Snippet #2496116

The figure sat back on his heels, knees bent and elbows resting on his thighs. He balanced quite effortlessly on the balls of his feet. Thanks to his small stature and lean frame, poses like this were as easy for him as breathing. A dark-tan cloak hid a majority of his body, though his open posture revealed an ensemble of black and gunmetal silver attire—from his boots, fatigues, and gloves to what looked like the bullet-proof pitch-black vest of a SWAT officer shielding his torso. A hood cast an impenetrable shadow masking much of the figure’s face. The ambient lighting revealed little more than some tufts of maroon hair and the black and yellow anterior of a gas mask, both of which poked out from under his cowl. Deep in the shade where his eyes should have been, a vibrant ruby-red was reflected back.

He was currently resting upon the roof of a particularly tall building, one tall enough to overlook much of Hundlé city and the glittering sea beyond its shoreline. Far off past the smatterings of buildings and clusters of parks, he could just barely make out the hoary adumbrations of the walls that sealed this metropolis off from the rest of the world. He could even spot the huge gate that only hours before he’d snuck his way in through, thanks to the conveniently spacious underside of a military vehicle seeking ingress.

A slight vibration pulled the figure’s attention. In his right hand was a small smartphone, and on it the figure had sent someone a text message. It consisted of a single word: Marked. The recipient had just sent a reply.

Follow.

The acrid stench of burning rubber reached his nose before the sound did. Slowly turning his focus down at the street below, he spotted his mark. The man, a lanky black-haired human by the look of him, had gotten back into his car. On the passenger's side was a blue-haired girl, though the figure failed to get a good look at her. The black-haired one was obviously in some sort of extreme rush, because he'd put petal to metal, his tires screeching on the pavement as his metallic steed reared into action.

Internally, the figure groaned. He would have to chase that thing or he’d lose his mark.

Ensuring his hood was securely clipped to the straps of his goggles, the figure pivoted on his feet, leaning forward on all fours. It was a very elegant and polished motion, and one that he’d executed dozens of times before. Without wasting a millisecond, the figure exploded off the balls of his feet, surging forward like an Olympic runner at the sound of the gun.

He resembled a dog as he rushed, down on all fours, using his arms to pull himself forward and his legs to push in synchronic harmony. In no time he reached the edge of the roof and, without pause, bounded across the vacant space that separated it from an adjacent rooftop. He sailed through the air with an inhuman elegance, the tails of his cloak beating in the wind behind him. He stuck his landing without missing a beat—in fact, he gained speed, quickly reaching the periphery of this latest rooftop and bounding over to the next.

He continued leaping from rooftop to rooftop, moving swiftly on all fours, careful to land as silently as possible. Though the car he was after was definitely speeding, the figure was able to close the distance in no time. Soon, he was running along rooftops right beside the car, which had since donned the flashing red and blue and signature wailing that marked it as a police vehicle.

The car tore down the street, other vehicles quick to remove themselves from its path. As it shredded through an intersection with no regard for the color of the light, it took a sharp left turn, skidding across the boulevard and nearly colliding with oncoming traffic before speeding off. The figure, who was running along the rooftops on the right side of the car, groaned inwardly once more.

His mark was making this harder than it needed to be.

He noted with offhanded disdain the rusty condition of the large AC unit he’d just dived over as he approached yet another edge. When he leapt from the rooftop this time, he reached out and grabbed the eave, using his momentum to swing down towards the ground. He arrested his fall by seizing a particularly small windowsill, sending a potted plant that was so meticulously balanced atop it to its doom upon the sidewalk below.

He wasted no time, releasing the sill and landing on the ground with the dexterity of a cat. He then bounded across the intersection with blatant indifference towards any onrushing traffic. Skirting and hurdling across the fronts of various cars, he made his way diagonally across the intersection to the dissonance of honking horns, shrieking tires, and barked insults. With precious seconds ticking by, the figure maneuvered past several gawking pedestrians and in one motion ascended the broad side of a building, his shoes gripping the brick like claws. Using his left hand, he pushed himself further up the wall, giving him just enough leeway to reach up and grab the building’s horizontal gutter with his right hand before gravity had its way. Using the gutter as his fulcrum, he swung himself onto the rooftop, nearly tearing the poor metal out the wall.

He made it up just in time to see his mark cut right down some street ahead, sirens blazing. With a grunt of exasperation, the figure resumed his forward bound, sailing through the air on all fours with renewed ferocity, his cloak flapping beside him like the wings of a griffon.

He’d never lost a mark before, and this wasn’t about to be his first time.







The fair-haired man’s name was George Sterling. Slightly drunk, the man fumbled with his keys, trying each in turn until one finally managed to fit. Turning it the wrong way first, it took the man several seconds to unlock his car door before he was able to get in. Closing it behind him, he took several seconds of deep breathing to steel himself before putting the key into the ignition, bringing the car to life with a subdued roar. After a moment, he put the vehicle into gear, peeling out from where he was parked and merging into traffic.

A few seconds later, another car came to life, but in a much more subtle way. There was no roar of the ignition, merely a flickering as its headlights came alive. It also peeled out from where it was parked, merging into traffic two or three cars behind George and his vehicle.

Several minutes and a few red lights later, George pulled into the driveway on the hillside of what was presumably his home. He got out of his car, stumbling a bit as he made his way to the front door. The house, while not a mansion, was definitely what one might call spacious. It had two floors, a wide front yard, and, by the looks of things, had quite the back yard. Next to the house was a nearly identical one, and next to it was yet another. In fact, every home on the entire block looked just as George’s. All of them had yards. All of them had two levels. All of them had black shingles, gray bricks, and porcelain-white front doors.

As George entered his home, the car that had been tailing him parked on the opposite side of the street, careful not to draw attention to itself.

“I’m home,” George announced, flipping on the light and dropping his keys on a nearby credenza as he moved forward through the hallway. The muffled roar of a blaring television came from somewhere upstairs. The inside of his house was neat and well-furnished, with each room having several fine woodworks and carpets with intricate designs. Every now and then, George would have to step over a random toy that was left on the floor, though when he almost slipped on the fourth one, he’d had enough.

“Lewis! Ciara!” He bellowed. “What did I say about leaving your toys in the middle of the floor?” The hum of the television upstairs died out instantly, followed by the familiar pattering of children’s feet.

George’s ears perked up at the sound of rustling papers in a nearby room. Interests piqued, he moved towards the source of the noise and found himself standing in his kitchen. It was heavily furnished, with stainless steel appliances, induction stovetop, marble everything, the works. On the marble top island that separated the stove and oven from the refrigerator was his wife, moving papers around.

She just got back from her job at corporate, seeing as she was still in her intimidatingly pinstriped power suit.

“You’re in a good mood,” she said, briefly flashing him a cheesy smile before returning to her paperwork.

He grinned. “Hello to you too, Lana,” he said playfully, moving to stand beside her. “You know,” he began, eying her paperwork, “you corporate lawyers work way too hard.”

She let out a curt laugh. “Someone has to bring this quarantine to an end, George.” She stared down at a piece of paper in her hand for a moment before shuffling it back in with the others. “It’s just bad for business.”

“My wife, the hero.”

It was then that stomps of feet rapidly descending the staircase reverberated throughout the house. George sighed. If he’s told them once, he’s told them a thousand times not to run in the house. Before he repeated himself for the thousand and first time, the terrible-twosome burst through the archway and into the kitchen with all the grace and tact of a tornado.

“Hey, no running!” He chided.

When they noticed their father, the two kids—a boy and a girl no older than ten—stopped immediately. “Dad!” they both shouted in unison, running over and throwing themselves at the man.

George knelt, gripping them in his arms. “You two goofballs go pick your toys up off the floor before someone hurts themselves, okay?”

They nodded, broad grins upon their faces. “Okay!”

Suddenly, there were three curt knocks on the door. They rang through the house like gunshots.

George released his children, standing. “I got it”.
“Is that Rick already?” Lana asked, looking up from her work.
“Doubt it,” he replied, moving out of the kitchen and towards the front door. “But if it is, he’s gonna have to—”

As George reached for the front door, it exploded inward.

Only silence followed the clicks and clangs of bouncing metal and fractured wood. Lana and her two children rushed into the hall moments later, but were rendered speechless by the scene that met them.

There, in what remained of the doorway, a man loomed. The intruder was dressed in all black, with grimy cargo pants and a black jacket with shiny leather highlights. The bottom-half of his face was covered by a black mask, while matching goggles masked his eyes. His hair, a dark brown, fell around his ears like a mop. The intruder’s hands were behind his back, his head bowed. His foot was raised out in front of his body—he’d kicked the door in. Like a Zen master, he placed his foot back on the ground, keeping perfect balance.

He then walked into the house, four pairs of eyes tracking his every move. George, who'd fallen, attempted to right himself, but stopped cold when he felt a menacingly dire presence bearing down on him. Looking up ever-so slowly, he found himself staring down the cold dark barrel of a gun.

Silence continued its reign until the intruder spoke. With his voice—a deep, icy, confident baritone—he uttered accusingly a single word: “Wolf.”

George’s eyes grew wide. “Wait! N-no,” he sputtered, raising his hands in surrender. “We live as humans! W-w-we don’t shift! The hunters said if—”

Time seemed to slow for George’s wife. Things were moving in slow motion, and she could make out every grueling detail. The click-pop of the intruder squeezing the trigger. The light from the muzzle flash dancing along the walls. The silver-tipped bullet effectively decapitating her husband, plastering the back of his skull across the wall like some morbid work of art. The rhythmic palpitations of her heart that filled her ears, her throat, her chest. Emotionally, she felt nothing. She could feel nothing. All that occupied her mind was the sight before her.

As the intruder slowly turned his alien gaze to her and her children, her vision itself began to tunnel. Like thunder following lighting, the piercing boom of the gunshot finally reached her ears.

The gunshot that had killed her husband in cold blood.

And then shock gave way to fury, and time resumed its normal pace.

She looked down at the two children that stood to her right, near the archway that lead into the kitchen. They looked up at her, utterly nonplussed. “Run,” she whispered, looking back towards the intruder. The two locked eyes. Out of her peripheral vision, she noticed her children had remained motionless, transfixed by the scene before them.

“RUN!” She barked her command this time, suddenly dropping down on all fours. Her word morphed into a growl as her muscles bulged like balloons, shredding her expensive pinstriped suit. Blackness spread through her skin like thick ink in a glass of water, completely corrupting it. What looked like hair began to spring forth from the blackness, concentrated at her shins and forearms, jutting out like spikes. The pitch of her growl dropped to a booming contralto. Her fingers and toes elongated, with large gruesome claws pushing their way through her fingernails. Slowly she sprouted a tail that waved menacingly in the air.

Her hair stretched as well, covering her head and neck like a mane, down to her shoulders and chest. The bones in her face pushed forward, eyes sinking into her head, pupils forming into slits, nose receding and restructuring itself... all to make room for her massive mouth, which was growing and shaping itself like some sort of self-aware play-doh.

In mere moments her transformation was complete, yet neither party engaged. She and the intruder simply eyed each other. Lana looked quite dangerous in her wolf form. She felt dangerous. She also felt righteous in her indignation. The rules and vows be damned, she was going to rip this guy to bits.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” The intruder spoke with a level of serenity one would expect from a monk. Not from a guy about to get torn to shreds. His accent was distinctly European—perhaps British. He still had his pistol trained on her husband’s corpse, but in one quick practiced motion, he reached over his shoulder with his free hand, pulling out something a bit more dangerous. It looked small, compact, jet-black, and fully automatic. He took aim, pointing the weapon in her direction. “I’ll pass.”

When he opened fire, she dodged easily, scaling the wall. The ack-ack-ack-ack of automatic fire was deafening.

Not every shot missed its mark, however. As Lana dodged, her children were not so quick on the uptake. Despite her command, they still remained frozen in place and directly in the line of fire. It was the girl that took the brunt of the damage. The silver-tipped bullets punched through her body like a hot knife through butter, striking her several times in the abdomen, chest, neck and face. Her lifeless corpse crumbled to the floor.

Infinitely more enraged, Lana surged forward like a hurricane, pouncing off the wall and mauling the intruder. She slammed him against the wall with the weight of her massive body, causing him to drop his pistol. Without an ounce of hesitation, she sunk her fangs deep into his arm, nearly causing him to drop his automatic weapon as well. At the same time, her claws made deep lacerations across his chest and neck.

She shook her muzzle back and forth with controlled violence, like a dog shaking a toy, sinking her fangs even deeper into his wrist. The intruder’s automatic weapon fired several times as the two struggled, bullets spraying into the ceiling above. His blood sprayed against her fur, causing her to clench her jaw even harder.

Suddenly, intense pain flashed through her mouth like a firestorm. With a yelp, she disengaged her prey, leaping backwards and retreating a few steps. She could taste blood in her mouth—some of it hers. Something was wrong.

Several of her fangs had broken off or were fractured.

Looking up, she noticed the color of the man’s arm had changed. Where she had torn into his tan flesh and drawn blood just moments ago, the skin was now some sort of…

Silver?!

The intruder gave no quarter. Sensing the wolf’s confusion, he dropped the automatic weapon and flowed forward, bright reflective silver showing thorough the gashes in his sleeve where she’d bitten him. Though she managed to avoid his first few maneuvers, the man landed a series of devastating blows to the side of her head. With force of an anvil, he smashed her face-first into the floor.

And then he pulled out a particularly lengthy machete and stabbed the struggling wolf in the neck, skewering her before she had a chance to recover. He followed that by pulling another pistol and dispatching the remains.

One shot. Two shots. Three. Four. The muzzle flash reflected against the intruder’s black goggles like a flashlight.

And then nothing. There was only silence.

That’s when the boy made a soft whimper. Unlike his sister, he’d managed to survive his initial onslaught, though he was not unscathed. He was bleeding profusely—a bullet-wound to the thigh. Replacing the pistol in some unseen pocket, the intruder dislodged his machete from the wolf carcass before strolling over to where the boy sat, moving as leisurely as one taking a walk through the park.

In a few moments, he stood before the bloodied shaking child. He kneeled, bringing up a single silvery hand and slowly removing his mask. His let his goggles stay in place.

“You really should have run,” the intruder uttered, staring the boy in the face.

The boy squealed as he noticed the man’s jagged teeth. They ended in fine points, like the fangs of a shark.

Slowly, the man reached out, cupping the back of the child’s head with one hand. With his other hand he held the machete.

“You have black eyes, kid. Just like your mother over there.” He nudged his head in the direction of the corpse behind them. “I have a question for you, so think very carefully. Understand?” The boy nodded, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. The intruder paused before continuing, softening his tone considerably. “I’m looking for a woman. A girl—if you could call her that. Crimson eyes. Black hair. Long.” He brought the boy’s face to within an inch of his. “You’re a werewolf.” He said this matter-of-factly. “Do you know of anyone like that?”

The boy didn’t answer, though you could see the gears spinning in his head. Unfortunately, this man was not patient.

“I see.” The intruder sighed, his voice hardening once more. “Mmm. A shame. November usually handles this kind of thing, but since he’s not around…” His words trailed off into another sigh. He subconsciously bared his teeth. The boy attempted to shrink backwards, but the man tightened his grip.

“You really should have run.”

He inserted the machete into the boy’s neck as effortlessly as one would a key into a lock. Very slowly. Very meticulously. The boy began to claw weakly at the man’s arm, trying desperately to free himself, to save himself, but it was futile. After several seconds of choked gasping, the child went limp, blood dripping from his parted lips.

“Rest now, innocent,” the intruder said, looking down at this final corpse. “For I have lifted your curse.” Releasing the machete from his grip, he closed the child’s wide vacant eyes with one pass of his bloodied hand. “You may enter Heaven a human.”

And then he bit into the boy’s neck, instantly drawing blood. His Adam’s apple pulsated medially as he drunk deeply from what remained of the child’s cruor. It took only a few seconds for him to get his fill, tearing a chunk of flesh from his victim as he stood.

He chewed on it a bit before swallowing.

Without warning, his wounds began to heal quite rapidly. The gashes and lacerations on his arm and neck began to knit themselves together, and the scratches on his face all but disappeared. He looked up at the ceiling, mouth agape. He exhaled violently, blood and spittle flying from his lips.

“Yesssss,” he hissed, slurring the word. “Yes!”

After gathering his equipment, the intruder walked out through the hole where George Sterling’s front door used to be. He’d secured his mask in place over his mouth once more. All in all, this ordeal had lasted perhaps five minutes, six max.

He made good time.

The intruder reached up and smoothed his hair with his hand, unknowingly tracking blood through his brown locks. Several thoughts came to his mind at once, but it was his view towards the local hunters that took the forefront. These hunters must be pathetic, to let the werewolf population here get so out of hand. They even had to quarantine the damn city. The man snorted, shaking his head slightly. The very notion of werewolves forcing anything sickened him.

As he made his way to the car parked across the street, something vibrated in his breast pocket. Retrieving the device—a smartphone—he made several curt finger-motions, activating it.

Someone had sent him a text message. It consisted of a single word: Marked. The man chuckled softly, typing out a reply.

Follow.

Replacing the phone in its resting place, the foreign hunter entered his car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance, and they were definitely getting closer. For some reason, that made him laugh.

It'd take more than a couple of badges to dissuade him from his mission.