On a c[o]ld winter morning in the time before the light

[Lucifer]

Lucifer wouldn't call himself damaged. Cruel, spiteful, envious, or any other emotion connected to sin and debauchery, sure he was definitely those. Broken, damaged, depressed... those were words that he felt were synonyms to weakness. If the world had gone on in a totally different way without restrictions, though, he liked to think he would've turned out differently. It wasn't his fault, that he was how he was. It was dad had wanted a villain to make him look good, and had let the Mark corrupt Lucifer without even telling him what was happening. He'd been God's best soldier before that.

Now? Now he was in a different universe than the one he'd been living in. He'd gone from top dog to bottom feeder on no less than three separate occasions. He'd been denied pleasures and comfort more times than he cared to count. He was done with 'plans' because those just ended in shit heaps at his feet. He was done caring, because every time he did, those he cared about disappeared on him and left him for dead.

If society was only going to ever see him as evil, though, then at least he'd have a reputation. Perhaps that reputation was all he had left. Besides, he hated probably 95% of everyone who was here. Some of them didn't give a shit about him and that was fine, but while everyone was content to live in anarchy or at least, without some clear chain of command, Lucifer was not. So as he sharpened his claws on a rock in the pitiful mountaintop that they called camp, he thought who he'd recruit to him, who he'd shame so others would despise them as much as he, and who he'd kill as soon as he was able.