'Hello Miss.'

All she sees is pitch black. And his red red eyes. Like the wolf.

'Why, hello there.'

All he sees is the gun pointed at his thigh, suddenly, he saw it first when it was too late... Still he keeps his eyes on her. The people around them evade their little world, walk around them. They've had their share of violence, for the sun will come up in an hour.

She recons, he's a troll or orc, for he towers high over her head. His skin's the lack of all color, except for the red swirls and stains along his chest and arms. They're moving.

'What do you want?'

Her voice doesn't shake. Neither does she. She's talking to the devil. Or a demon. But she's not afraid. She knows death, she believes.

'You know your guns well, kid.'

How could he see her holding her second one, barely the size of her palm? She pushes it deeper into the lining of her overcoat. Her reflexes are good, his armor, skin deep, probably better. He looks like he's taken his share of bullets. She hasn't.

'I can smell them. And I smell you.'

She shudders, only a little, but enough. The trog, for she's still unsure, who (or what) he is, smiles. His teeth shine, tusks visible and insanely symmetrical against his very own darkness. His horns would suit the devil.

'Care for a ride, elven-gunner?'

Something tells her, she'll die. Her answer a whisper, she says:

'Yes.'

She'd love that.

'Then come.'

His tattoos move, when he does, change their shade of red. He leads the way, but she won't follow, won't lower her guns.

'What's your name, Meta?'

It's one of her stupid ideas, one of her romantic idiocies, to ask her killer for his (her) name. It's what she wants. He barely turns his head.

'None of your business, Missy.'

Then, he stomps onward, through the masses of people, all of which step out of his way hastily. Putting her guns back inside her jacket, she hurries to follow. There's nothing to say, for either of them, the goal of their walk unknown. Her heart drumming the hymn of her death.

They reach a small house, right outside the worst neighborhoods, and next to a strange little park. The sun's about to come up, murky red and orange.

His door is not even locked as they enter.

Inside, he ducks behind a counter and waves her closer. Both cower.

'Take your guns out.'

When she does, he grimaces.

'Are those your best?'

Confused, she nods. She's had them since she's able to remember. With one or two updates but still. He stares at her, then the guns. Finally, a nod.

'Then hold on.'

'Onto what?'

She has no idea what he wants her to do, blinks confused. Then she focuses. His backs turned to her, and doubtfully, her fingers brush against his shoulders. The tattoos are in little tubes beneath his skin, they pulse slightly. The skin is smooth, but scarred, her hands almost translucent, a sick white against it.

'I said hold on, for fucks sake.'

Surprised, she digs her short cut, white nails into his skin, barely breaking it, and then there's fur. She sees that there's none, surely, but her finger feel it, it grazes her wrists and hands.

'Killthem'

his voice's become a low growl,

'Killthemall'.

Then, she's riding, riding a giant bear, both hands holding on, clawing desperately for a hinge or egde to hold onto. Some part of her mind seems left behind, she knows what she would, normally, do, but adrenaline wells up inside her, crushes against the inside of her skull. Excitement spreads.

They break through a door, inside a living room. Humans stare at her, them, five of them, really fucked-up creatures. One has a gun. The bear growls, lowly.

This is not his home, but it's what's happened to it, she's certain. Even the men stayed the same. Her vision fills with anger and hate.

She knows what to do.

Grinding her feet and thighs into his sides, she pulls her guns. The bigger one left, the small one right and not for a single second, she loses her balance.

The men have pulled it together, though they can't stop staring and soon all of them point guns. Pity, her bullets, her reflexes are faster. Pity, his huge hands, claws(?), smash faces, bones and bodies into a bloody mess.

Silence settles in as the last bit of air has left a ragged hole in a masked head.

Both breath fast. There's nobody in sight, still, the frenzy in them won't die down. They reek of blood, they smell it, they taste it with their skins.

'Downstairs'

They know they're not done.

Stairs are no problem for an elf, she gets down them silently, her feet a little surprised at the feeling of floor. Now that she's alone, her head is empty, no determination left. Why did she do this? Why is she here? But she can't turn around. Damn that trog and his magic.

Her knees shake, they've never seen quite as much blood as today. Why? This was supposed to be her dying day. And now, she'll die a murderer.

Then she gets to the bottom of the stairs.

Downstairs is a nest of looters, they almost seem to live there, drunken and high all the time. Now, none of them is leaving his cover. But downstairs is also, where the owners of this house are. Were. They have a wall and ceiling now, all to themselves. She feels sick.

I need to get back up there...

She can't. There's corpses up there too. Death everywhere.

Cowering on the last step, she shudders and gags. Where's the beauty, where is romance, reason..? Are they all dead?

When something touches her shoulder, she jerks back, yelping from surprise and fear.

'You afraid, little gunner?'

He's himself again, shining and dark in the dimly lit basement. How could she not hear him approaching? He's nothing but pure darkness.

'You see them, don't you? They've seen us.'

The stairs are no cover for his form, but even her eyes can't quite grasp all of the shadows in the room. He's a starless piece of Universe cut into the shape of a beast.

No more red on his arms, just blackness. And a gun the size of her head. He presses it into her shaking hands. It's heavy and too big for them.

'Cover me.'

Then he casts a spell. The smell of fur and blood washes over her, then rage. One of the looters tries to get up. Shoot them, perhaps...

His head explodes. The recoil is surprisingly soft, but she's not feeling much, inside and outside of her body and mind. Flexing her finger, she knows. Again and again.

Then there's the spirit. Brown and full of substance, smelling humid.

Her palms are sweaty.

The ball of spiritual energy floats, slowly, but when it reaches the cover of one or two of them, it makes the sucking and morbid noises of a swamp, wet soil about to swallow something. The men gag and she feels the force one more time, the one that's pulling her arms and shoulders back. The wall's even more of a gooey mess than before.

The last one makes a run for it, but the shaman hits him, hard, no matter how deep the trance he has to be in. His fists are only slightly less claw-like now, but probably still very dangerous.

The blow leaves a depression in the looter's torso, he staggers and collapses. A wet smacking noise, then suffocating silence settles in again.

Sunlight seeps through the windows upstairs, down into the basement. Dim light spreads.

They're staring at the messy remains of their frenzy. The remains of the frenzy of the creatures they've killed. Homeowners, looters and them.

Playground of a cruel god of madmen.

The young elf breaks down and cries, the gun still in her hands. She would throw up, but she hasn't eaten. Dead men don't eat. She'll never eat again.

The orc, for this is what he is, kneels down next to her, still towering over her head. The swirls are back and cast snake-like shadows on the basement and everything in it, red and twitching.

'Liked the ride, girly? Still want me to kill you?'

The elf can't help but ask herself how he knew, not really caring about the answer though. He's not bluffing and she's losing her words, possibly her mind.

'I... I didn't...'

Death is a great force.

'You want home?'

There's light around them. Cruelty, brightly lit.

Somebody must've heard the commotion, noise they made. She grabs his coat.

'No.'

Looks at him.

'Please take me with you.'

Afraid she'd kill her family, now that she knows the taste of it. Afraid to return and become something, that wants to die again.

He nods, even smiles.

'You'll make a good pet.'

Never joking.