

. . .

That's exactly what happened, to Allen's shame.

With great momentum and practical muscle memory playing along. Allen immediately and effectively hit the person in the gut to startle him with his right fist.

With a resounding impact and hissing in pain, Allen tried not screaming in pain. Instead a whimper escaped his lips as he held his aching hand, trying to sooth the pain he brought onto himself.

He glared with a terry eye expression and took the person's appearance in check.

Dressed top to bottom in complete black. The person wore black dress shoes, black dress pants, a black mantle covered his shoulders with several golden strings connecting from opposite sides. Underneath he wore an elaborate black suit with white outline and matching white gloves. Leaning on a black cane with his right hand and the other hand brushing his wrinkled shirt where Allen punched him.

The person looked to be in his 50's. With grey hair and a beard covering his chin, all the way to his sideburns, and slight wrinkles covering his face. Crimson eyes stared at him with mild amusement and a pleasant smile that felt like trouble, making the person's face crinkle.

Allen wanted nothing more than to snarl and take his anger out on this realistic old man Zeltrich cosplayer. However, his own moral compass and ethnic code demanded him to be at fault for trying to harm this person without past grievances.

So with great reluctance, and already regretting his course of action. Allen bowed his head and forced his mouth to open and apologized.

"I'm sorry sir, are you alright." Allen looked up and spoke through gritted teeth. Already knowing that this bastard wasn't hurt with how nonchalant he was and his ever growing smile that pissed Allen off for no apparent reason.

"Kids these days, Tsk, tsk" The bastard voice grated against Allens ears as he plastered a fake smile and not snarl at this crusted ass bastard.

Tapping against his cane with his middle finger, the old man took a while and spoke."Well, I suppose I'll accept your apology."

Allen was about to be relieved when he heard those words. But hanging around a group of assholes as friends, changed his perception of people. Making Allen be paranoid and more pissed off when his suspicion were correct.

"Only if you hear me out." With a pause. The old man stopped dusting his shirt and took a second to breathe and continue his proposal.

"Well you see. I am in need of some assistance with a growing insect problem that's been growing where I live."

The bastard chuckled when he looked at Allens expression. A myriad of emotions could be clearly read in his expression and eyes. Anger, confusion, and a small hint of recognition and fear buried deep in his eyes.

"I will also compensate you for th-"

"Yeah. How about No." Allen quickly and efficiently shut Zeatrich look-alike down without hesitation and not hearing him out anymore.

"Can you tell me why." The old man didn't sound angry, but looked more amused than before.

*Snort*

Allen snorted with contempt and sneered at the bastard, not hiding his animosity for this kind of person. The bastard reminded Allen alot like Eric does, when he is about to screw over the group.

"Well, maybe it's the fact that you sound like you're trying to sell me drugs. You creepy ass crusted weird moth-"

A sharp, scorching hot, painful sting brought Allen out of his thoughts as he felt something stab his left shoulder.

*Badum*

Allen resisted the urge to scream and instead whirled around to face the insect that dared harm him. Growling with anger, he whirled around and paused when 'its' face came to view.

What came to view in front of Allen was a twisted bloody smile of a red faced person, with a mouthful of broken teeth. It was the robed insect that Allen hit with his AK47 replica.

"Becom wour sacrilfisssh." Blood and spit splattered onto Allen's face as 'it' spoke. Allen ignored it raising its arm, holding a different knife with runic symbols etched onto it. Allen ignored the stench of blood, the sound of chaotic laughter, the faint whispers around him, and the throbbing pain in his left shoulder.

Instead, Allen's sole focus was 'it's' pants.

{Am I really going to die from a person wearing yellow khaki pants} Incredulity could not contain the sheer amount of disgust Allen has for this piece of s-

"SHUT IT, JACKASS!!" Allen roared with boiling rage coursing through his veins. Eyes filled with disgust and sheer venom. For this mongrel to dare try to kill him with yellow khaki pants is the greatest insult he has ever known.

*Badum*

His heart pounded like a war horse galloping towards battle. His body warmed and he moved faster and more fluidly than he ever have before.

He ignored the throbbing pain in his left shoulder, the uncomfortable shift of pain where the knife digged deeper, Allen ignored the urge to scream, and punched with all his might towards the flea that started this whole shit to begin with.

And smashed his left fist onto the flea's already messed up face. Blood, spit, mugus, and teeth flew through the air. With a resounding thud, the person laid motionless with a pool of blood forming and soaking against the red velvet carpet floor.

Breathing heavily against his chest. Allen snarled towards the pest that dared. Dared! called themselves preachers, when they were nothing more than insecured, pathetic worms that wanted to be something they weren't.

*Badum*

Allen's anger grew more when he saw more cloaked figures rushing towards his general location.

(If you didn't guess the current location. It's basically a giant enclosed hallway with 30 ft of room.)

Allen grabbed the knife embedded against his left shoulder. With his shaky right hand, Allen grasped it. He ignored the way the knife cut more muscle and pulled. Making Allen gasp and moan in pain as he held the bloody knife.

Allen stood up with shaky legs and faced towards the group of cultists. Allen was surrounded on both sides, however he did not show an ounce of fear. Instead he growled and bended his knees, positioning his arms above his chest, and positioning his feet.

Taking a stance like a predator ready to pounce. Allen was going to kill every single one of these maggots, even if it killed him.

He didn't know if he initiated it or if he reacted when one of the cloaked individuals stepped too close to him.

But, it was a blur from there. Blood dyed his hair, face, and his white lab coat with red. Allen moved and weaved through bodies. Cutting, slashing, and stabbing anything that neared his general vicinity.

He used his whole body as a weapon. Kicking, punching, body slamming, and biting someone's neck off when his arms were limbs of flesh from exhaustion.

Along the way, he lost sight of his AK47 replica and moved faster and more wilder when he started to feel numb and colder when he was supposed to be feeling hot.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He sat on top of the insect that initiated and ropped more people into the cult Eric started. He stared into their scared and frightened eyes and plunged his acquired chipped knife, imbedding it towards their adam apple.

They gurgled and cried out for help. Yet, Allen ignored them and twisted the knife around. Cutting off their oxygen and letting more blood flow out.

He saw the light from their eyes lose their luster and sighed in relief when they stopped moving altogether. Exhaustion and tiredness descended onto his form. However, he gritted his numb teeth and stood up with shaky legs, backing up a few steps, stumbling on a few corpses and bleeding maggots.

Yet, Allen stayed standing.

You would think the blood curdling screams and groans of people would alert people to this location. But nooo, instead there was not a single normal person in sight from Allen, instead a group of roped individuals with pools of blood forming underneath them and some groaning in pain.

Allen rummaged through his pockets with numb and cold hands for his phone. Pulling it out and sighing in exhaustion when he looked at the condition it was in.

Along the way from his massacre of this beyond stupid cult. His phone cracked and broke, making it unusable with the amount of blood on it.

Allen dropped his phone and stepped forward towards the exit, yet like a cliche script. His form buckled and tumbled on empty air. Laying face first onto the ground with a resounding thud.

WIth a last bit of effort and bleeding all over himself. Allen flipped himself over and looked at the dazzling lights in the ceiling.

A dozen of cuts on his costume can be seen from his prone form, with stab marks, and blood seeping out of Allen's dying form. A cut onto his right cheek and a variety of black bruises started to form onto Allen's skin when he was hit by varios blunt weapons.

Even as he laid in his own pool of blood. He couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of his situation.

Really, dying from a cult he feared and at the same time detested with extreme prejudice was amusing in Allen's twisted point of view.

{He was just thankful that he didn't die from the person wearing yellow khaki pants. The person to do the deed saved him from that humiliation.}

He just hoped his friends and family would have a good life after his passing. Especially his little brother.

The thought of leaving his little brother pained Allen more than the impending darkness around his vision.

And of course his group of friends. Well, Allen regretted not inflicting more pain onto Eric for creating these fanatic assholes. But other than that, he had no more regrets.

{Welp, let's not keep Oliver waiting.}

With those final thoughts, he closed his already heavy eyelids, he breathed in once. Letting the oxygen circulate through his lung and making him feel his cold frame warm just for a brief second. And exhaled his final breath.

However, a strange noise caught onto Allen's ears. Making him peek through his heavy eyelids, wanting nothing more than to be consumed by the void. He could barely make out an outline of a person, looming over his fallen body. Behind that person stood what seemed like a crack of reality with it showing a myriad of colors in it

The figure bowed towards Allen's fallen form, making Allen's exhausted and confused mind as to why this figure and the crack of reality looked familiar.

Before he closed his dying eyes. Allen registered the color of red. More specifically crimson red from the figure's eyes. Allen recognized the figure and with a final wisp of strength. Allen thought with regret, anger, fear, and no amount of disgust of how cliche his situation was.

{This MotherFu-