New Age Death Metal Part VIII
			      The Wrong Solutions
				  By EvilGate
			     <evilgate@hotmail.com>

	The world was cold and damp, the night sky darker than usual.  The
the shadows were swollen and angry, and they stared down at him, laughing.
A dagger of guilt twisted itself in his flesh as he forced himself to bite,
chew, swallow, mechanically.  "Energy, hombre," he muttered to himself.  
"You will need energy to fight."  But damn, the hamburger tasted bland.  He
forced it down anyway.  Everything was kind of bland nowadays.
	The weekend was over and the Scouts and Darien had gone back to
school.  He had informed the administration that he was incapitated and would
be unable to teach indefinitely due to serious emotional problems.  He sighed.  
"Oh, well," he muttered to himself.  "It's not like Itna Tsirhc would ever
manage to live a normal life again."  He shrugged and swallowed more of the 
bland hamburger.
	Darien was hurt pretty badly.  The shadow had driven a couple of the 
ugly tendrils into his leg and lower abdomen.  But Sailor Moon, wonderful
Sailor Moon and her healing powers, had managed to fix all their more grave
injuries.  Which meant Itna didn't have to walk around with a broken jaw.  He
grinned for a moment as he wondered if Rubeus was that lucky.  As a matter of
fact, his only consolation was that he beat Rubeus badly, crushing ribs,
burning hands, tearing away chunks of flesh....his grin trailed off as he 
realized that the infernal Shadow bastard was probably healed as well.  He
bit back an angry curse at the fool once more escaping his grasp because of 
the help of those infernal servants of his.  He muttered something about 
Rubeus's parentage and the sexual preferences of cowards in general as he 
paid for his hamburger and left the building.  He dimly heard the "Thank 
you, come again," behind him.  He snorted.
	He walked through the park looking bad and feeling worse.  What had
he dragged them into?  The shadow was lethal beyond words and beyond reality,
and he had dragged them into the battle with it when he could do nothing to
help.  Absently he kicked a rock and flopped down on a semi-wet park bench, 
rubbing his three day growth of beard.  If they died he would never get over
it.  It would Milane all over again.  He shuddered at that thought.
	A hint of childish laughter broke through his wall of musing, and he 
looked up to see a pretty little blonde girl, giggling and squealing as she 
chased a ball bouncing on the wet concrete.  He smiled for a moment, 
wondering what it would have been like to have a normal childhood...to have 
been able to play and learn and enjoy himself without that constant fear of
God over his shoulder.  "Christ grew up fast," he muttered to himself, "so 
apparently I had to as well."  Contempt seethed from his voice.  
	The little girl looked up at him with big, innocent green eyes.  Itna
smiled again, wanly.  She held out the ball.  "You wanna play, mister?"  
	At first, Itna wanted to laugh.  A little below your dignity, chico,
yes?  But then, as he looked in the shining eyes of the little girl, he saw
a reflection, not of an old, broken death rocker, but a questioning, innocent
little child, with eyes untainted with the world that would destroy him.  His
smile widened, slightly, as he rose to his feet and grasped the ball in 
tiny, grubby fingers.  "I think I will," he said quietly, his little-boy 
voice squeaking like a little mouse.  He bounced the ball on the pavement, 
and the little girl squealed and jumped for it.  The little boy that was Itna
leapt for it as well, but neither got it.  Both of them fell on the ground,
giggling.  The ball fell to the ground again, and the little girl jumped for
it, landing in a nearby mud puddle.  Water splashed on the little boy as he
again got to his feet, both of them chasing the ball.  The girl was giggling
again as the sky began to rain water on them both, but in the uncaring manner
of children, they ignored it as it soaked them through and through, chasing
the ball as if it really mattered.  Above, the lightning flashed and the 
thunder rolled as God showed His anger at the splashing innocence of the two
children.
				*	*	*
	Mina was scrawling notes as the bell rung, but happily gave up the 
more studious assignment to go out into the cafeteria with the rest of the
gang.  The chatter was not in the least subdued by the rainy weather outside
as the group took it's usual "in" seat beside the window.
	Molly was saying something about the hottest new hunk that
transferred in recently, but Mina simply chose to ignore the constant buzz of
gossip and inane chatter as she sat beside Serena, who was stuffing food in
her face in ungodly amounts.
	Rei started to say something, then was interrupted by Molly, who
burst into more chatter in the manner of a squirrel, and Leita was asking
questions as fast as she could answer them.  Chaos, anarchy and the usual
lunchroom fare, thought Mina absently, sipping her coke.  She grinned despite
herself as the room continued to grow louder, with everyone trying to be
heard over everyone else, a few teachers trying frantically to keep order.
	Serena gulped down something and then looked up.  "Disgusting,
Serena!" said Amy and Rei simaltaneously.  "You should be ashamed of
yourself."  Serena shrugged and continued wolfing down food, mumbling 
something incoherent.  
	Soon Molly's chatter turned to school, but Mina still tuned her out,
lost in a daydream, until she heard "Mr. Tsirhc," and rose to look at Molly.
	"What did you say, Molly?" she said.
	"And...what?  Oh, I said, 'Wonder what happened to Mr. Tsirhc?'"
Molly replied.  "I mean, he taught for one day, fought with that creature
and then vanished."  She shrugged.  "Isn't that weird?"
	"Psychological trauma, I hear," said Rei casually, looking at Mina. 
"Itna...I mean, Mr. Tsirhc-sent in a letter to the school saying he wouldn't
be teaching indefinitely.  They cancelled his class for good."
	Mina's eyes suddenly stung with tears, and she turned away before 
anyone could see them.  "I'm gonna go now," she mumbled, and rose to leave.
Everyone watched her go.
	"What's wrong with her?" said Molly.
				*	*	*
	Rubeus hissed angrily as he stormed around the small room, swearing 
like a pirate.  The Sisters watched him calmly, doing each other's nails and
hair, apparently unconcerned.  He stomped and thudded and ground his teeth in
impotent rage.  "I don't believe it!  That that...HUMAN would dare do this to
me!"  He stopped and stomped his foot like a spoiled child.  "It's not fair!"
	"Now, Rubeus, dear, don't get yourself all worked up like that!" said
Birdie, nonchalantly filing her sister's nails.  "It's really not healthy."
	He turned to her, fuming.  "Don't TELL ME not to get worked up!  I'm
gonna kill him!"
	Birdie yawned.  "Do you really want to chance taking him on again?  
You may not get so lucky next time."  Rubeus fumed.
	"I could have defeated him.  He just got...lucky!" he snarled, but he
knew that that wasn't true.
	All the Sisters sighed.  Birdie gave a polite snort.  "Yes, such luck
is enviable, isn't it?  Twice in a row..."
	Rubeus cursed and fumed and raged against shadows, but he knew that 
Birdie was right.  It wasn't luck.  This fool Itna genuinely outmatched him.
There was no way he was going to kill him without bringing the Sisters into 
it and making a coordinated strike, and at the time, he simply didn't have 
the resources to pursue personal vendettas.  Much as he hated it, he would 
have to leave Itna's destruction to the creature he had fought beside in the
slums, or chance taking him on alone.  He touched his neck where Itna had 
gouged away flesh, and shuddered.  No, taking him on alone wasn't an option.
Thus, taking him on wasn't an option.  Rubeus ground his teeth in rage.  He
had met his match in a mortal.
				*	*	*
	Darien decided to walk through the park on his way home.  After all, 
he lived only a quarter mile away from home, and the park was not too far out
of his way.  It would do him good, he decided, to get away from people for 
awhile.  He needed to think.
	The darkness they fought seemed invincible.  He couldn't hurt it with
physical things, like his sharpened roses, and Itna's magic couldn't hurt it
either.  Only mystic things of a very positive nature-such as the attacks of
the Sailor Scouts-appeared to cause the infernal thing damage.  And it seemed
almost invincible even to those.  Had Lita really hurt it with her lightning
bolt, or had it been trying to trick them somehow?  And what would happen to
Itna if they managed to destroy the thing?  
	The last question Darien suspected he knew the answer to.  The man
would waste away, absent of his only comfort.  He had seen it begin already.
Itna had been listless and more morbid than usual.  Nothing could lift his 
spirits anymore, and he had difficulty sleeping and eating.  He was....
depressed.  Anyone could tell that much.  But Darien suspected he knew why, 
as well.  He was alone, even among friends.  He was alone inside himself, and
it scared him.  Darien shook his head as he walked on the still-damp sidewalk
in the middle of the park.
	Darien stopped, his jaw dropping and his eyes opening wide.  He
blinked once, heavily, as if he didn't beleive it.  Then, when he opened his
eyes again, he shook his head in denial.  He walked forward, rapidly, holding
his breath as he neared what was in his sights.
	It was Itna.  Covered, head to toe, with rain and mud, laughing like 
a child and chasing a rubber ball with a little girl.  Both of them giggled
and splashed in puddles and jumped after the bouncing ball like it really 
mattered.  Darien simply couldn't believe it.  He walked over and put his
hand on Itna's shoulder and spun him around.  He gasped.  In those eyes, 
those terrifying brown eyes, so hollow all the time, there was no pain.  No
guilt.  No suppressed, white hot rage.  There was...a kind of sparkling joy,
innocence and a childlike curiosity.  For a fleeting moment, Itna was a
child.  Then the moment was gone, and the guilt and pain clouded the eyes
once more, the sparkle dimming beneath the other, more powerful emotions.  He
looked at Darien suddenly, and then to the little girl.  "Darien?" he
whispered.  
	The little girl tugged on the sodden trenchcoat, looking up to Itna
with shining eyes.  "Mister, could you give me a ride home?" she said in a
little girl voice, panting slightly from all the ball chasing.  Itna looked
around as if in a daze.
	"Certainly, little one," he said, distantly.  He began to walk off,
holding the child's small hand in his own calloused one, without a word to 
Darien.  Darien ran to catch up.  
	"Hey, man, where are you going?  And what's going on?" Darien called.
Itna turned back for a moment, still gently holding the child's hand.
	"I don't know," he said simply, and opened the passanger door to his
car.  The child climbed in happily, giggling.  Itna got in on the driver's 
side and drove off.  Darien could see the girl chattering directions to him
as he drove out of sight.
	Darien shook his head once more and went home.  Why not?
				*	*	*
	The stranger smiled as he stepped onto the overcrowded subway.  His
face covered by the hood of his black cloak, he glided, ghostlike, through
the thick crowd, his eyes seeing through them, through the subway, to the 
other side of exsistence, beyond the Shroud, to the Deadlands.  He saw the 
grim parodies of the humans as the subway plowed on through the subterranean
darkness, the ghosts of those who had died, whom some termed wraiths.  A
nightmarish place of death and decay.  His eyes, glowing a putrid green, saw
both worlds.  He smiled in the darkness that hid his face.  He got off the
subway after it skidded to a halt, his thin, pale hands moving into the folds
of his cloak where his dagger was hidden.  One could never be too careful
where the streets were concerned.  
	He stepped out of the station, blinking at the sudden bright light as
he began to walk toward where he had heard Itna was staying.  The ground was
damp from a recent rain, and his knee-high boots made unpleasant scraping 
sounds on the sidewalk.  He smiled as a few pedestrians saw him and hurriedly
crossed the street, where they stared at him with baleful eyes.  He wondered
if he should make the tree next to him wither and die, just to see how they 
reacted, but decided against it.  With Itna's darkness supposedly on the
loose, he would need all the power he could muster.  
	He disliked-strongly!-the thought of all that festering rage he had
seen in Itna loose on the town.  As he spoke it was probably torturing
children or something.  The stranger shuddered.  That was a terrifying
thought.  His hand gripped the dagger a little more tightly.  He had to find
Itna, and fast.  That much the scrying pool told him.  What the scrying pool
hadn't told him was what to do when he did.  The ways of the Dark Magicks
were bizarre, but never lied.  The stranger pulled his cloak up a little
tighter, watching every shadow as if it would leap out and cut him.  Which,
he knew, it could.
				*	*	*
	Itna smiled to the chattering little girl, numbly following her
directions.  In truth, though, he was lost in thought, trying to determine
what had just happened.  For a moment-a wonderful, fleeting moment-he had 
been a child again, but a child without a paralyzing fear of God over his 
shoulder.  A child that, for a moment, was free to question and learn and 
love.
	He pulled into the driveway of the house where the child lived, and 
she began to climb out of the seat.  "Thanks, mister."  She kissed him
lightly on the cheek as she got out.  He flinched away from the touch as if
it burned like holy fire.
	"You're welcome," he said numbly just before she closed the door.
She smiled and waved to him as he backed out, driving off into the rapidly 
increasing darkness toward Darien's apartment.  His left hand lingered near
where she had kissed him, still able to feel the innocent touch on his cheek.
He wondered what his mother would have said if she had seen that.  Probably
given him a beating and a long lecture about dirty activities, he decided
bitterly.  His father, on the other hand, would have just beaten him.  He 
sighed.  Slowly he parked his car on the campus parking lot and walked the
hundred yards nescessary to get to Darien's apartment in grim silence.  The
darkness was omnipresent now, and any of the lengthening shadows could
suddenly reach out and slice him to ribbons before his eyes could register
shock.
	It wasn't his darkness, however, that stepped out of the shadows as 
he neared Darien's apartment.  It was short, rail-thin man whose face and 
body were hidden by the volumous black cloak he wore.  His thin, pasty hand
clutched a twisted Indian kris dagger like it was salvation as he came closer
to Itna.  Itna knew who the man was as soon as he sniffed the air.  With the
man traveled the odor of the crypt, dry and musty, yet somehow full of death.
	"Yand," he hissed, his own hand drawing the foot long bowie from 
it's place at his belt.  He circled warily with the knife in hand, whispering
a chant.
	"I'm not here to fight you, Itna," came the rasping voice from within
the cloak, eyes glowing a putrid green as the necromancer summoned his foul
power. 
	"Then enlighten me, you slimy necrophile, on why you crawled from
under whatever rock you lair in," Itna said with a sneer, breaking his chant.
He shot forward, ramming the smaller man to the ground easily.  Yand fell
hard, hit the ground with a dull thud and a gasp of air.  The putrid glow
stopped and the dagger went skittering across the sidewalk.  Itna had his own
knife to Yand's throat in an instant.
	"You haven't changed a bit, Itna," said Yand, with a phlegmy chuckle.
"You'd still rather kill someone than listen to them."
	"I'd rather kill you than let you befoul the earth with your
prescence.  I figure you'll be more at home in Hell anyway," snarled Itna,
planting a brutal kick in the man's ribs.  "Spit it out, necrofreak.  What...
...do....you....WANT?"  Each word was accompanied by another vicious kick,
until Yand finally gasped and turned the side.  A thick, foul smelling 
concoction of blood and phlegm splattered on the ground as Yand rasped
something incoherent.
	Itna reached down and grabbed the man's throat, lifting him up
easily.  "I said spit it out, corpse boy. Or you'll know more about death
than you ever wanted to."
	"I don't know!" Yand finally gasped.  "I saw you..in a scrying pool.
I had to come to you...found out that your darkness...aaargh!"  Yand's voice
trailed off into a scream as Itna tightened his grip.
	"My darkness," Itna said coldly, "is no business of yours, you
tombstone kissing skeleton.  Get out of my sight before I cut out your eyes
and leave you for the night's predators."  He threw Yand to the ground, hard. 
Yand doubled over and began coughing up blood once more.  Itna walked back
into Darien's apartment without giving the necromancer a second thought.  He
found Darien gaping in the doorway.
	"Who was that?" said Darien, gasping.
	"An old...acquaintence, with whom I am on less than friendly terms,"
replied Itna quietly, as he sat down on the couch and began a Tarot reading.
	"I saw that.  Why did you put a knife to his throat?" said Darien,
closing the door as the man ran off into the night.
	"Because he's dangerous.  I have seen him...oh, offhand about twenty
times, and he's tried to kill me...offhand, about thirty.  He and I were
rivals in certain...esoteric conflicts in the past."  Itna chuckled.  "I 
won."
	Darien looked out the window to make sure the strange man was gone.  
Reassured, he turned back to Itna, who was staring at the cards intently.  
"Why did you call him 'Necrophile' 'tombstone kisser' 'necrofreak' and things
like that?"
	Itna looked out the window for a moment, following Darien's gaze.
"Because he's a necromancer.  They're a slimy bunch.  You see," he said,
his voice dropping into a classic 'lecture' tone, "my magic is inherently
evil-I evoke powers from the Realm of Shadow, a negative place.  Thus, the
magic I use is very dangerous and very powerful.  Necromancy is a whole 
different school of thought.  They draw their power from death and decay.  In
places where there is a lot of decay, such as the slums or a graveyard, they
have more powerful than they would, say, on Park Avenue.  Their magic isn't
inherently evil like mine, but is incredibly foul and horrific."  Itna
gathered his cards and put his feet up on the desk, smiling.  "They are a 
disgusting bunch for another reason, too.  My spell components are cruel,
yes, a shard of bone here, a strand of hair there, a few drops of blood...but
necromancy, when truly powerful spells are used, require the most horrific 
insturments possible.  For instance, do you have any idea where one can go
out and buy a pinch of dirt from a necrophiled grave?  I certainly don't."
Itna smiled as he watched the shock register on Darien's face.  "They're not
too pleasant to be around."
	Darien shook his head.  "And you have one of these as an enemy?"
	Itna snorted rudely.  "He won't try anything direct.  The man's a
coward.  But you watch yourself.  If you smell anything-anything!-that smells
like a crypt, be it a cop, a child or a trash can, you run.  Because he won't
mess with me; he knows I can smash him.  But he'll try to get to you."
	Darien shook his head and went to his room.  He turned out the light
and tried to sleep, but he kept seeing those putrid green eyes blazing in the
darkness at him whenever he closed his own eyes.  Fearfully, he clung to his
pillow, whimpering inwardly against the darkness that suddenly seemed
suffocating.  
	He thought, instead, of Serena, and her tears as he turned away from
her.  Damn Itna!  He could see right through Darien's game.  If Serena found
out that he really did love her, nothing would keep her away!  Hot tears
suddenly stung his eyes as he thought of how unfair it was.  He began choking
on sobs that he did not mean to let out.  Who was the threat?  How could he 
tell her...that he still cared?
	Darien cried himself to sleep, and Itna sat in the living room and
listened.
	Itna pitied Darien.  The man was trapped, and he knew it.  It was the
proverbial "Damned if you do, and damned if you don't" situation.  Itna 
sighed as he lay back on the couch, wondering about Mina.  He didn't love
her.  That much he knew.  But he cared.  And it hurt.  The poor child hadn't
done anything wrong, and yet he was destroying her with her own tormented
feelings.  He was sickened by himself already as he thought of her crying
over him.  He could tell her, of course, that he certainly wasn't worth 
crying for, but she wouldn't beleive him.  She was so blinded by her feelings
that she wouldn't see it if he cut her throat.
	Itna felt the tears before they came, and his hands shot up toward
his face.  He rubbed at his moistening eyes furiously and fought back a sob.
Damn it, how could he tell her?  How could he make her not hurt anymore?
	Itna cried himself to sleep as well, even though he didn't want to.
But his fury spat forth in a torrent of angry, hot tears as he cursed himself
frantically.  He cared, but he couln't love her.  What kind of fate did he
have?
	"The kind you make for yourself," he said, and with that his
conciousness faded, and he slept fitfully, mumbling curses and diatribes in 
his sleep as a pair of putrid green eyes open.
	"Sleep," said a rasping, phlegemy voice.  "Soon you will sleep the 
sleep of the dead."  The voice grew closer as evil, mocking laughter filled
the room.  A blade flashed in the darkness, and the hideous eyes grew
brighter...