Disclaimer: I don't own Elfen Lied, but I do own all of the original characters here. Elfen Lied belongs to Lynn Okamoto. It belongs to him at least until I buy the series from him…

Summary: Elfen Lied has ended with Lucy's death. But the story lives on so long as the Diclonius Virus spreads. This is the story of Michael Mordare, the first Diclonius born in America. And more importantly, this is the story of the first male Diclonius born outside of captivity. This is the story of Michael's decent into madness, and the beginning of Samael.

Warnings: This is rated T for intense dark themes and gruesome murders. Of course, this is Elfen Lied we're talking about, what else would you expect: a comedy?

Author's Notes: This is my first Elfen Lied fanfiction and my second fanfiction period. This plot is mine and mine alone. Please read and review at the end. I appreciate any constructive criticism and in fact welcome it.


Angel of Massacre

Chapter One: Mutant in the Mirror

It was darker than pitch black. The Darkness was a Pit deeper than anything conceivable by the human mind. In comparison, the Marianas Trench was no deeper than a flesh wound. In the Darkness, in the Pit, I was a god over nothing. I lay at the bottom, reveling in my boundless might. But then, I started to rise out of my Black Manor. God I was, I was completely helpless to stop my ascension into the Light. I screamed and thrashed, I did not want to leave my Godhood behind. I was nothing in the Light, not the slightest ant under the heel of the merest infant.

I gripped my fist around the Darkness, yet the Darkness left me to the whim of the Light. I tried to scream as I reached the source of my displeasure, but my voice had left me. At long last, I surfaced out of the Darkness and into the Light. I was a God cast out of his realm. A horribly loud mechanical klaxon sounded and I could no longer keep my eyes closed.

Then I awoke from my freaky-ass dream. The dream faded from memory as dreams usually do, yet a shadow of the nightmare remained in my mind. I felt as if my insides were tingling like something was growing inside me. I felt particularly weird this morning, to say the least. It's hard to explain how I feel in the mornings. It's like I have no sense of comprehension, my tired brain has yet to awake. So I just stare at a room and wait as my pink head organ starts to identify the various shapes and scenes that assault my eyes and ears. I was in my bedroom, I could tell that now. I was lying in a bed with a thick comforter sheet blanketing my frail morning body from the cold. And I was hearing the most annoying sound ever designed by human hands: my alarm clock.


And so the mechanical klaxon went on like that. I had absolutely no desire to leave my warm fortress of comfort just to satisfy the stupid alarm clock. The retarded thing had no right to wake me up on a Sunday morning. Yet the clock was as stubborn as I was and infinitely as annoying, not to mention it was bound to wake up the rest of my family. And so with a heavy heart, I reached up and slapped my hand down on the clock. Suddenly, the klaxon ended with a loud shrill cry.

"Well, that is strange!" I thought to myself, "I reached up and turned off my alarm, but I haven't left my bed! My clock is like three feet away from my head, if I remember right."

I wasn't ready to face a mystery this early in the morning. It was Sunday, the day of rest for many folk. All I had to do was stay under my sheets and sleep the rest of the Monday morning away.

Monday morning… Son of a…

Today is Monday, not Sunday. Meaning I have a lot to look forward to this morning instead of a face-full of fluffy pillows. I have to face the second most insidious invention ever designed by human hands: public school. The first most being my clock, but that isn't important right now. The important thing is that I have to book my ass around the house and get ready to face the school bus driver and her luminescent yellow bus.

That sounds so much easier in my head than in execution. It feels as though my muscles have been filled with lead when I was asleep. Just the effort of turning my head is a chore. But if the bus can't wait for my muscles to wake up, then I certainly can't. I won't burden my parents by making them drive me to school, they both worked all last night. I just have to force my lead-filled limbs to move and go through my morning routine. Once again, that's much harder than it sounds.

My room is always unnaturally cold in the morning. Nobody can explain it except that my room is the farthest from the central heater in the basement. I have a much more logical explanation however. Jack Frost invades my room every morning and breaths his icy breath on the floor and walls. This is a joke of course, but I still curse Mr. Frost every morning.

I strained my arms to the limit and forcefully threw off my covers. Immediately the warm mini-atmosphere vanished and the freezing air swooped in and assaulted every fiber of my being. Damn Jack Frost! This clears my head, but unfortunately, I am not fully awake. I have one more step before I can consider myself awake.

I couldn't give myself more time to think, I just threw my legs over the side and planted them firmly on the wooden floor. My floor feels subzero to my warm toes. I felt a gasp escape my lips from the shocking cold; my mind awoke that much more. Now I am fully awake and ready to face the day. Not that I have any desire to face a Monday morning.

I tossed my gaze around my room. It's a small room with an unruly bed, a dresser stuffed full of clothes, a closet with a myriad of more outfits hanging up, and a frozen floor littered with yet more garments.

"I have way too many clothes." I decided aloud. My voice is startlingly loud. I sound just too noisy in the overpowering silence, so I quickly shut up and get to work. I take care to step on the clothes on the ground, protecting my feet from Jack Frost's work. I make my way to the dresser and pull out a warm sweatshirt and socks before slipping into them. Then I turn around look for my school backpack and leather wallet. My gaze landed on a full-length mirror propped against the wall. It was at such an angle that my reflection was decapitated at the neck. I suppose this is where I throw in some character development or something.

From the neck down, I look average. I am lean, borderline skinny, with a flat stomach and slim features. My shoulders are broad and my arms are wiry. They look even wirier when I wear this large sweatshirt. My elbows are boney and my fingers are slender. I am actually pretty athletic when I want to be, but that is limited to running and jumping. In a fight, I would be broken like a twig. I reach out with my slender fingers and adjust the mirror to expose my head. This is where the average gets broken down and the freak in the mirror comes out.

I have a pale, lean face with sharp features. My skin is completely clear of scars and unsightly marks. It would be a young, almost handsome, face if it wasn't for what's above the eyebrow. My hair is an unnatural crimson color, the color of blood. Anyone looking would think that I have had it dyed. But this explanation doesn't extend to my eyes, which shared the exact same shade of red. I guess people could say I am wearing contacts, but I'm not. According to my medical records, my eyes and hair is all natural.

But it's what lies above the hairline that attracts the most attention. On top of my head are two boney protrusions that look eerily like horns. The horns are short and poke straight up through my ruddy hair like antenna. While I don't dislike them, my horns have been an inconvenience for my entire childhood. In preschool, kids would make fun of me and pull painfully on the horns. My mom quickly took me out of that school and home schooled me until junior high.

Even to this day, I wear hazel contacts and a brunette wig. Speaking of which, I turn away from the mirror and pull my brown wig out of my dresser. Then I slap it on and pull out a glasses case which contains my contacts. I carefully place each one over my blood-red irises. I then blink a couple of times and turn to smile at the mirror.

A red-haired boy with horns stood in the reflection. His crimson eyes held so much black hatred that the room felt like it had dropped in temperature. His shaking hands were clenched in tight fists at his side. Yet despite the cold odium radiating from the boy, his lips were split in a cold grin filled with malice.

I stepped back instinctively; my mind is hardwired for flight rather than fight. My foot carelessly landed on a discarded shirt on the floor. Immediately, my foot slipped backwards and I stumbled toward the ground. I think I shouted at the top of my voice at this point. My hands shot out and slammed against the floor, sending pain up my arms. Ignoring my stinging palms, I twisted my head around trying to catch sight of the predator in the mirror.

Instead I saw a rather silly looking boy lying on the floor with wide hazel eyes and red hair poking out from beneath a disheveled wig. I rose to a sitting position and began blowing gently on my reddened palms. I could feel my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my ribcage. I sat in silence and breathed deeply in an attempt to calm my shot nerves.

"It isn't even seven thirty and I already nearly had a heart attack. What a way to start a Monday morning!"

Yet there was something else, a strange feeling in my intestines. It felt like the very organs in my body had come alive and were twisting and moving in my body. Like there are snakes in my entrails. I could never accurately describe it any other way. This was not a new feeling because I have experienced this long ago. I remember this feeling back in my blackened childhood. Back when my mother was a single mom struggling to raise a freak infant and break the hold that alcoholism had on her. Those were not good times for me because I feel I was the reason my family had fallen apart.

But that is a story of another time. Long story short: Mom gave birth to a freak baby. Mom feels bad and turns into an alcoholic. Dad leaves both Mom and me, but supports us from an arm's length. Mom tries to get better and Dad gets a twenty grand check from a mysterious benefactor. Dad reunites with Mom and we all live happily together. Except now we're expecting a new addition to our three-ring circus.

All of a sudden there was frantic knocking at my door. I cringed in guilt and opened the door. Tony Mordare stood in the doorway and rubbed his eyes sleepily. My father looks a lot like me, or is it the other way around? He is pretty lean and has a few muscles, but you aren't going to see him in a heavyweight wrestling match. I don't even know if he would make the lightweight matches. Perhaps there are paperweight matches. Of course this is a joke, my dad isn't anorexic or anything. He just has high metabolism which is something I inherited.

"You still alive?" yawned Dad. I nodded gingerly and opened my mouth to explain it away when Dad spoke again.

"Just give me two minutes of a beating and I'll ask again. It's seven in the morning, who else but Michael could cause so much noise! It's time for a beating, c'mere you!"

I laughed as my dad "pounded" me softly with closed fists. Then he swatted the back of my head sharply and gave me the hardest and sternest look. He held it for three seconds before dissolving into laughter right along with me.

"Go back to bed you crazy old man!" I chuckled. Dad glanced behind him and smiled affectionately.

"Ah, it's too late to go to bed now, my angel and a half has gotten up."

I couldn't help but smile as well when Dad stepped aside. Sarah Mordare stood hands on her hips, but a smile on her lips. My mother walked up to Dad and swept both of her arms over his shoulders. But one large obstacle prevented her from reaching all the way around. A very pregnant belly sat between them with all the adorable obnoxiousness of a newborn baby. My dad says that Mom is the most beautiful woman he has ever met. I suppose from a stranger's point of view, I would agree. Sarah Mordare is a trim woman with shoulder-length brown hair and bright hazel eyes. Her full lips were turned up right now, but I know from experience that they can change faster than you can blink. She has a warm glow around her that Dad says is a sign of a healthy baby.

I have seen her in a very different way. Back in my black childhood, Sarah was extremely gaunt with heavy dark circles under her eyes. Her skin was so pale that she looked almost transparent. All she had was skin and bones and grief. Now she has changed so much that I wouldn't be able to tell they were the same person if I had before and after pictures. I prefer this way so much more.

The baby is almost nine months old. Mom says if it's a girl then her name would be Theresa. But Dad says if it's a boy then his name would be Gabriel. Neither of them wants an ultrasound just to check and ruin the surprise. I don't believe this explanation. I think that Mom just doesn't want to know if her next child will have the same freak mutation that I do. Honestly, I don't really want another mutated kid running around. I want my mom to have an honest-to-goodness normal kid and a happier time raising it than she did with me. If by chance my sibling did have horns, I would protect it from a blackened childhood. He/she/it was not going to go through what I had to go through, not on my watch!

I slipped past my mom and dad. I flung myself down the stairs, two steps at a time. I landed on the first floor and ran around the stairs and into the kitchen. From here, my morning ritual begins. My morning breakfast usually is a frantic endeavor, but I managed to wake up earlier this morning. This morning I made myself eggs and slightly burnt toast. I continued my morning ritual by applying life-saving armpit deodorant, forgetting to brush my teeth, and then grabbing my two-ton book bag. Finally, I flung open the doors to the bitter cold outside and ran toward the bus stop.

I watched my breath form tiny clouds in the frigid atmosphere. I craned my neck out into the street and stood sentry for the forever-late school bus. Yet I didn't feel discouraged at all. There was something about today that made me feel good inside. This day was going to be one of the most memorable days of my life, I could just feel it.

If only I had known that this was the day my life ended.


End Chapter One: Mutant in the Mirror

And so it begins, my long awaited fanfiction is finally escaping my mind and onto the Internet. The hardest part of writing this is the beginning. I would expect a lot of reviews, but I have never had high expectations and why should I start now. And now to kick off the trivia questions!

P.S. A reward to whoever names the composer of the song Elfenlied.