It flew overhead like a hawk; constantly watching, waiting, observing, scheming devilishly until the precious opportunity presented itself when the innocent man's ever-so-vigilant eyes finally strayed away. It drooled in the very thought of ending another's life, just the mere notion of doing so made the creature ooze with excitement. What else could provide such pleasure? Such joyfulness and glee, they circled the concept of murder like flies on a corpse, but why? When did the creature begin to have such thoughts? No, doubt was weakness, and weakness meant death; that of which was only joyful when associated with another, not the murderer. Thoughts such as these distracted the creature. It concentrated solely on the prey: a small, meager-looking man. Dressed in dirty rags and salvaged shoes, he wandered the desert aimlessly, in search of nothing and yet still feeling as if he knew where he was going. A sense of direction filled his mind and yet he was clueless as to where. For some reason, the creature felt familiarity within this lonely man, an unspoken bond or connection that lingered in between the two manifestations. What was it? Why did this man feel so vaguely alike to the creature? Again, the creature reminded itself of the dangerousness of thoughts such as these, and quickly put them to the back of it's ever-expanding mind.
Now it focused itself on the kill. Oh yes, oh such indulgence and ecstasy! The creature fathomed picking the flesh from this poor soul's corpse, feasting on his flesh, rending his limbs! Extreme excitement and adrenalin filled the creatures vains as it dove down from the dying skies. It was this that always did it for the creature, the seconds before the kill, the end of the hunt and beginning of the feast. Only a few feet more! Wind divided for the creature as it moved, diving down, aimed directly for the man's unknowing and virgin neck. The death was imminent, the creature could already feel it, the excellent sensation of mangling his corpse! Wait, what was this? The man had apparently heard the creature and turned around to face it. He had not but ten seconds to live, oh what a miserable ten seconds those must be. For him that is, the creature felt nothing but fulfillment and solace. The creature saw this as a great opportunity, to be able to see his eyes as he died, something that it had not yet accomplished, as most of it's kills were from behind. It stared deeply into the man's fearful eyes; they were a deep blue which, for reasons it cannot explain, seemed so mundane and recognizable to the creature. Only then, as it's blades cut into the precious flesh of this man, did the creature finally see. In those eyes, those oh-so-familiar eyes, the creature saw a reflection of itself: a demon-like beast with wrapping surrounding it's face, yet leaving the eyes showing. And, within the reflection of the man's eyes, the creature saw the same eyes on itself, deep blue and penetrating, calling for help that will never come. Desperation, fear, depression, loss of breath, loss of mind. The creature was killing itself! Blood. So much blood. The blood was his, the blood that the creature spilled was it's own! Good lord, what has it done! How could it be stopped! Hel-
A lone figure quickly rose from it's sleep in the darkness. He put his hand over his head. A dream. It was only a dream. What did it mean? The man sat in his rotting bed for some time, it could've been a couple minutes, maybe an hour; he didn't know, he didn't care. "Raziel," he said. He repeated the name about four more times. This name, that of which he just come to know, belonged to him. Raziel Ichammad was the full name, but it seemed too long to the lonely man. He preferred just Raziel. He liked how it sounded. It was the name of an ancient dictator of some long-dead country in the middle east, not that it mattered. It was the first name he came across ever since he arrived in this damp, dark, claustrophobic facility. Raziel arose from his dust-ridden bed and walked sheepishly along the eroded hallways. Once again, he thought about his dream. What did it mean? It didn't make any sense. It's the same dream he's had for months now, differing more or so each time, but the same in concept. He was always the creature, every time, and it was always the same wanderer that served as his prey. And in the end -when he was just within reach of the kill- did he finally realize that the wanderer was himself incarnate, some altered manifestation of his own person. And through this manifestation's eyes did he see himself as the creature: a bizarre, demonic, disgusting, revolting, sickening brute; sported bat-like wings and razor-sharp claws that look as if they were surgically attached. Yet, it was the head of this creature that disturbed Raziel the most. For when the mentally disoriented man regretfully looked at himself through the mirror, his head mimicked that of the creature's. They were one, each a different version of the same being.
Raziel stumbled about. He was truly a nihilistic bohemian, believing in nothing and without goal or objective. He simply existed at this point, a relic, a forgotten collection of cells that were long past their expiration. Raziel knew very little, but he did know that he should be dead, that much he could put together. His body was charred from head to toe, his face and arms were disfigured, all of his hair had fallen out, and when he did talk -which was not often- his voice was that of a sheet of rusted metal going through a meat grinder. Although, this type of thought could only be produced in his fading moments of conscious sanity, which was quickly disintegrating and dissolving into a gelatinous blob of consuming insanity. He had began to see things, hallucinations of demons and other-worldly creatures slithering about in his massive abode. Most of them had tentacles.
A dim light flashed in the room ahead. Raziel decided to follow it. Long ago he had come to the conclusion that this facility in which he inhabited had a mind of it's own, a self-aware machine that gave vague clues to it's intentions. In the dead of night, Raziel swore to himself that it spoke to him, but how could he be sure if it was real or not? His reality had merged with some stream of his disoriented subconscious. Why? He did not know. He didn't seem to even care anymore. The light blinked again. The facility had led him to a large chamber-room. It's ceiling had to be kilometers high. The room stunk of mold and corpses. Raziel's footsteps echoed throughout the massive alcove, bouncing off of walls and seemingly going on forever. The lone man sighed. Another empty room, another disappointment. For some reason, he kept expecting to find some underground society, a hidden city filled with living people and communication. Instead, all he found was dust and echoes. This longing for companionship had driven him toward the surface. Raziel visited the surface about every day. Most of the time there was only desert, but occasionally, on very rare days, a couple rad scorpions or possibly a herd of brahmin would cross his line of sight. Although these animals amused him and assured him that other life still existed, he ached and wished for another human being, another conscious mind to talk to, something to communicate with on -at the very least- a basic level. He desperately required conversation, even just a small tidbit of talk, anything to keep him from the ever-growing grip of insanity!
The corridors and rooms began to lighten up the closer he got to the surface. Although it stung a bit, it was worth it to get away from the tormenting pitch dark in which he usually dwelled. At long last, Raziel had reached the surface level of the facility, his unaccustomed eyes blinding temporarily from the intense bright produced by the cruel desert sun. Raziel hissed and retreated to a dark corner of the room. This was always the hardest part; re-adapting himself to the harsh rays of the sun. Of course, he could not step outside yet, his body was still far too damaged to even leave the shelter of this menacing facility without being broiled alive. The disturbed mutant (which, to his demise, he really was) inspected his body in the light. It was covered in rotting rags and wrapping that acted as clothing and protection from the sun, making him resemble an authentic Egyptian mummy rather than a human being. Blood, rust, vomit, and water erosion stained the wrappings, making them a gross reddish-brown as opposed to the clean white in which they once were before Raziel had put them on. In definition, he was disgusted by himself, and why wouldn't he be? He was a monster, a freak, a disfigured mutant never considered for reproduction. Familiar thoughts of suicide and ending it all swarmed his mind. The disgust was so much that he was tempted to remove the wrapping and run into the burning sun in the nude, thus ending his horrible existence and probably doing the world a favor. He sighed. Of course he would not do it, something held him back, what it is he'll never know. The suffering recluse sat back his ordinary observation chair and glared out of the decaying window. He saw endless desert. In the far distance stood enigmatic mountains of rock and stone, acting a wall from which Raziel's view ended. Beyond those mountains lie the rest of the destroyed state of New Mexico, and beyond that rest the ambiguous western coast of what remains of the post-apocalyptic United States.
Oh yes, Raziel was a very knowledgeable creature, probably more intelligent regarding pre-war history than more other people in the entire fucking continent. Not that he had previous knowledge from experience or anything, but the hundreds upon hundreds of terminals that populated this facility were among his only forms of entertainment and occupation that existed within his gigantic home. He had found out long ago that the facility in which he resided was the infamous Area 51, some top-secret military base and scientific research center that experimented with weaponry or something of the type. Not that it mattered now, as it's sole inhabitant happened to be a single mutant who could not even remember his own name, much less his past. Ah, the past. Raziel had spent hours upon hours trying to piece together his past. Why did he exist? Where did he come from? Where was his home and what had happened to him? It was always questions, never answers. No matter how hard he tried, he could never even come up with a single solitary clue as to who he was. The farthest he could really remember was wandering about aimlessly in some desert when he was picked up by some caravan. At this point he was not in his right mind, or well he still isn't, but he was even worse then. The caravan owner apparently felt pity for the shell of a man and intended to bring him to some nearby settlement, but as Raziel slept something had happened. He awoke covered in wreckage in the middle of the desert with nothing. After than he wandered some more, and eventually found himself at this facility in which he sleeps now. That must've been about a year ago, although it was hard for Raziel to keep track of time, it all seemed to merge together in these endless hallways and chambers.
A movement from the outside gathered his multi-sided attention. It was far in the distance, but it was defiantly something, or someone. Raziel erratically reached for a pair of century-old binoculars. He quickly brushed the layer of dust off of the device and peered through them. It took a moment to focus, and then his eyes gazed upon what seemed to be a person! Another human being! Raziel jumped around in joy. This was an amazing find. This could be it, the day that he escapes this lingering hell, the day he begins living again! Suddenly a fatal realization hit him. How could he even attract the attention of this man? He must be at least a mile and a half away, how would he notice Raziel? The mummified mutant searched frantically for some sort of way to get the figure's attention. A flare gun, a reflective mirror, anything! He sprinted down the corridors towards a nearby utility closet. In a rush, Raziel threw around boxes and shelves in search of anything to attract attention. Finally, his dreams were exacted. A flare gun! Raziel sprinted back up towards the observation chamber and peered once again through the scratched lenses of his binoculars. Desert, nothing but empty desert, where was the man? He couldn't have just disappeared! People don't just disappear! In a desperate and foolish action of hopelessness, Raziel jumped outside and fired off the flare gun. The flare flew into the air and Raziel's skin began to peel and burn. The agony and pain were unbearable, but his hopeless anguish overtook conscious thoughts of survival. At the top of his lungs, he shouted, in a deep and raspy voice: "HERE! OVER HERE! PLEASE, SOMEBODY, ANYBODY! HELP ME! H-he..help m-me.." The tortured man fell to his knees. He could feel his skin boiling and bubbling on his back, but he could not feel the pain. He couldn't feel anything. He considered staying where he was and just letting himself burn, and yet, he could not. A primal instinct for survival kicked in and Raziel ran back inside of his dark and forsaken prison.
Once inside, he fell to the ground and sobbed. Blood oozed from his back and shoulders as tears ran from his eyes. He sat in silence for hours, crying and rolling around in agony. At last, he stood up and crawled back down to the unforgiving darkness of the facility. Lights flickered about as he passed them, moving shadows about and teasing the morbid soul as he dragged himself back to his bed. It was as if the facility was mocking him, laughing at him, toying with his emotions and tormenting his mental well-being. Raziel sat in his bed with his head in his arms. His mind withered with internal struggle. Was the man real? Or was it just another hallucination? Was his mind playing tricks on him? This sane lonely desert and this empty confined prison of a facility were driving him into insanity! Or, Raziel feared, had it already turned him completely sideways?
That night, Raziel dreamt of the lone man in the desert. The man was him.