Two men cry out in a forgotten age. The roar of the slayer harmonises with the scream of the slain. In this early age, when mankind still feared spirits of fire and prayed to false gods for the sun to rise, the murder of another is the darkest of deeds.

Blood marks the mans face, just as it marks the crude spear in his clenched fists and the rocks beneath his victim. The wound gouts and sprays - the man tastes the red wine of his fellow man's vein, feeling the bloods heat wgere it lands on his bearded skin,tasting of metals yet undiscovered and seas yet unseen. As the hot salt of spilt life burns his tongue, the man knows with Impossible clarity.

He is the first.

Mankind - in its myriad of forms on the thousandfold path from wretched dust-thing to warm-blooded mammal - has always fought to survive. Even as hunched ape-creatures and brutish proto-men, it waged insignificant and miserable wars on itself with fists and teeth and rocks.

Yet this man is the first. Not the first to hate, nor even the first to kill.

He is the first to take life in cold blood. He is the first to murder.

His dying victims thrashing hand reaches for him, raking dirty nails across sweating skin. Seeking mercy or vengeance? The man doesn't know, and in his rage he doesn't care. He drives the wooden spear deeper into the yielding hardness of meat and against the scrape of bone. Still he screams, still he roars.

The scream of the first murder cuts through the veil, echoing across reality and unreality alike.

To the things that wait in the darkness, mankind will never sing a sweeter song.

Behind the veil, the scream takes a carnival of forms, riotous and infinite in variety. The frail laws of physics that so coldly govern reality have no power - here, those binding codes fracture into their separate fictions. Here, logic itself goes to die.

On and on it plunges, crashing and dissolving and reforming in the endless storm. It ruptures a cloud-burst of other screams that hadn't yet been cried aloud. It punctures the fire-flesh of shrieking ghosts, adding to the torment of those already lost souls. It knifes through a disease that was rendered extinct by man-made cures a thousand years before.

And on, and on, and on. Clashing with moments that haven't yet occured, that won't happen for an eternity. Grinding against moments where the first of Remnant's creatures exhaled water, and for the first time, raked in lungfuls of air.

Behind the Veil, there is no Then or When. Everything is now. Always and eternally now, in the black shifting tides of infinite malignance.

Light shines in that black: the lights of sentience that draw the darkness closer. The same lights flare and shriek and dissdissolve at the merest touch of the forces around them. Dreams and memories take shape only to shatter amidst the claws and jaws manifesting in the darkness.

The scream plunges on through every whisper of hatred that will ever be spoken by a human mouth or thought by a human mind. It cracks like lightning above the sky of a dying civilization that will expire before ever grasping the winders of science. It breaks the stone city-bones of a culture a thousand years dead.

From its genesis in breath and sound, the scream becomes acidic nothingness, then fury and fire. It becomes a memory that burns the minds of humanity, a whisper that ends, and a prophecy that bleeds.

And it becomes a name. A name condemned by every church, every religion, every human, living or dead. A name that carries meaning only in the strangled, misfiring thoughts of humans in their throws of rage and death, in that precious, terrifying moment where their spirits are caught between one realm and the next.

The name of a creature, a demon born in the cold rage of one traitorous soul in one traitorous second. His name is the deed itself, the first murder, and the death that followed.

In his shrieking journey from unreality to reality, he brushes the mind of every human who harbors the thoughts of his birth. The criminal, seeking money in his infinite greed, plotting his way to the top.

The terrorist, enraged over betrayal.

The hero, broken over his father's murder.

The fake maiden, desiring power and glory above all else.

They all felt the psychic scream of his birth scrape across their minds.

Tied to humanity with such primal intimacy, that every man, woman, and child knows his presence - in their blood and bones - even if they know nothing of his name.

The veil recoils, its ever-shifting tides sickening at the murder-thing within its womb. Retching and thrashing, it cannot hold the abomination anymore.

Reality splits, its very fabric shifting and screaming as it is torn apart and forced to take on one more inhabitant.

The demon is ejected outward from the veil in a fit of disgust and post-partum rage.

And the murder-thing is assaulted with reality. Emotions previously unknown now assault its mortal frame. Lust, jealousy, pride, all claw and worm their maggoty way into his brain, planting seeds deep in his subconscious.

And the murder-thing cries, a deep wailing call of fear and pain, of having what you are be perverted with rotten substances, making you more, and making you less. The abomination cries, it's infantile screams and wails heard by those in the dark, and a bright, shining soul.

Pale hands gather up the newborn thing, and press him to a warm chest as the newcomer cooes to him in an effort to calm him. A white cloak is quickly brought around him, shielding him from the deadly cold. The pale newcomer looks around, seeking any other souls in the surrounding dark.

But only the dark stares back.

The newcomer gathers up the flesh-thing and speeds off into the darkness.

A/N:Whoo! This is just an idea thats been floating in my head for awhile.please comment any criticism. All is welcome, just try to be civil.