Chapter Text
Did know that you are not the only you? The multiverse works in very strange ways, and one of its functions is the way it configures souls. Not only do versions of you exist in other timelines, where you simply made a different choice; if that were true, there would only be hundreds of thousands of you throughout the multiverse. However, this is not the case.
It is a well-known fact that every living thing has a soul. Everything’s soul is distinctly different. There is a way to quantify how different a soul is from another, called a “soul signature.” In short, the soul signature is how a soul is identified, and there are no two identical soul signatures.
However, while no soul is the same, some souls are similar. The individuals who share similar souls are called “soul siblings,” and many consider them to be an alternate version of the same person. To be considered a soul sibling, the first 4 thousand and last 2 thousand digits of your soul signature must be the same. Going off this rule, there would be billions, maybe trillions, of “you” throughout the vast multiverse.
Now, there are some exceptions to this, however. Those who are a combination of two souls, such as those who are possessed, or conjoined twins, will also have a more unique soul signature. Those whose soul has been attacked in some way will have a different soul signature. Celestial beings such as gods, demi-gods, or deities will also have a more distinct soul.
However, there is one case that is more interesting than most of these, and that the case of the “cataclysm character.” Those known as cataclysm characters, individuals who exist in only one timeline, will have significantly fewer if any soul siblings. On average, such a being will have 10 soul siblings at any given time.
So, that being said, did you also know that there are multiple Doombringers?
In fact, as it currently stands, there are 4. The first one is the Doombringer you know, the one I hope you’ve grown at least somewhat attached to. The second, you are also probably familiar with. Though he goes by a different name, The Doom Slayer is the most popular iteration of Doombringer. However, it’s the last two that I’d like to discuss today.
The second one is a dragon, a nightwing, born during the time the nightwings were living at the volcano. His mother died laying his egg, and for the rest of his life, his father hated him for it. When he was about 4, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he flew into the ocean. He flew until he passed out from exhaustion, nearly drowning in the sea.
However, he was saved by a race of highly advanced dragons. Well, perhaps saved wasn’t the right word. He was instantly thrown into an arena, where he was forced to battle for his life.
So, there he was. A scrawny dragonet, with little to no muscle on his bones, was forced to fight for his life. And he won. He prevailed again and again. At the age of 5, he had 69 kills under his belt.
During the time, the nation that recused him was in a war, and the nobles, impressed by the nightwing’s strength, decided to allow him to prove his worth on the front lines. And he did. Fueled by the rage of a million bulls, he tore through enemies like paper. Then, he earned his title as “The Doombringer.”
The final Doombringer, believe it or not, is human. He lived in Dimension 0, the first dimension created by Cawthon and the staging ground for the war. Despite the world being war-stricken, there are quite a few settlements that live in relative peace under the protection of the Cawthons. This Doombringer, whose real name is long forgotten, was born and raised in one of these communities.
Unlike the other Doombringers (save the Doom Slayer), this Doombringer had a loving family. They lived happily for many years until he turned eleven. On his birthday, the Nightmares invaded. On the day that celebrated the gift of his life, he had to run to keep it as the Nightmares slaughtered his friends. On his day, he watched his parents die in front of him.
He was hiding in the closet, watching the life drains from his mother and father’s eyes. The young boy faintly remembered his mother telling him he could do anything, that he was going to be extraordinary, and that she’d be with him every step of the way. His father had told him that whatever the child chose to do, he’d support it as long as it was his choice, and his choice alone. They had told him that whatever he chose to do, he would be great.
With these memories, as he hid in the closet, he couldn’t help but think why. True, all of the standard questions were there. Why are they doing this to us? Why me? Why are they so evil? Why couldn’t I do anything? Why am I so weak? But at the back of his mind, another question brewed. Why did they lie to me?
He didn’t know what happened at that moment, but it was by far the best and worst feeling he’d ever experienced. He was helpless, terrified, angry, depressed, hopeless. Who knows what caused this change, perhaps he simply grew tired of feeling these things. Whatever the case, all of those emotions flushed away and were replaced by rage.
He grabbed the knife his mother had given him in case of an emergency, clutching it in both hands tightly. His breathing slowed, then deepened. With a roar of rage and adrenaline, he burst from the closet and charged at the Nightmare responsible for shattering his world. The soldier didn’t have time to react before the blade was plunged into their stomach with enough force to knock them down. However, he wasn’t done. The moment the Nightmare hit the ground, he pulled out, then brought the blade right back down into their head. For about a minute, he did this. Continually stabbing the soldier, his guttural grunts and curses of rage the only sign that at one point, this boy was part of civilization.
Even when the job was done, he clearly wasn’t. He looked down at his parents for a moment before his rage spiked again. He heard the door open, and it didn’t take long to deduce that the other soldiers must’ve heard the ruckus, and come to investigate.
He should have run and hidden, that would’ve been the sensible thing to do in that situation. He couldn’t win. Even if he managed to kill these Nightmares, there’s nothing he could do to prevent more from entering or just deciding to blow up the building. It wasn’t like he was oblivious, he knew all of this very well.
But despite all of it, he wasn’t scared in the slightest. In fact, he felt calmer than he had ever felt in his life. His hands were beyond steady, and his breathing was controlled, albeit heavy. He hid behind the door and waited. The moment the soldier entered, he struck.
The little boy who liked purple thrust his knife into the Nightmare’s back, severing his spine with a grunt of rage. The kid who was too shy to talk to girls turned to the soldier’s partner, and, without hesitation, charged at him with a roar. The boy who was always the peacemaker of the group was kicked away with impossible strength. The child who cried from a bee sting flew back and crashed into his bed frame, but got back up moments later to continue his attack. The boy who never swore and admonished others for doing so screamed profanities he didn’t even know he knew as the soldier smashed the butt of his spear into his temple.
By the time he passed out from the pain, he didn’t care if he died. He had done his part. But he didn’t die. He woke up terrified in a metal room. No longer high on rage and adrenaline, he remembered his earlier actions with a horrified scream.
A day later, he was pulled from the room and equipped in armor and a sword, before being pushed into a pitch-black elevator. He found out what was happening soon after: he was entertainment. He was to fight other captured children as an audience watched again and again.
He did it. He defeated every enemy in his path, fueled by his rage. At 12, he had 72 kills under his belt. It was unknown how many he had killed before he became desensitized to it. It was an even greater mystery how long it was before he became addicted to it. The feeling after every kill went from a horrible chill, to neutral, to a thrill.
He became a monster, a creature fueled by rage and addicted to death. Not only that, but he became dependant on the very organization he swore to destroy. So, when he was offered a position on the front lines, of course, he accepted. 2 years later, he was top of his class, and deemed “the Deathbringer.”
The first thing you think of when you think of being on the front lines of the most violent war ever known is trauma. However, for someone who had already looked death in the face and stole his wife, the experience was healing for him. In the military, he met good friends. The first of which was a man who was deemed the Slayer. Despite the intimidating name, he had by far the best sense of humor Deathbringer had ever encountered.
As time went on, they grew closer and closer. Then, Deathbringer met her. He was laying in the hospital, held down by cuffs to force him to receive medical treatment. There, a young nurse about his age (who, at the time, was around 28) came to tend to his wounds. Her calm voice and gentle hands were enough to soothe his rage long enough for her to operate on him.
At that time, the term crush was entirely foreign to him unless used in the context of crushing someone’s skull under his foot. When Deathbringer had described his feeling towards the nurse, who was named Diana, Slayer had to reteach him the word.
Suddenly, Deathbringer was found daydreaming. He found himself, now and then, allowing himself to be slightly injured in battle in hopes of seeing her again. It was in one of these daydreams that tragedy struck.
His squad was ambushed. Most of the soldiers were done away with instantly, but not Deathbringer, who fought tooth and nail to come out alive. And he did, just barely.
By the time he returned, the damage was irreversible. The bones in his left arms were shattered, and his right arm was torn up beyond repair. His list of injuries was vast, a punctured lung, broken ribs, fractured femur, and tailbone, fractured skull, broken clavicle, the list goes on. He was hanging on, but nobody expected him to make it.
However, the higher-ups intervened. If you’ve read the past chapters, you already know of the Mystic Crystals. Recently, the Nightmares had built what they liked to call the ascension box. Once the patient was in the box, they were blasted with Mystic energy in hopes of creating something extraordinary. Every patient put through it had died.
So, they offered Deathbringer a choice. He could die there and be honored as a mighty warrior. Or, he could live on to be an even greater spartan. When asked what his preference was, he responded simply.
“Make me stronger,” he demanded. “Make me the strongest.”
And so, they did. When they pulled him out of the machine, his injuries had all vanished, leaving only thin scars as evidence of their existence. The only part of him that failed to mend were his arms; it seemed like they had tried to, but they were so mangled that not even his new healing factor could not save them. That didn’t matter, however, as the higher-ups had yet another experimental project they were working on. In time, his arms were replaced. Billions of particles smaller than grains of salt composed his appendages which, when hardened, proved to be stronger than diamonds.
The entire process improved every aspect of his physical being far beyond what’s naturally possible. As well, there were noticeable mental differences. He could perceive things faster and in greater detail, react quicker, and plan far better than he was ever able to. As well, though he had very limited control of it, he inherited minor energy projection abilities.
He became a titan, a force to reckoned with. All Cawthons, then all living things feared the wrath of the Deathbringer.
During his time, he grew to appreciate his friends more and more, growing closer and closer to Diana until they were un-officially dating. He wishes he could say that he had worked up the confidence to tell her, but in truth, she had backed him into a corner when she asked why he kept coming around even though he didn’t need healing.
Then, Diana was killed. She was working in a camp deep in enemy territory, and she was shot with the rest of the soldiers. Deathbringer crumbled at the news, filled with that familiar feeling of despair before forcing it to turn into anger.
However, the next blow was somehow far more severe.
He, Slayer, and a couple of other soldiers had been sent to deal with an outpost. During the raid, Deathbringer slowly lost contact with the rest of his team save for Slayer. They found the archives they were supposed to destroy, and as Deathbringer got ready to burn it up, Slayer seemed hesitant.
He turned his back for a moment, and then he felt something at the back of his head. The reality of the situation came crashing down onto him even before Slayer said a single word.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, and for several desperate moments, Deathbringer hoped it was a joke.
“Put the gun down,” he demanded. “This isn’t funny.”
Even though Slayer kept quiet, it was all the answer he needed. Deathbringer growled and Slayer flinched.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Slayer admitted. “You can join me.”
Deathbringer turned around to face who he thought had been his friend, his eyes fiery with rage while his partners were soft and pleading. “How long have you been a traitor,” Deathbringer questioned.
“When I was captured for a month,” he informed Deathbringer. “Deathbringer, when they were questioning me, they were kinder to me than any Nightmare. Just being transported in the truck, I saw more life than I’ve ever seen!”
Deathbringer clenched his fists, and Slayer flinched again.
“It wasn’t a trick,” Slayer informed him, sensing his friend’s thoughts. “I know it wasn’t. Deathbringer, the Nightmares don’t love you, they don’t appreciate you, they appreciate your power. The Cawthons love the strong and the weak alike! I saw them, weaklings wandering the streets without a care in the world. Under the protection of-”
Deathbringer whipped around and knocked the gun away before grabbing Slayer by the neck and throwing him against the wall and threw a punch that blew a hole in the metal wall behind them. His friend ducked under the attack, diving out of his clutches before rolling upright in a fighting stance.
“I won’t fight you,” he said stubbornly, and Deathbringer cursed the fact that he felt the same way. This was his friend! The person who had saved his life on multiple occasions! The one who had his back when no one else did. He trusted Slayer…
Then should he trust this decision?
If he made that choice, there was no going back, ever. He knew that. It was an act of high treason, and he would be killed on sight for it. But… was it the right decision.
Then, he remembered his parent’s words all those years ago. Whatever you choose to do, you’ll be great. They had said… And they had been right, but is this what he chose to do? He couldn’t remember their names… He couldn’t remember HIS name! The Nightmares had taken everything from him… maybe the Cawthons could give it back.
He looked back up at Slayer, and he was a little kid all over again. Just a few feet away from him, his best friend stood with a hand engulfed in green flames sticking through his chest. With one swift motion, the killer pulled his hand upward, ripping him apart in one move. Slayer’s body fell to the ground, revealing the grinning anthropomorphic fox that was Twisted.
“Damn,” he said simply. “Looks like I got here in the knick of time. You alright?”
Deathbringer said nothing, he did nothing, he didn’t even breathe. He simply stared, and all of the emotions that he had suppressed for all of this time came crashing into him like a bull. He dropped to his knees and mourned. Twisted scoffed.
“Alright, stop milking it,” he said, and it happened again. All of that sadness, despair, and grief washed away.
“I’ll kill you,” Deathbringer said, and the fox turned back to him and raised an eyebrow.
“Excuse m-” he didn’t get to finish his sentence. The mourning soldier roared and leaped up, grabbing him by the throat and pinning him to the wall. Without wasting a moment, Deathbringer jammed his thumbs into Twisted’s eyes. The fox screamed in pain and blasted him with his powerful green flames, but Deathbringer paid him no mind. He pulled his thumbs apart, not stopping when he heard his skull crack, nor when his head began to split. He only stopped when, with a growl, the two pieces of his skull separated from his body that slumped to the floor lifelessly.
“I’ll kill you all,” Deathbringer repeated, picking up the gun that Slayer had dropped. “I won’t spare a single one!”
And thus, his wrath began. He stormed through the Cawthon base, killing every member of his squad as well as anyone who got in his way. After that, he broadened his target to the entirety of the Nightmares.
“You cannot win,” someone who had managed to capture him had said. “You are outnumbered, outgunned, outclassed in every way.”
“You think I care?!” he had yelled. “I don’t care if I die! I don’t care if I go to heaven or hell! You took everything from me! So I’m going to kill you, I won’t spare a single one!”
“Have you no shame?” the Nightmare had questioned. “Killing your former friends?”
“You aren’t my friends… You’re not even human!” Deathbringer had growled. “Just violent animals masquerading as them! You’re pests! Revolting, oversized pests! And pests MUST BE EXTERMINATED!”
And there went an entire facility as the Deathbringer stormed through, killing everyone and everything in his path.
They were evil, merciless, violent…
But him?
He was Doom incarnate.