Post by The Lone Wolf on Jul 11, 2007 11:36:05 GMT -5
Lightning pierced the sky, followed a mere split second later by the horrible rumble of thunder. Rain slammed down in sheets, pelting ground and building alike. Any living thing subjected to the torrent would likely not only be soaked to the bone, but find its frail flesh bruised by the force of the onslaught.
But nary a living thing on 2 legs or 4 traveled the streets below. The city was dying, and if any malignancy could be blamed for its slow, lingering death, this stretch of filth strewn streets would be at its center.
The warehouse was in shambles. It had been abandoned years ago, perhaps decades. If anyone cared to think about it no one would be able to remember. Rain drove through the many crumbling holes and shattered plaster that once made up its roof, and shot through the numerous cracked and shattered windows, carried in by the fierce howl of the winds. No man, woman, or child would step foot anywhere near this hell hole by choice. That made the location perfect for it.
It sat huddled in a corner covered by the closest analog to sturdy roof amidst the refuse strewn about every corner of the building’s interior. Once it had served as a factory, and a few of its machines had been left behind. Broken down and gutted of anything vaguely approximating a useful part, the rusted, hollow shells pot mark the floors. Then it had served for storage, and some of its stores had been deemed not worth the effort to remove when its corporate owners pulled out. Over the years those crates had been smashed and their contents scattered across the building. Then the teenagers had come in, back when this cancerous stretch of city had not yet been diagnosed. The building was conveniently abandoned, and they used it to drink, fuck, and smoke dope, as teenagers are want to do. Those could fondly be looked back at as the building’s “good old days.” The hoboes had been the next to use its walls. Seeking shelter from storms like this one, they crawled inside, starting fires with any combustibles they could find, bringing in barely organic filth to serve as food though far from fit for human consumption.
Even the homeless had long since departed as the city continued to decay around them. Now it was the only thing on two legs that dared to brave this stretch of abandoned urbanization. Just as it wanted it.
Its body was covered by rags, tattered and brown, more a poncho or a cloak than a true shirt or jacket. Its trousers were ragged and torn, barely covering one leg, the lower half of which is held in place by a crude splint constructed from uneven pieces of discolored wood and held together by both discarded twine and half rotten rope. The flesh of the leg, where visible, is more scar tissue than proper skin, but none the less is flesh. Its face, exposed as it pushed the hood of its makeshift garment from its head, is a collection of mottled patches, leather like expanses, deep red scabs, molten stretches, crisscrossing scars, and bright pink new flesh, yet it is a face, approximating something human.
Indeed, it may well be best to refer to it as not “it” but rather “he,” yet it refuses to call itself that. For though it is clearly of a masculine nature, and though in all factuality that adjective would not be sufficient to label it as mammalian in form, let alone human, yet the simple pronoun carries with it serious connotations. That simple, two letter word at its heart implies something more than a mere collection of cells capable of sexual reproduction when paired with a corresponding ovum. The term he, when applied to a creature of roughly humanoid configuration, implies, at least to it, a sense of being, a certain status above and apart from the kingdom of the animals. It carries with it the distasteful concept of “humanity” and the unacceptable added weight of a soul.
And those were abstractions it would not allow itself. For in its mind’s eye, humanity was at the root of its fall. Humanity represented that weakness that time and necessity had forced it to strip away from itself bit by bit, and yet in an inexplicable moment of weakness, it had allowed the cursed beast to creep back inside of it. For some incomprehensible reason, it had allowed itself to feel again… and just look at the result…
It ran its hand over its head, damaged fingers tracing over tufts of patchy hair managing to force their way through the quagmire of burned flesh.
It did not yet know exactly what it would do. A plan had yet to crystallize in its ancient and fractured mind. For months it had existed more on instinct than anything close to conscious thought. It still could not bring to mind the concrete form of that which it had already begun to do, instead it was left with faint inklings, more impulses towards what must be done than a true plan.
With only a vague inclination as to why or where, it was heading north. North, away from the fires that had burned it, away from the men and the organization that had come so close to destroying it. Away from the heat of the sun that stung its wounded flesh, and away from the heat of humanity that had inflected perhaps more damage upon him than the fires that scarred its body. Human emotions, human connections, human betrayal… It should have never let them anywhere near its core, and now it was running full bore away from them.
Aside from a direction and an aversion to anything with the stench of humanity upon it, it had few vague intimations. It knew that somehow it must prove itself. It must restore the totality of its being; repair the damage at its core in order to be whole again. And it must prove itself. Lest the lingering possibility of another essence crushing lapse into humanity hang forever over its head and self hatred tear it apart from the inside, it must prove what it was once and for all.
And somewhere, in the back of its mind, it knew… It would still refuse for a time to admit it to itself, but it knew… It knew that proving itself would mean facing the beast again… It knew that to be whole once more it must step back into the arena of man, it must face that which had so nearly ended it, and it must triumph over it. It was simply a matter of time, but before long, it would have to step back into the ring… Only then could it do what must be done.
It froze in place, not even breathing for a moment, some imperceptibly faint sound reaching into its consciousness. There was something here… something moving. And once the sound had alerted its other senses, they sprung into hyperactivity, searching for the disturbance. Nostrils flaring ever so slightly, the smell reached it; it had caught the scent…
Without a hint of a whisper of a sound, it rose off the floor of the dilapidated building. As it crouched in the darkness, it moved slowly forward, almost floating, its movements so smooth. It supported more weight with the leg that was relatively whole than that which was still braced, but that encumbrance did nothing to less the fluidic quality of its measured movement. It was as if it had entered into another plane, a heightened sense of reality, a new dimension of consciousness. For it had detected prey. The hunt was on…
It may well be the only thing on two legs that dared set foot upon these parts, but it was not the only thing on four… With predatory nightvision, it searched the confines of its enclosure, following eye, ear, and nose. It was locked on target. The prey was in its proverbial sights.
The rat peaked its head out of its hiding hole. Whiskers twitching fiercely, it too was on the quest for food. Following its nose, it was on the search for some delectable morsel that had happened upon its domicile, perhaps born upon the wings of the wind, a gift from the gods brought to it by the storm.
The rat’s existence was a solitary one. Not much of life still saw fit to seek hold in these parts. But it was content. Here there was warmth enough, shelter enough, and food enough for its meager existence. But most of all, it was safe…
If there were any soul in the world of a disposition to mourn the rat, perhaps it would take solace in the knowledge that the tiny being was not burdened by awareness of its fate. It never saw the end coming.
The creature on two legs snapped the neck of the creature on four with no hesitation or remorse. Without any hint of the revulsion that would be incapacitated most of its species, the two legged beast rose the still warm body of the rat to its mouth, bore its teeth, and tore into the furry carcass.
Bloody stained its lips a ruddy rouge, flowing outward to adorn his cheeks as it filled its gullet with the freshest of meat. Soon all digestible material had ceased to be part of the rat and was on its way to becoming part of the two legged creature. It tossed the remnants of the meal carelessly aside; perhaps their odor would attract larger game…
The creature stepped forward into one of the many sections of floor uncovered by roof above. It allowed the somewhat abating rain to wash over it, cleansing it of its proverbial sins just as it washed the blood of the rat from its mouth. The self same mouth opened then, taking in some of that water from above in order to sustain itself. It could already feel the strength brought from sustenance starting to course through its veins as it stepped forward out of the rain.
In the distance the clouds began to part, allowing a sliver of the moon to shine through, creeping through a shattered window to cast its ethereal glow upon its face. Renewed, it held firm in the conviction that it would continue to be. Before long, it would make itself whole again. Challenges lie ahead, but it could face them, face them and surpass them. And then it could do what needs to be done… then it could seek out those that that plotted its demise, those that betrayed it… seek them out… and destroy them.
But nary a living thing on 2 legs or 4 traveled the streets below. The city was dying, and if any malignancy could be blamed for its slow, lingering death, this stretch of filth strewn streets would be at its center.
The warehouse was in shambles. It had been abandoned years ago, perhaps decades. If anyone cared to think about it no one would be able to remember. Rain drove through the many crumbling holes and shattered plaster that once made up its roof, and shot through the numerous cracked and shattered windows, carried in by the fierce howl of the winds. No man, woman, or child would step foot anywhere near this hell hole by choice. That made the location perfect for it.
It sat huddled in a corner covered by the closest analog to sturdy roof amidst the refuse strewn about every corner of the building’s interior. Once it had served as a factory, and a few of its machines had been left behind. Broken down and gutted of anything vaguely approximating a useful part, the rusted, hollow shells pot mark the floors. Then it had served for storage, and some of its stores had been deemed not worth the effort to remove when its corporate owners pulled out. Over the years those crates had been smashed and their contents scattered across the building. Then the teenagers had come in, back when this cancerous stretch of city had not yet been diagnosed. The building was conveniently abandoned, and they used it to drink, fuck, and smoke dope, as teenagers are want to do. Those could fondly be looked back at as the building’s “good old days.” The hoboes had been the next to use its walls. Seeking shelter from storms like this one, they crawled inside, starting fires with any combustibles they could find, bringing in barely organic filth to serve as food though far from fit for human consumption.
Even the homeless had long since departed as the city continued to decay around them. Now it was the only thing on two legs that dared to brave this stretch of abandoned urbanization. Just as it wanted it.
Its body was covered by rags, tattered and brown, more a poncho or a cloak than a true shirt or jacket. Its trousers were ragged and torn, barely covering one leg, the lower half of which is held in place by a crude splint constructed from uneven pieces of discolored wood and held together by both discarded twine and half rotten rope. The flesh of the leg, where visible, is more scar tissue than proper skin, but none the less is flesh. Its face, exposed as it pushed the hood of its makeshift garment from its head, is a collection of mottled patches, leather like expanses, deep red scabs, molten stretches, crisscrossing scars, and bright pink new flesh, yet it is a face, approximating something human.
Indeed, it may well be best to refer to it as not “it” but rather “he,” yet it refuses to call itself that. For though it is clearly of a masculine nature, and though in all factuality that adjective would not be sufficient to label it as mammalian in form, let alone human, yet the simple pronoun carries with it serious connotations. That simple, two letter word at its heart implies something more than a mere collection of cells capable of sexual reproduction when paired with a corresponding ovum. The term he, when applied to a creature of roughly humanoid configuration, implies, at least to it, a sense of being, a certain status above and apart from the kingdom of the animals. It carries with it the distasteful concept of “humanity” and the unacceptable added weight of a soul.
And those were abstractions it would not allow itself. For in its mind’s eye, humanity was at the root of its fall. Humanity represented that weakness that time and necessity had forced it to strip away from itself bit by bit, and yet in an inexplicable moment of weakness, it had allowed the cursed beast to creep back inside of it. For some incomprehensible reason, it had allowed itself to feel again… and just look at the result…
It ran its hand over its head, damaged fingers tracing over tufts of patchy hair managing to force their way through the quagmire of burned flesh.
It did not yet know exactly what it would do. A plan had yet to crystallize in its ancient and fractured mind. For months it had existed more on instinct than anything close to conscious thought. It still could not bring to mind the concrete form of that which it had already begun to do, instead it was left with faint inklings, more impulses towards what must be done than a true plan.
With only a vague inclination as to why or where, it was heading north. North, away from the fires that had burned it, away from the men and the organization that had come so close to destroying it. Away from the heat of the sun that stung its wounded flesh, and away from the heat of humanity that had inflected perhaps more damage upon him than the fires that scarred its body. Human emotions, human connections, human betrayal… It should have never let them anywhere near its core, and now it was running full bore away from them.
Aside from a direction and an aversion to anything with the stench of humanity upon it, it had few vague intimations. It knew that somehow it must prove itself. It must restore the totality of its being; repair the damage at its core in order to be whole again. And it must prove itself. Lest the lingering possibility of another essence crushing lapse into humanity hang forever over its head and self hatred tear it apart from the inside, it must prove what it was once and for all.
And somewhere, in the back of its mind, it knew… It would still refuse for a time to admit it to itself, but it knew… It knew that proving itself would mean facing the beast again… It knew that to be whole once more it must step back into the arena of man, it must face that which had so nearly ended it, and it must triumph over it. It was simply a matter of time, but before long, it would have to step back into the ring… Only then could it do what must be done.
It froze in place, not even breathing for a moment, some imperceptibly faint sound reaching into its consciousness. There was something here… something moving. And once the sound had alerted its other senses, they sprung into hyperactivity, searching for the disturbance. Nostrils flaring ever so slightly, the smell reached it; it had caught the scent…
Without a hint of a whisper of a sound, it rose off the floor of the dilapidated building. As it crouched in the darkness, it moved slowly forward, almost floating, its movements so smooth. It supported more weight with the leg that was relatively whole than that which was still braced, but that encumbrance did nothing to less the fluidic quality of its measured movement. It was as if it had entered into another plane, a heightened sense of reality, a new dimension of consciousness. For it had detected prey. The hunt was on…
It may well be the only thing on two legs that dared set foot upon these parts, but it was not the only thing on four… With predatory nightvision, it searched the confines of its enclosure, following eye, ear, and nose. It was locked on target. The prey was in its proverbial sights.
The rat peaked its head out of its hiding hole. Whiskers twitching fiercely, it too was on the quest for food. Following its nose, it was on the search for some delectable morsel that had happened upon its domicile, perhaps born upon the wings of the wind, a gift from the gods brought to it by the storm.
The rat’s existence was a solitary one. Not much of life still saw fit to seek hold in these parts. But it was content. Here there was warmth enough, shelter enough, and food enough for its meager existence. But most of all, it was safe…
If there were any soul in the world of a disposition to mourn the rat, perhaps it would take solace in the knowledge that the tiny being was not burdened by awareness of its fate. It never saw the end coming.
The creature on two legs snapped the neck of the creature on four with no hesitation or remorse. Without any hint of the revulsion that would be incapacitated most of its species, the two legged beast rose the still warm body of the rat to its mouth, bore its teeth, and tore into the furry carcass.
Bloody stained its lips a ruddy rouge, flowing outward to adorn his cheeks as it filled its gullet with the freshest of meat. Soon all digestible material had ceased to be part of the rat and was on its way to becoming part of the two legged creature. It tossed the remnants of the meal carelessly aside; perhaps their odor would attract larger game…
The creature stepped forward into one of the many sections of floor uncovered by roof above. It allowed the somewhat abating rain to wash over it, cleansing it of its proverbial sins just as it washed the blood of the rat from its mouth. The self same mouth opened then, taking in some of that water from above in order to sustain itself. It could already feel the strength brought from sustenance starting to course through its veins as it stepped forward out of the rain.
In the distance the clouds began to part, allowing a sliver of the moon to shine through, creeping through a shattered window to cast its ethereal glow upon its face. Renewed, it held firm in the conviction that it would continue to be. Before long, it would make itself whole again. Challenges lie ahead, but it could face them, face them and surpass them. And then it could do what needs to be done… then it could seek out those that that plotted its demise, those that betrayed it… seek them out… and destroy them.