Okay, I'm starting this story because I want to. My muse hasn't been working for my Code Geass story, so instead of giving you substandard crap on that one, I'll give you a brand new tale here! I've had this idea in mind for a quite a while, so I hope you're impressed. Also, my apologies for the non chapter in the CG. My friend hacked into my account, which also is why my name was changed. Bastard.

Also, this story will follow the Manga Black Butler, and not the Anime, which I detest. Also, no Japanese terms here. Full British stock, through and through!


Black Butler


In The Morning

The Butler, Surprised

Heavy footsteps were heard on the cobbled stones of London's streets. Occasional splashes could also be discerned, oftentimes followed by cursing.

The source of these noises came from a man running through the streets, desperately trying to escape something.

"Oh, no, you don't."

The words came from in front of the runner, who fell over in his haste to stop. He stared at the figure in terror.

"Now, you didn't think running would do much good against me, did you?" asked the man. "Not very smart of you."

"I... I ain't afraid of you," stammered the other man, eyes open in horror. The figure laughed.

"All evidence to the contrary," he chuckled. "Not to worry. I'll make it fast, shall I?"

He stretched forth his arm.

"Whoa, WAIT!"

The words came from a new speaker, a young man with tangled blonde hair, dressed in a suit, wearing strange glasses. He leapt in between the two men.

"Now, hold on!" the young man said, with no fear in his voice. "I can't allow you to do that, sir!"

"Can't allow... oh, damn, you're a Reaper," the other man said, irritated. "Fine, I won't take his soul."

"That's... well, that's not it," the Reaper, whose name was Ronald Knox said. "His name's not on the list for tonight, soooooo..."

The other man stared at him.

"Do you really think I give a damn about that bloody list?" he asked dangerously. To look at him, you wouldn't have feared him. He was short, with a scruffy brown hair on his chin, and a small, pugnacious look on his face. But anyone who knew him knew to fear and respect him.

Unfortunately, Ronald had never heard of him.

"Um, well, all the same," Ronald went on. "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't kill him. I've got overtime, so I wouldn't have noticed, but you would not believe the paperwork that would be involved..."

"Shut up," the man, or rather demon said annoyed. "Of all the... look, how's about this. I won't take his soul. On the other hand, he did enter into a contract with me, so I do need some recompense."

"Please!" the man whimpered behind Ronald. "Take anything you want, but please... I got a wife and kids..."

"Yes, yes, I know all about the little woman and the brats," the demon said, bored. "They're the reason you entered into the contract in the first place."

Ronald groaned. He had seen this situation too many times before. A foolish human, down on his luck, would be approached by a demon, and after a brief interval would sell their soul for the demon's services.

"You say you don't want his soul?" Ronald asked.

"Sure," the demon answered. "Why should I? Got plenty of 'em back home."

"What do you mean?" Ronald asked, confused. If there were loose souls out there, it would mean hell to pay for Administration.

"Don't you know who I am, son?" the demon asked, grinning savagely. Ronald shook his head.

"The name's Crowley. Maybe you've heard...?"

Ronald shook his head again. This demon spoke as if he should have known him, but truth be told, Ronald had done his best to stay away from those who worked for "belowstairs."

"Ah," Crowley said. "Well, then, in that case, you can't blame me for what happens next..."

Ronald pulled out his Death Scythe, a modified lawn mower, ready for a fight. But before Crowley could launch an attack, a newcomer had arrived, seemingly out of nowhere, just like the previous two.

"Crowley," it said in a deep, no nonsense voice, with an American accent. "Cease at once. That human isn't scheduled to die yet."

"Oh, bugger," Crowley groaned, looking at the new man. He was clad in a light coloured rain coat, and his blue tie was backwards. "I can't even come into the past to get away from you, can I?"

"Technically it's an alternate timeline, set in the past," the newcomer said. "It's not really the past."

"Oh, shut up," Crowley said. Ronald was looking from one to the other, trying to gauge which one was one his side.

"And you are...?" he asked, nodding toward the newcomer.

"Castiel," the angel said. "And I warn you Crowley... I will stop you once and for all before you do this."

"Good for you," Crowley said sardonically. "You'd be willing to commit suicide in order to kill me. Good for you. But, you see..."

He threw his arms out wide.

"I'm no ordinary demon anymore," he said, his voice echoing ominously, even though the street was quiet. "I'm the bloody King of Hell."

"Oh, bugger," Ronald breathed, as black smoke descended on the scene.

There was horror, destruction, waste... all of the vileness contrived by the devil through mankind. And it was all centered in this one being. And he wanted his due.

The devil was after his due.


In the Phantomhive Manor, just outside of London, Sebastian Michaelis dropped a tray.

If it were anyone else, in any other household, in any other universe, it would have gone unnoticed. But this was Sebastian. And Sebastian never dropped a tray.

He never dropped anything. But the ripples emanating from the Underworld were too powerful to ignore. And he knew one thing for certain.

One of us.

Another demon had engaged the human world. And he wasn't in the business of serving humans, like Sebastian was.

"Sebastian?"

The voice of his master, Ciel Phantomhive, brought him back to earth. Literally.

"Forgive me, young master," Sebastian apologized. "But I fear that we may be called upon for another errand..."


Castiel looked about him.

The streets were still deserted. But now there remained only himself and the Reaper, Ronald. The human and Crowley were gone. Summoning up from his memory some curses that his friends had taught him, he muttered, "Son of a beach."

"Uh, I think you mean 'bitch,' mate," Ronald corrected, holding a roll of film. "Damn, this is going to mean overtime for Admin."

"Is that...?" Castiel gestured to the film.

"His soul?" Ronald finished. "Yeah. Poor bloke. Better read him his rights."

He got out a small notebook, and proceeded aloud.

"Stuart, Daniel F., born December 2, 1857. August 14, 1887. Dead from... other means. Additional comments:" He paused.

"A demon claimed his life, but found no use for his soul. Recommendation for investigation. Case completed."

Castiel was no longer listening. For whatever reason, Crowley had come here, and it was up to him to stop him.

But he couldn't do it alone. He never could. Besides, his friends wanted a slice of the demon as well.

He pulled out his cell phone, which surprisingly worked in this area.

"Dean?" he said into it. "I need your help. I've found Crowley."