The future was an inky black void; for with all of one's tools, with all of one's knowledge, it was still in flux. You could write an infinite number of fortunes, but not a single ne would come true. You could pray, light candles, do all you needed and nothing would change. The calamity might stay high over the horizon, unknown and unseen, but it was still there. When one accrued the black mark on one's karma, then one was fated to divine punishment so bleak, so dark, and so vile, that the soul cried for succor and comfort. Screamed, even. And sometimes, even then, it seemed the soul was fated to scream into oblivion.

The candlelight in the attivc apartment over the small New Age Metaphysical shop was lit only in candles, adorned in crystals and perfumed by incenses, while a wind chime by the tiny window nearby tinkled in a delicate melody. The candles to the gods were lit -- named and unnamed, known and unknown, and nearby sat runes and a deck of well loved but oft used tarot cards; an old set depicting a classic art style, and six hands shook as they shuffled. Cards both reversed and unreversed danced in his expert movements, bringing a flash of color to the dim setting. Somewhere, a compact disc played the soft tones of a Tibetian singing bowl, and the half-youma in his small prison closed his eyes, focusing his question onto the cards....

Rather, so many. What had he done ill? Was he truly blessed? Cursed? And further -- what of the children?

The meeting wiuth the chibi still hung on his mind, a heavy, thick curtain that haunted his thoughts. Would he be asked to kill children forced into a war against their will so young? So young...

At the age he lost his mother, and worse with nobody to look after them.

He laid the first portion of the spread, shivering. Children who, if they died, would never have families told. Never be found. Families broken and battered, lost to tears. Memories. And how many had the Negaverse corrupted as youth? Teenagers, he'd never seen children, but... Teenagers.. This was war - what if they were killed?It always seemed wrong to see teen agents, especially at first, so new to the Negaverse, and when he moved to DC.... After....

The next portion of the spread was laid and his eyes turned to the cards, turning each. Each, more dire, more condemning than the last, and ere he finished, he turned and set the runes in his lap, drawing one before cringing.

The rune of man, reversed. Disconnect. The cards speaking similar - speraking of a dark path growing darker. Was he to become akin a youma if he continued, or worse, become youma? The beasts consumed starseeds, but what were they? Hazellite once drew one before him, and his friend...

Coffinite paled and dropped the rune.

He'd heard of agents consuming starseeds in whisper. Even his youma side oft proposed it in whispers and dreams, but never did he realize what those small stones he'd stolen, unquestioning. It was the soul of men.Mortals. The inner light forged by the gods, and the half youma's skin would pale if possible. What his body could afford him was to run to the rest room, stooping over the toilet as his stomach emptied itself onto the floor.

Souls. The opthers - his youma too - consumed souls. It was abhorrent. As much as much of him didn't care, greater still was the portion that did. A dark potential.

He couldn't, he couldn't. He would not.

The agent scrambled around his apartment, reaching for something, anything, but there was naught for comfort. Naught to assuage his terroir. His spread, bar the unturned final card, weas bleak. Nightmarish, and he was going to writhe, darken, and become an animal....

Coffinite repressed a yowl, and reached a shaking hand to the final card.

Death. Change.

Perhapos, a literal option. Coffinite refused to become the beast, but he didn't know how change was due. He couldn't be worth saving to those capable now -0 a miserable tool of youma and man made to kill. A beast, a creature -- not a man, not even a human anymore.

Perhaps reincarnation? Yes. He was to move to the next life, surely. A life beyond this existance, perhaps a dog or a small fish, or a brownie of the fair folk. Surelythat was it, and the agent shook, gathering a ceremonial knife before kissing a photograph of his mother.

The gods demanded he move on to another life and flee this before he was consumed by chaos. That was his only hope of redemption.

799 words.