Achieving Heaven Through Hell Part 1: A Peaceful Afterlife

Chapter 1

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Chapter 1: Assessment

Can anyone change their fate? The destiny to which they were born? For some, the answer would be a defiant roar to the heavens that they're no character written by a hack author! That fate is a four letter word that rivals a select few in foulness. Such people strive and fight! They chafe against the 'nays' and 'naughts' of the world and blaze their own trail. Welcoming hardship and savoring victory. Whether they're righteous or damned, such people will never be idle or mundane.
And then there are the others. When asked of changing fate and destiny they shrug and sigh. Might as well try and stop your fingernails from growing...

A man torn to pieces.
A girl stands triumphant, her back turned.
"Where are they taking me?!" He manages to say.
"Beats me," she replies, not a hint of relish in her voice, her satisfaction is cold and joyless. "All I know is that it'll be someplace without any sort of peace."
He snapped out of his reminiscence and looked down at his hands.
Claws.
He had claws now.
Near on twenty years in this pit and there were still times when he'd look down at his hand and expect to see flesh. Expect to see his long concert pianist fingers and fine, trimmed nails. But no. Claws. Claws and fur and other things. If pressed he could find some pride in his new cat-like countenance. One could could even deem it apropos, as he always fancied himself a lithe graceful hunter. Conscientious, careful, and above all, clean. At least he was, when he wasn't shedding all over everything! Not to mention, the contrast between his pink fur and blonde hair was more than a little bothersome. He'd changed, coming here had changed him like everyone else. Not that he stood out in a crowd. The rest of the population of this abyssal plane were all some manner of twisted monstrosity. Ironic reflections of their damned souls.
...Maybe?
To be honest, no one seemed to have the first clue to why they looked the way they did, but that they did and c'est la vie.
Or, rather, c'est la mort.
Hell, he was in Hell, yet another horror amongst horrors, lost in the sea of horns and scales and fangs and wings. There was no uniformity, no rhyme or reason, a flurry of nauseating inhuman mishmash. That alone had taken some time to adjust to. The sheer nonconformity of everyone and everything. To a man whom prided himself on clenliness and routine, this Hell was rather on-the-nose in its irony.
Kira, he called himself. Yoshikage Kira, age 53. He'd been the sole remaining heir to a long-defunct samurai clan, now extinct. Without getting into too many embarrassing details, he had died at the age of 33 some twenty years ago. He was a simple man, a quiet man, not a man one would suspect of dozens upon dozens of homicides. Suffice it to say he had an odd hobby. One that he strove to keep in check with his one true goal: to live a peaceful life, a goal that was now next to impossible. But still, he tried.
He walked down the street, homeward bound after a long day's work. Hell still needed middle management, so he was in luck. The streets were chaos as usual. Demons scurried to-and-fro, stealing and fighting and fornicating. The reddish tint of the city lent a foul, greasy quality to every reflective surface it disgraced. It was as though a thin film of filth covered everything, it was inescapable. He wanted to get home to his sanctuary and decompress. To wash his hands, to try and cope with this day past and the day yet to come. If he could just get back home without–
"Don't move," a curdled voice said from behind, accompanied by a sharp prick in his back. "Or I'll stick ya."
God dammit.
Shiv to his back, he walked into an alley and pressed himself against a wall. Busy hands set about checking all his pockets, finding nothing. "Turn 'round."
Kira complied, now able to see his assailant; thin, short, somewhat rat-like in form. His bloodshot eyes and tremens that of a druggie desperate for a fix. Lucky for this would-be thief there were precious few things in Hell that could kill demons. Otherwise he'd likely be dead of an overdose by now, among other things. Unlucky for him was his present choice of targets, one of those precious few.
Kira's hand moved with a deliberate slowness, reaching into his jacket. The druggie noticed and brandished his weapon. It was a crude handle, affixed to which was with a shining sliver of something. Something that resembled a shard of an Exterminator's spear. The notion that this degenerate could have such a weapon was ridiculous. Odds were it was a mere mirror shard, sharpened and polished to look like one. Not that anyone would take those odds. Death was unpleasant enough the first time around, and no one was in a hurry to repeat the experience.
"Wachit, man! I gotta 'Sterminater bit right here, man! Y-you better not try nothin'!"
Kira did not flinch, instead he pulled his jacket open, revealing his breast pocket. He tapped his wallet with his finger. "Is this what you were looking for?"
The rat's eyes shot to his wallet, he brandished the shiv in a trembling hand and reached for it. He cracked it open, saw the ten hundred-dollar bills inside, and smiled a yellowed, rotten smile.
"Heh! Ha! Thanks, man! You not as stupid as y'look!" The druggie said, eyes wide and wet as though he were about to cry.
"Don't mention it," Kira said, his tone flat, cocking his right thumb up in what appeared to be a friendly gesture. "You have fun, now."
"Oh, man will I ever! I'm gonna–"
Kira's thumb pressed into his index finger with an audible 'click'. The druggie grunted and froze, his eyes bugged out with terror. His body bloated and contorted as bursts of light and smoke poured from cracks in his flesh. He didn't let out so much as a squeak as he blew apart from the inside out, consumed in fire and flame. Flame dissipated to smoke, then to ash, and then into nothing at all.
Kira sighed, content, smoothing back his hair. There was something indefinable yet gratifying about a clean set-up and a perfect pay-off. He knelt down to gather his wallet and noticed a small silver shard amidst the garbage. He picked it up with care, holding it on the flat between his fingers as he pressed a leathery pad against its tip. It should have followed its owner into nothingness. A brief moment of pain and a small wisp of smoke confirmed his suspicions: it was a shard of an Exterminator's spear.
"Hm." He stuck his finger-pad in his mouth to stanch the bleeding. "Interesting."