Prologue 1
She had traversed the dangers leading to her new home in record time, surprising and slightly amazing even herself. She had no way to judge time here, but the voyage from the living world to the land of the dead had always been described as an arduous, three-year journey, designed to purify the soul before it entered Mictlan. She believed that her voyage had taken a handful of months or less, and she was quite pleased with herself.
The dim, cold caves with their clashing rocks, which had tried to crush her into oblivion, were of little challenge to her, and she avoided them with ease. Likewise, she scaled the mountains, and then crossed the razor-thin bridge suspended over the dizzying chasm that separated the realm of the dead from the outside world with little difficulty. The wind of knives that stripped the last shreds of humanity away from souls as they entered their just reward had spared her, and she still retained her memories of her time on Earth. All her training, all her thoughts, hatred, and desires burned within her just as brightly as they had the day she had died, the day when her neck had been snapped by a coward who had attacked her from behind.
Somehow she would find a way to make her murderers pay. She had all the time in the world after all, and there had to be some reason she had retained some of her abilities, and her dark lord’s helm, even in the spirit world. Revenge seemed like the best guess, Tezcatlipoca and his all-powerful might had somehow convinced Mictlantecihuatl, the grotesque god of the underworld, to allow her to remain intact for some reason known only to the gods themselves.
So she kept herself occupied while the gods bickered, or bartered, or whatever it was they were doing, by taking in the strangely beautiful sights around her. A blood-red sky unfettered by Quetzalcoatl’s poisonous presence beckoned her, and she had spent some time, vicious metal wings unfurled, simply soaring there, reveling in her glory.
The bare souls of the realm’s other inhabitants often hid from her then, fearful of the awesome sight before them. She beamed, happily, even going so far as to search out a few and cut them down just for practice. Souls, even in the underworld, could still be killed. They should be happy, she reasoned, Mictlan was the hell for ‘commoners’, and in dying in battle, they should move on to a higher level of hell. She still hadn’t worked out why she had been sent there, but hers was not to reason why with her master.
She had been there some amount of time, she guessed a few months of bliss, exploring the caves and caverns, mountains and valleys, the sparkling rivers of blood, when she felt it. It was another presence very much like her own, only more powerful, more real. Who or whatever it was, it had both a spiritual and physical presence that she did not, and was possessed of a fraction of Tezcatlipoca’s power. This person was truly alive, and had somehow made it into the land of the dead! She launched herself from the cliff-face she had been climbing, searching for the source of the power she felt within her bones.
* * * * *
The trail of dark energy led to a pool of tepid water, a dark and oily substance floating on the surface, reflecting the eerie light and crimson sky above. Jutting from the center of the muck was the arm, or leg, of her quarry, the pale blue skin adorned with veins of black. She wasted no time in wading into the water and grabbing the limp figure, dragging it out to a clear spot on the ground nearby. The substance she assumed to be oil trailed behind him like tattered fabric, flowing over and around the rocks and eventually settling under his naked form as she checked for a pulse.
Finally finding a steady heartbeat, she stepped back and regarded the being before her. He was one of Tezcatlipoca’s chosen, that much was glaringly obvious. At one point in her service of the dark lord, she had been of the same azure hue. That was before she garnered his approval, and was allowed to be a true representative of his greatness, the completely corrupted Azangel helmet her greatest trophy.
She looked him over again, apparently he had been in a fight and lost, the skin around his temples was darkening with bruises or burns, and he appeared to be in shock. She pulled his eyelids back, checking his pupils, which were dilated and uneven. She hooked her arms under his and hefted him easily, and the black ooze flowed upwards with him, coating his skin and parts of hers where she held him.
The substance seemed to consist of residual shadow-stuff, lingering energy from Tezcatlipoca’s possession, and it was this beacon that had led her to him. Whatever had happened to him had all but severed his ties to the Dark Lord and his power, leaving him with almost nothing. She was curious what could have done this to him, although she was sure it had something to do with that dammed Quetz, in which case this mortal shell could very well be just that - a shell.
She threw his limp form over her shoulder and headed quickly towards the section of Mictlan she regarded as ‘home’.
* * * * *
Apparently the drooling, mentally burned-out body Azdaemon had pulled from the water had encountered the weakling Azangel, Ciela, as well. After she had found the drawing clenched in his hand, crumpled and wet, of an all-too familiar face, she had known that this being was here for a reason. For one single solitary reason; so she could claim her revenge on the Azangel and the other creature that had killed her. What he had done to provoke the bitch’s divine wrath she might never know, unless by some small miracle he suddenly leapt up and proclaimed himself healed. He had thus far only occasionally spouted obscenities and conjured up grand visuals of what he intended to do to the Quetz-spawn if he were ever to encounter her again.
Killthequetzwhoretearherapartkeepherskinformytroph ykillherkillherkillhertearherheartfromherchestandf ucktheholeandtearouthereyesandgougeoutherbrainandshitinherskull
Azdaemon listened for a while as her new charge rambled on and then sighed. If this was her Lord’s way of testing her patience, her resolve, she felt she had more than passed the test, and she was ready for it to be over.
Her blue-skinned charge had his uses here, and she quickly learned he had something of an appetite. When they weren’t occupied with each other, exploring and testing their limits, she made sure he was training, strengthening himself. His mind might have been mostly gone, but his body functioned perfectly well, and after quite a bit of experimenting, she found that she could control his every action and reaction with precision.
She still had power here, as surely as Tezcatlipoca’s former servant had his moments of clarity. It was during one of those mercurial moments she had finally garnered a name from him: Warren. h3>Prologue Part 2
“Adrianne?” He called out timidly, looking out across the vast barren plains of Mictlan from the jagged cliff he grasped to desperately with blood-coated hands. “Adrianne?” he repeated, a bit louder and with a touch of fear, before the slickness on his hands caused him to lose his tenuous grip on the rock and he began to slide downwards at an alarming rate. The rocks here could shred steel, and they began to carve deep grooves into his flesh as he fell. He kicked away from the jagged edges as he plummeted downward, hoping somewhere in the back of his mind, where the last remaining shreds of his sanity had fled, that the winged woman would appear to save him.
Azdaemon waited until the last possible moment before rescuing her falling lover, sighing inwardly. She’d hoped she could scare him into unlocking his powers.
No such luck.
She turned, wings forcing her upwards on a hot draft of wind, skimming across the cliff-face, and following the current higher into the sky.
He just didn’t want to leave yet, she decided. He’s not ready to face…whatever he has to face. The Azangel, probably. As if reading her thoughts, the broken man in her arms started muttering, cursing, and writhing within her grip. His hands gripped her wrists, fingernails digging painfully into the skin, then deeper as he…what?
What is he doing?
She looked down and saw him grinning wildly up at her, eyes glimmering with a trace of insanity. She plummeted downward, gathering speed as she fell, wings catching the air and slowing their decent at the last possible moment. She let go of the grinning madman, and landed a few paces away from him.
He lunged at her suddenly, and she pirouetted away, her speed and grace more than a match against his brute force and blind fury. She laughed out loud as his fist stirred the air, grazing her cheek, seeking to distract her from the powerful high kick that followed behind it. She caught it with ease, using the momentum against him, sending him crashing to the ground.
She laughed again, launching herself at him, pinning him with her arms crossed over his throat. He stopped struggling as she leaned over and licked up the side of his face, trailing her way slowly to his mouth where she nipped at his lower lip until it bled.
He growled low in his throat, warning her that he was in no mood for her usual treatment. She answered him with another kiss and another bite, before snaking her tongue into her mouth and plundering it ruthlessly. Warren snarled around her tongue, biting it hard enough to draw blood, and she pulled away in surprise.
With one quick movement, he flipped her from her perch on his abdomen, reversing their positions.
“Don’t. Fuck. With. Me.” He said, pronouncing each syllable in between attacks on her mouth and neck.
Adrianne smiled to herself, writhing beneath him, challenging him to do his worst.
He happily complied.
*****
The passage of time was hard to truly judge in the underworld, and some time had passed since the incident at the cliffs. Adrianne had finally decided her charge, her guest, was as recovered as he would ever be.
On his good days, he was a sadistic creature, as twisted and evil as she was. He was still prone to bouts of melancholy, forgetting what he was doing or meandering away from her as she spoke, but nothing would stop that, she decided. Lingering brain damage from the shock to his system he received at the hands of the Azangel was the only explanation
On his bad days, which had become less and less frequent with the slow march of time, he muttered and mumbled to himself in a blend of English, Spanish, and Náhuatl. He mostly ranted and raved about the Azangel, Ciela, and several of her friends. The names came out in a rush but she understood them nonetheless. Aquarius. Jayna. Rydgen. Silver Lantern. Torres. David.
One name – David – stood out in her mind, and when the opportunity arose, she asked him about it.
David, as it turned out, was some sort of animated corpse, a being that existed on borrowed time. David, the very same nameless being who had attacked her from behind, breaking her neck like a coward, as she stood over the Ciela-Azangel. The creature who had, in one swift movement, kept her from removing yet one more Quetz-spawned bitch from the universe.
They began to plan.
*****
In the end it was a simple plan that prevailed.
Hunt them down one at a time, along with anyone, anything, else that got in their way, saving the best for last. Leave the Quetzwhore alive, alone, broken, and miserable, until he was, they were, both of them, done with her and finally decided to put her out of her misery.
Aquarius would be first. Warren hated the name, hated the man, the ‘detective’.
He would be first, the betrayer, the lying useless sack of shit he had once hired, once paid a small fortune to, all to help destroy the Azbitch. And it hadn’t worked. The water-fiend had turned on him, had helped the enemy, had gone so far as to help save the bitch from her fate at his hands.
Hm. Perhaps Tezcatlipoca would notice him again, if he offered the detective’s pulsing heart to the dark god. Maybe, maybe not. But he would have the succulent organ in his hands at any rate. He longed for blood, to taste blood again, to draw power from the deaths of others.
He quickly ran over the list in his mind. Of all of them, the only one he truly thought would be a problem would be the red-haired bitch. Jayna. She rarely left that damn, impenetrable house. The two-level building was guarded mystically on the outside and inside, the arcane accompanying and enhancing the high-tech systems inside. Getting in twice had been hard enough, he didn’t look forward to another attempt.
Then again, she had to leave sometime. He could pull her into some alley, rape her senseless and leave. He could break her neck, rip her heart out, utterly destroy her before she even had a chance to scream.
Adrianne scolded him. He could hear her voice, her tone, but he tuned out the words and focused instead on the tightness in his groin. That was a very good idea, raping the antique, he thought. She had, he recalled, escaped him once before.
Power-wise, the ‘Lantern’ was much stronger than he, but much less dangerous. After all, the damn detective had him dead to rights, half-suffocated and weak, and the silver fool had stopped Aquarius from delivering a fatal bullet to the brain. He really had no idea how he could stop the Oan, but he was sure he could find a way in a pinch. Cornered animals were often the most dangerous.
Then there was Rydgen. Rydgen, he thought, was a joke. He had to be some sort of twice-damned joke. The green haired freak should have died twice already but had managed to survive. He himself had held the strange being’s heart in his hands, felt his life slipping away, only to pull through when it should have been impossible.
He laughed. Third time’s the charm.
Torres. She could be destroyed at any time, in any place he saw fit. She was dismissed, as was Ciela. His Ciela…was useless. He could still see her in his mind’s eye, cowering in fear, clutching her ruined sheets to herself as if trying to hold on to the last shreds of her dignity. He purposely shoved aside the image of her striding boldly from the shop to the street, holding out the helmet – his helmet, and tossing it to him. That was unimportant. The terrified look on her face as he forced his power inside her, tore her, that, that, was something worth remembering.
David, the corpse. He was of no real concern, either, considering how easy he had been to manipulate. He had done it once, he should be able to do it again. Maybe he could even get the creature to open the door for him again. That would make things with Jayna much simpler in the end.
The detective would be first. If he thinks I am back on J Street, he will come looking for me, and I know it. And I will kill him.
So we go to J Street, my disembodied lover and I, and wait for him to find us. I leave little clues here and there. Suddenly ghostly sightings begin to make their way to his ears, eerie sightings of a blue skinned creature wearing a skull as a mask. He won’t alarm the others, the women, I’m sure of it. His ego is too big for that. He will want the glory for himself. All for himself.
We wait. Author’s Note/Disclaimer:
Do not read this chapter if you are in any way shape or form offended by the idea of fictional characters engaging in consensual sex.
Just skip to Chapter 2 if it’s a problem.
If you’re under 18 years of age, just skip to Chapter 2.
Thanks!
Chapter 1
J-Street:
I guess this is a boring movie, Mike decided, looking over at Ciela, half-curled against him with a wisp of white hair covering one eye. Not that I really object too much to this position.
“You’ve been awfully tired lately.” Mike whispered to the nearly-asleep Ciela as he gently moved a strand of hair out of her face. “Do you want to go upstairs and go to bed?”
“Hmmm.” she murmured, nestling her head further against his neck and shoulders.
“You’re obviously not watching the movie.” He reached over to move the pale, wayward locks again, and paused. “You might as well get some sleep.” Then he brushed her hair aside, uncovering a nasty bruise.
“Cie?” he asked again, concern filling his voice. “Hey, wake up sweetie.”
“Do I have to?” she mumbled, shifting a little but not moving away from him, from his warmth.
“Where’d you get this bruise?” he stroked her forehead lightly, and she tried to ignore him, yawning and wrapping an arm groggily around his neck. “Has this got something to do with Sil? He’s been hanging around a lot lately.” Michael continued, accusation creeping into his voice.
“Hm…jealous much?” she chided, waking quickly and moving away a little to sit up on the couch.
“We’re just training.”
“Training, huh? How come you never let me watch?” This time there was more humor than accusation in his voice, but the smile that graced his dark features was not reflected in his eyes.
“I didn’t think you were into that kind of thing, all things considered.” she stretched her arms out behind her head languidly and yawned. “We were working on hand-to-hand combat today and he clocked me a good one.” she paused, rolling her head slightly to work out a few kinks in her neck. “I just forgot to heal it. Sil’s just trying to help me get a better handle on things. I don’t want to hurt someone accidentally.”
“Well, that’s good…I wouldn’t want that either, but if you’re getting hurt…”
“It’s just a bruise, just something else to point out that I need more training.”
“Maybe you should find someone else to train with then.” Mike turned to look Az in the eyes.
“Someone who isn’t cosmically powered.”
She shrugged. “Why don’t you watch us train then? Maybe it will help put your mind at ease.”
“Maybe I will.” he bent down and kissed the bruise lightly, warm breath spilling onto her skin and making her shiver.
“What was that for?”
“I’m just kissing it to make it better.” he smiled, teasingly.
"Is that a Shaman thing?"
"Um.. no it's a boyfriend thing."
“So what do you call this then?” she asked, reaching over to pull him closer, into a breath-defying kiss. She eventually released him to discover a very odd look on his face.
“I call that something else entirely.”
“Is that so? Well, I don’t expect anyone to be coming home anytime soon…”
“That sounds a lot like an invitation to me.”
“Does it now? Maybe that’s because it’s supposed to.”
"So this is an invite to…for what exactly?"
She looked at Michael peculiarly, shocked. “What?”
"Hey...you chose this tune we're dancing to. You’ve got to tell me" he said quietly, not wanting to misunderstand and press her into something he wasn’t sure she was ready for.
She sighed aloud and said nothing, instead pushing him back against the couch. He gave with the pleasant pressure, falling back into the voluminous couch with her almost entirely on top of him. He didn’t resist, returning her passionate kisses with his own, as his hands caressed between her shoulder blades, then down the small of her back, her hands in turn firmly pressed into his muscled torso.
Ciela’s body pressed to his tightly as her lips moved away from his, gasping suddenly for breath. Michael used the abrupt freedom to lean up and kiss her neck, softly at first and then gradually harder. She clutched tighter to him, something he thought was impossible a moment before, arching her back slightly, leaning her head to expose more of her neck to his questing lips.
He kissed her neck harder, nibbling and licking, and in response her breath quickened and she began to tug firmly at his shirt.
"Maybe we should go upstairs...?” she asked, barely managing the words.
“Only if you’re sure.” he replied, even though to stop at this point would be pure torture and he wasn’t sure he could manage it, anyway. Damn me for being a nice guy… She gazed at him intensely for what seemed to him to be millennia before nodding. She stood and grasped his hands in her own, pulling him to his feet and tugging, almost dragging him up the stairs. She led him to the foot of the bed and started kissing him anew, her hands quickly finding the hem of his shirt and pulling at it. Mike raised his arms knowingly and she slid the shirt slowly upwards and off. It fell to the floor, forgotten, as her hands began to trace down his bare chest and abs and back up again, her delicate fingers outlining patterns on his skin the entire time.
Meanwhile he returned her kisses and inwardly sighed at her soft, warm touch. He could feel her breath quickening, the heat of her body rising to flush her luminous skin, and he tried to drink it all in as it was happening, knowing he was experiencing something truly special.
He felt her hands leave his body and Michael contained a moan of disappointment, until he realized the reason. Arms crossed, she was reaching up, tugging off her own shirt and tossing it to the floor. That done, she quickly pressed back against him anew. She took his hands in turn, kissing them, kissing each finger, before taking his chiseled face into her hands, and resuming their heated embrace.
His strong hands began to trail over her hips and waist and up the small of her back, causing her to gasp again. In response, or retaliation, she began to nibble and suck on his upper lip, alternately tracing them both with her tongue. Her hands reached down and without hesitation, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. They fell to his ankles where he impatiently kicked them free.
Az shoved him playfully onto the bed with a sly, mischievous glance, and quickly divested herself of her own pants. She climbed onto the bed, moving over Michael's body, drawing herself slowly along him as she moved to kiss his chest and neck. His hands again moved to her back and shoulders, rubbing and stroking as he leaned down to kiss the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair.
Her kisses became furious and more insistent, as she sucked and bit at his neck and shoulders, her hands stroking and caressing his arms with increasing strength. His hands respond in kind, pressing and stroking harder, nearly losing himself in the moment, in the rush of pleasure and generations of hard-wired human instinct.
However, something altogether new gave him pause. An entirely modern concern.
"Woah..." he muttered "...woah...ummm...we’ve gotta stop for a second here."
Ciela stopped and sat up, looking down at him in bewilderment as if waking from a vivid dream.
"Why??" she blurted "Did I do something wrong?"
Michael's eyes widened and he grasped her shoulders. "Oh no...GOD no!" he quickly replied "Not at all...in fact it’s all totally and utterly RIGHT! But, there's one minor detail we've overlooked."
She cocked her head quizzically to the side for a moment before her eyes also widened.
"Ooooohhhhh..." she said, as something dawned on her. “Protection! That IS what you mean right?"
Michael nodded quickly, and laughed a bit. "Yeah...I think we need to deal with that before we go any further, or else or else we'll have cherubs flitting all around a nursery."
“Cherubs?”
“Angels. Baby angels. You know, like your name, Azangel?”
She laughed. “Don’t go anywhere.” She said, sliding off the bed and sashaying into the bathroom, giving Michael a lovely view as she searched through the small cabinet mounted on the wall.
“Like I’d go anywhere when I have scenery like this to admire?”
“I’d certainly hope not!” she joked, closing the cabinet and throwing a small box onto the bed next to him. “I had to guess.”
"You're so thoughtful." he grinned.
“I try.” She smiled and slid back onto the end of the bed, tugging on Michael's briefs and pulling them down his legs.
That done, Ciela sat back and watched, as Michael slipped on the condom. That minor task done, he looked back up at her. She smiled, and lazily removed her panties and bra, teasing him. Once more she slid her body over his, dragging her bare breasts teasingly over his stomach and chest as she made her way to his lips, which she kissed deeply and passionately.
Once more they lost themselves in one another and their own sensations. Az sat up and pressed her hips against him, pushing them back and slightly upwards. As he entered her, she sighed slightly, as did he. Her hands pressed to his strong shoulders as she began to rock her hips, finding a comfortable pace that he met in kind.
Eventually, the pace of their lovemaking quickened, becoming furious, building quickly to its climax. Michael pushed into her and clutched at her hips as she arched her back in response. She sat bolt upright as she ground against him, crying out wordlessly, enraptured. As she pressed tightly against him, he reached his climax, sighing loudly as his body shuddered in its release, his eyes closed tight.
In that same moment, at the peak of their pleasure, Az's wings rapidly unfurled, quickly spreading to their full length, filling the small room with blinding light. Michael instantly noticed the glow, even through his tightly closed eyes, and he opened them quickly, to a completely unexpected sight. Ciela, as he had first envisioned her, with angelic wings sprouting from her back. She also had a rather surprised expression on her face.
He started to speak, but found himself completely dumbfounded. Spent from their lovemaking, and shocked by the sudden appearance of her wings, he found himself at an utter loss for words. He swallowed hard as she smiled slightly, and chuckled with slightly embarrassed laughter.
"Michael...you remember what you said about the little flitting cherubs?" she whispered "Well...you didn’t know how right you were."
Chapter 2
There he is. He knew I was about, and out, and he left his twin whores behind to come find me. He knew I was on J Street.
The detective thinks he’s so smart. He found me here, and he plans to kill me.
Me? I want to laugh, but I can’t seem to remember how. I can’t remember how long it has been since I saw him last, I can’t remember a lot of things.
I remember his friends, what they did to me, my master, my pride, my soul.
I did have a soul, didn’t I?
Back to the detective. I wonder if he plans to bring the winged bitch back my head on a pike, so she can ridicule her fallen predecessor? Ah, but she’s not like that, now is she? The perfect little whore for the god of goodness and light and tripe and innards…
I served him once, didn’t I? I can’t remember that, either. Perhaps Adrianne knows. She knows many things.
I snap my attention back to the detective, the double crossing piece of shit that would sell out his own mother for the right price. The man with the wavering convictions, who was always ready and able to change allegiances at the drop of a hat, a skirt, or for the right amount of money. Him, I remember.
He doesn’t know about Adrianne. He has no way of knowing about her. She hovers around him, a wisp of pure nothingness to all but me. She is invisible to his senses, a ghostly image that tickles at the corners of his vision, a trick of light and shadow. He has written her off as his overactive imagination, I can see it in his eyes.
I can see him, but he cannot yet see me, thanks to my Adrianne.
I see through her eyes, the detective, his weapon. It is a nasty piece of equipment, much more severe than the one that the Silver fool prevented him from using, oh so long ago. Lifetimes ago, it seems. Where does the time go?
If he were to use it on me, this ugly creation, I wonder what would happen, where would he shoot me? A quick, relatively painless shot to the head, double-tap, just to be certain, or a long, lingering death, shot in the gut?
My mind wanders along most unpleasant paths for a few moments before I shrug, knowing he will never have the opportunity to use it on me. No gun, no power, nothing.
The others don’t know he is here, not yet, did he tell them? Are they hiding nearby, letting the unstoppable force of nature, the water-god that he thinks he is, do all the dirty work? Do they plan to surprise me, surround me, attack me with those accursed water vials that burn like a million suns? Is the Quetz-bitch on the rooftop above me, preparing to attack me with all the force of her godly namesake?
No.
The fool is alone.
I smile, and the smile is an alien invader on my gaunt features.
The fool is alone. The fool is alone. I chant it to myself, silently. The fool is alone.
It is so hard, now, to stay focused. Adrianne is my anchor. She is the key. The Quetz-bitch hurt me, tried to kill me, tried to erase me from reality. She shattered my mind.
Adrianne saved me, healed me, nurtured me, and fucked me. She gave me this thing, this mimicry, this cheap copy, this cursed antique. This helmet, dark, corrupted even more than I. Not my helmet, no, not quite, not even close. It screams and wails and digs at my mind, crying for blood, for violence. It tears me apart but holds me together.
The detective calls out for me. He truly believes he can harm me.
I melt from the shadows and watch him, slow motion, turn and fire.
Oops.
He missed.
He fires once, twice, in quick succession, each bullet, each little death-dealer, stopping in midair, inches from my…legs. I look closely at them, spinning lazily, arrested in place. Ah, no, he was aiming for my knees.
So he was going for the slow death, after all.
I shrug, dismissing him. I have no time for him. No time like the present.
Hm. I’m mixing my metaphors. Adrianne, my invisible, untouchable minx, drops the shells, and they clatter crash across the concrete, breaking my thoughts into mirror shards.
Oh dear. He’s moving towards me, gun nowhere in sight, arms and hands and torso swelling, crystallizing. The sound of ice dragging across the rough ground is deafening in the small space of the alley. So…
I leave.
Let him find me now, please. I want to toy with him, torture him, make him pay for his betrayal. Crush the soulless abomination under a waterfall of blood, drown him in it, hold him up, a failure, for all to see.Chapter 3
I leave a trail of breadcrumbs for the detective to follow. Little crumbs of swirling black energy, a thread stretched through the maze, leading to the Minotaur. Let him chew his fingers to the bone, trying to get here. Let him wail and moan and pound his head bloody upon the solid concrete of the wall I stepped through. Unless I open a gate, a shadow step leap of faith into the swirling darkness, he will never get here.
Light breaks through the darkness of the abandoned building as a door opens. Adrianne looks at him, and I see him enter cautiously, as he expects me to still be there, hiding in the darkness, a rat without a hole. A beam of light sweeps the room, once, twice, before finally picking out the present I left for him. He moves towards it slowly, silently stalking, ready to pounce on the faintest movement. Always the brave hunter, still expecting a trap to snap, that I never set.
The rat set the trap for the cat. But this cat is just another rat, with a nicer fur coat.
Impatiently I wait for him to draw nearer, to get a good look at his first gift, and for my dark, demented angel to show me his face.
He sweeps the room again with the light, repeatedly, as he moves closer. Inch by inch, he moves, this detective, step by step, closer and closer and closer, until he finally sees her clearly, finally sees my first gift.
The look on his face, full of horror and shock and complete revulsion, is worth a hundred thousand million words to me. The always calm, cool, unflappable detective, rendered speechless, utterly horrified. I etch the vision of it in my memory, and look forward to another snapshot still frame image to add to the collection. I’m playing a game, after all, the only kind I remember how, with no replays or slow motion or colored graphs.
Warren: 1
Aquarius: 0
I see the remains I left for the fluid-based fool to find, the white-haired female with her guts ripped out and her broken legs akimbo. Blood drips into a congealing puddle at his feet, cold and worthless, staining the warehouse floor rust red and shit brown. Her body is pale in death, making her a beautiful ice sculpture of who I want her to be, Ciela.
I hate that name.
It took me days, weeks, years, almost centuries of searching to find her. An almost perfect copy, almost, with only subtle differences. I had to cut her hair, true, and she wasn’t happy about that, but the money I had given her was sufficient enough to keep her silent, at least while I was only cutting her hair. In the end she screamed well, high, shrill, keening, something like an angel’s scream. She screamed more than the Quetz-bitch did when I saw her last, more than the antique hoarder did, more than I did when the bitch broke my mind.
Money is the root of all evil, supposedly, it says that somewhere. I always thought that evil was the root of all evil, that money just helped it along. You can buy anything for a price, nothing is sacred, nothing is perfect, except for the perfect silence of the death and decay of the grave.
I’m rambling again, my Adrianne whispers in my mind. I am rambling, when I should already be looking for another.
I step to the street, the one that is said to never end, to look for an old friend. I do nothing to draw attention to myself, here, where even a blue-skinned man dressed in shadows can blend in with little effort. I step again, into a building, keeping myself hidden. My eyes widen as she walks by, changed little in my time away. Time is relative, and I’m still uncertain how long I was gone, if I was even gone.
Adrianne scolds me again, and I remind her to keep her eyes on the detective. He’s gotten into his car, having lost my trail and his lunch at the same time, the poor thing. When I’m done with him he’ll have lost so much more than that.
I look back to my prey, weighing my options. On the one hand, I am surrounded by a multitude of heavily armed beings with years of experience in dealing with metahumans, militias, magicians, mutants, and multitudinous other ‘baddies’.
On the other hand, you have me.
In the end, I leave her be, simply leaving a memento of my visit on her desk.