Okay, this is the first time I've attempted a first-person viewpoint, and I'm hoping it's turned out well. Personally, I'm quite proud of it, but we'll see.
Anyway, a quick heads up: this fic is rated Mature for a reason. That reason being that there are some graphic descriptions of violence, as well as some dark themes throughout. Although, when you're writing in a first-person perspective for a serial killer, that's to be expected.
Everything belonging to SEGA (i.e locations, characters, items etc) belong, obviously, to SEGA. All other characters and locations belong to me, so please don't steal.
The nights are growing colder. Tiny droplets of moisture spew forth as I let out another breath, but soon disappear again, joining the nothingness of the night. My bare feet find it difficult to gain purchase on the ledge I crouch upon, and the only reason I haven't fallen to the alley floor some 20 feet below is the natural grip my species is gifted with. I glance at my skinny arm and see that the moonlight is reflecting off my viridian scales. I quickly pull down my black sleeve, lest anyone below see me. There isn't anyone in the alley yet, but there's every chance that a local tenant may glance out of their dingy window and see me perched on the side of a building. I can't afford to let that happen, which is why I'm dressed head to toe in black. Even my long tail, which is wrapped around my perch, is covered in dark cloth.
I find it difficult to find a purpose for the stone protuberance I perch upon. I can only assume that a statue, perhaps a gargoyle or some other monster, once squatted where I now wait. It must have finally been defeated by the weather and fallen off, allowing me, another monster, to take its place. And like my predecessor I sit unmoving, stolidly watching the alley below me for any sign of movement. I glance at the black watch on my wrist. 01:54, it reads. My prey should arrive soon.
My victim tonight is a vicious one. From what I can gather, he's some kind of syndicate enforcer; the guy you can count on to deal with people who forget their duties, the guy you can count on to inflict as much pain as possible but keep his victims alive, and the guy you can count on to smile while he does it. I've been stalking him for a week now, and he sickens me. It wouldn't be so bad if he stuck to his boss' targets, but this sick bastard goes out of his way to find people he thinks deserve punishment and beats them half to death.
Just last night I watched him at work. Some shopkeeper, an old guy who couldn't defend himself, had apparently refused to pay his protection money. I couldn't help admiring the old man, but my target felt differently. By the time he was finished, I could barely bring myself to look at the poor old shopkeeper. His cheeks were bloated like balloons from the punches, more than half of his teeth littered the floor, and every single one of his fingers had been snapped to right angles. My prey laughed the whole time, and just left him there on the shop floor. I could have killed him then and there and stopped him, but some other guys from the syndicate were waiting outside for him, and besides, it goes against everything I said I would never do. "Never get personal," I told myself.
Never seems to work out that way though.
A noise from below. Footsteps. My scaled hands tighten on the edges of my perch. My eyes narrow, trying desperately to find out whether or not the person below is my target. They've just entered the alley, and they're shrouded in shadow. They walk slowly and deliberately, befitting of someone of their stature. The person has a large build; squared shoulders atop a thick torso, complemented by muscled arms and legs. It certainly seems like my target, but without seeing their face I can't be certain. My fingers begin to hurt as they dig further into my stony perch. Come on, come on, move faster! I need to see your face!
The shadow lifts at last, and it is who I'd hoped it would be. His square-jawed face is rough and misshapen, as though he'd been in too many fights as a youth. A layer of stubble covers his chin; he probably thinks it's stylish, the fool. He's wearing, as usual, a dark pinstriped suit with matching trousers and dark leather shoes. I find myself wondering if gangsters deliberately dress stereotypically, just so people know who they should fear. It's more than likely.
Now that my prey has arrived, it's time to abandon my perch. Being careful not to slip on the frost that coats the stone, I turn and judge the distance between me and the fire escape that clings to the side of the dingy building my perch attaches to. About 9 feet separates us; easily jumpable for someone like me. I tense myself, and then leap into the abyss. I catch a hold of the black metal railing and quickly pull myself over it, landing silently on the cold metal platform beyond. I immediately glance back down to the alley to see if I've been spotted. I haven't, but my prey is getting dangerously close to the base of the building I'm on.
I wait a few seconds until he's passed me, and then continue on down the stairs to the ground. By the time I drop silently to the pitted tarmac, he's reached roughly the midpoint of the alley. I look around briefly, checking for any unwanted guests, before setting off to catch up with the man. He's only a few seconds away at a jog, but I need to go slower if I'm to remain hidden. I dart forward and duck behind some bins as he looks around. Alley rats, unevolved creatures, surround my hiding place and waste no time in congregating around my feet. I make no move to shoo them, despite my disgust, and content myself with checking on my target. He's moving off again. I stand up, scattering the rats back to their dank holes, and set off. It takes almost a minute of sneaking, hiding, then sneaking again to finally get within striking distance.
I crouch slightly to pull my knife from its ankle sheath. I'm only 2 metres away from him, and he still has no idea. My long tongue flicks out to wet my drying lips. My entire body is ripe with anticipation. This vile creature, this 'enforcer', is about to get what's he's deserved for a long time. And I can't wait.
I take two more steps, and then lunge.
Nack the Weasel wasn't happy. He had just come back from raiding an old echidna ruin, having gained a veritable collection of ancient artefacts while there, only to find that no-one would buy them. Apparently, everyone interested in old relics also happened to be inclined towards believing in old legends. Legends, for example, that said the Mystic Ruins temple, and all that was in it, was cursed. Probably didn't help that that Chaos monster that had levelled the city a few years back had ties to echidnean legend.
"Superstitious old prats..." Nack muttered, staring into the empty shot glass before him. He had spent the last hour or so in one of Station Square's dingiest bars trying to drown his sorrows, but had only succeeded in making himself feel worse. He normally wasn't one to mope over bad luck, but this particular piece of bad luck had cost him quite a lot of time and money, for absolutely new reward. And to Nack, work without pay was one of the most heinous things imaginable.
"Somethin' up buddy?" the barkeeper asked. The barkeeper was a burly man; fat, but not without his fair share of muscle. A reasonably heavy beard covered his jovial features, but didn't conceal his seemingly genuine curiosity. Nack, however, was in no mood to deal with cheerful people. Not that he usually was, but today he was in a particularly foul mood, and this unfortunate barkeeper had just made himself a target. Not a good idea when talking to someone nicknamed the Sniper.
"Yeah, pal," Nack sneered at the unfortunate barkeeper, "Some of the lice from that hedge on your face seem to have got into my glass. Get me a new one, eh? Or at least give this one a wash before you try and give me more of that excuse for booze you're selling."
The barkeeper shook his head resignedly and picked up the glass. Nack sneered after him, his eyes not leaving the man's large form until he returned with another glass. Once he had set it down, the man walked away again, gladly tending to another customer.
Nack downed the shot in one, not even acknowledging the burning sensation it caused in his throat. He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes, the cool brown leather of his gloves soothing against his skin. Maybe he'd had enough for one night. He could always try to sell his goods somewhere else, and who knew? Maybe he'd even make a profit from this latest venture.
"Not bloody likely..." he muttered to himself. Heaving himself off the stool he sat on, he started making his way to the door of the bar. His heavy leather boots clunked against the wooden floor, each step ringing unpleasantly in the weasel's large ears. He was almost at the door when the barkeeper noticed him.
"Hey, buddy!" he shouted, "You gonna pay for those drinks?"
Nack grumbled incoherently and kept walking, pushing the door open and stepping out into the night. Moonlight glittered brilliantly on the sea's surface, and if Nack was the kind of person to appreciate things like that, he'd say it was beautiful. The sea breeze was cool and soothing against his skin, but he had to hold his wide-brimmed stetson hat on to keep it from fluttering away. The bar behind him was just one of the buildings on Station Square's waterfront, although it was probably the least attractive. In fact, this entire section of the waterfront was ugly; run-down and dilapidated, completely clashing with the newer buildings mere minutes away. Nack glanced out to sea, snarling at the city's Statue of Victory distastefully. The statue, which was a sculpture of a human and mobian warrior standing over slain enemy, had been built fairly recently to not only celebrate the victory of Sonic over the Chaos monster, but also to celebrate the city's successful effort to rebuild itself. Such sentiments made Nack's stomach turn. Dismissing the Statue, he turned and began trudging along the wooden planks, his boots still clunking. He was heading towards the waterfront's parking area where his bike, and its seemingly worthless cargo, was waiting.
"Hey, just where d'you think you're going?!"
Nack screwed up his eyes at the shout. The barkeeper's voice was way too loud for his liking. He slowly turned around to face the burly man, who had burst through the front door to his bar and seemed to have been followed by at least half of his regulars.
"Yeah man!" one of the many guys behind the bar's owner said, "You ain't goin' nowhere 'till you pay up! Ain't no-one disrespects Big Steve like that!"
Nack groaned at this man. He was clearly a prime example of inbreeding; hideously deformed in the facial region, severe mental difficulties, and overall just a bit creepy. Nack really couldn't be bothered dealing with the barkeeper, or 'Big Steve' as he was called, and his cronies. He had just lost out on a deal that should have earned him thousands, and he was a bit drunk on top of that.
So, to solve the problem, he slipped one of his six-shooters from its hip holster and levelled it lazily at the group. The hammer made a satisfying click as he pulled it back, snapping a bullet into the chamber.
"Look morons," he growled, "I'm really not in the mood, okay?"
The men, of whom there were at least ten, all suddenly stared at Big Steve, as though looking for guidance. Big Steve himself simply gaped at the gun and began stepping back towards his business. The sudden change of confidence to terror amused Nack intensely, and his small grin only served to unnerve the barkeeper and his friends further.
"H-hey, take it easy buddy," Big Steve stammered, "I-it's cool, y-you just... just h-have the drinks on the house... okay?"
"Thank you ever so much, Big Steve," Nack spat, spouting the name as though it was an insult. The men quickly cowered back inside the bar, leaving Nack to holster his gun and once again head for his bike. Idiots like those men didn't deserve to breath the same air as him, let alone try and stand up to him. They obviously had no idea who he was. But then, the name of Nack the Weasel, or Fang the Sniper as he was once known, no longer held the same power it used to. Time had that effect, much to chagrin of the weasel/wolf hybrid.
It didn't take long for Nack to reach the parking lot where his bike was parked. The Marvellous Queen II sat patiently in the centre of the square lot, waiting for its charge to return and take it home. She was a powerful old girl, styled in the image of an old chopper and gifted with all the growl associated with her look. Nack would have preferred to have driven the original Marvellous Queen here, but for some reason Station Square, along with several other cities in the United Federation, had outlawed hover vehicles. The purple-furred hybrid couldn't think of any reason for this other than the government being influenced by oil companies. Hover vehicles didn't need oil to run, but more conventional vehicles did, leading to Nack's not unlikely theory. It seemed that even the government was corrupt nowadays; not that that was anything new.
The Marvellous Queen II had several satchels attached to her rear, used to carry all the equipment Nack might need while working; flashlights, excavation tools, lockpicks, ammo, and a variety of other bits and bobs. One of the satchels also contained the old artefacts from the treasure hunter's latest venture, and he decided to check on them, just in case.
In keeping with his luck of late, the artefacts were nowhere to be found.
"Son of a BITCH!" he shouted, throwing his hat to the ground. "DAMN IT!" He stomped around from several minutes, kicked over a few bins and growled at a couple taking a night-time stroll before he came to his senses and tried to calm down. He took some deep breaths and mulled over his situation. He had just spent three days digging around in some ancient echidnean hellhole to steal a bunch of what turned out to be worthless crap, and then had his worthless crap stolen by what were likely street punks, who wouldn't even know what to do with them.
"DAMN IT!" he shouted, kicking over another bin.
It's strange how beautiful blood can be.
Tonight, for example, it is reflecting the pale glow of the moonlight, giving it an almost... ethereal quality. It's usually viscous appearance has been replaced with that of an elegant crimson sparkle, which dances and flows through the cracks littering the alley floor. I could sit and watch it for hours, if I was so inclined, but unfortunately I don't have that much time. Eventually the sun will rise, and when it does, the authorities will undoubtedly find my newest victim.
He's not quite dead yet, but he's damn close. He's slumped on the ground at my feet, twitching like an asylum patient. I suppose it's understandable, given his present condition.
One of his eyes has been reduced to nothing but a red, swollen mess; in fact, the sight somewhat reminds me of a squashed tomato, complete with running juices. The skin of one of his cheeks hangs off like a flap on a door, and occasionally slaps against the sticky patch where it used to reside with a sickeningly wet squelch. His face is swollen and bruised beyond hope of repair, much like the old shopkeeper's was once he was done with him. I did that on purpose. I'm a firm believer in the principle of 'an eye for an eye', and this man has paid for everything he's ever done tenfold. The rest of his body is as bad as his face; both his arms and legs are broken, and he's missing three of his fingers. The rest are snapped, again like the old man's. His clothes are in tatters, revealing his blue and purple chest. He's covered head to toe in bruises, mostly thanks to the steel baton I found hiding in his pocket. I suspect his ribs may have been broken and punctured his lungs, going from his haggard breathing. He's most definitely got internal bleeding; the blood-stained rag that was stuffed in his mouth a few minutes ago tells me that if nothing else.
To be perfectly honest, I'm surprised this excuse for a human being is still alive; I may have underestimated him. Still, it makes no difference now. There's nothing he, or anyone else, can do to prevent his fate. He is close now. His final breath draws near, and my body tightens in anticipation. I don't understand why I feel like this as my victims die; it's as though I get some kind of pleasure from watching their final, laboured breaths.
I suppose I do. They deserve it.
He mutters something through hideously bloated lips. I can't hear him, so I crouch down next to his twitching body and put my ear close to his mouth.
"K... ki... ll," A raking cough interrupts him, bringing up more blood. "K-kill... m... me..."
Many people would take pity on him now. He's received his punishment, hasn't he? Should I end it?
No. Not yet.
I lean in very close, making sure he can hear me through his battered, cauliflower-like ears. "Soon... but I'm not quite done with you yet, my friend."
He tries to sob. Desperately tries, but his tears ducts won't allow it; they're far too swollen. And I smile. I can't help myself. I know it's wrong to do so, but... this power... the feeling of power that I have over this dying man is... addictive. I crave it. That's why I hunt for new victims so often. That's why I do what I do. That's why I kill.
But I meant what I said. I'm not done with him; there's still one thing left to do. I reach down and rip open his shirt, so that there's no longer any clothing covering his once pink torso. I trace a scaly finger over the battered flesh and then reach down to my ankle to unsheathe my knife. I bring up the large blade, letting him see exactly what I intend to do. He tries to wriggle away, but in vain. We both know there's nothing he can do. He's completely powerless against me.
I run the tip of the blade over his sensitive flesh, smiling as he twitches, and then push down. He tries to scream, but his throat is full of blood and besides, his lips are too swollen to even attempt anything more than a whisper. The blade is buried in his lower abdomen, where I let it linger for a few seconds, before I start carving. His eyes roll back in his head from the pain, but I continue nonetheless. I finish my first shape, and move up his torso onto the next. The knife plunges in again. And again.
By the time I'm finished, he's long dead. His husky breathing has stopped, and the blood is no longer flowing from his cuts as it did before. I wipe my blade on the remains of his shirt, cleaning it as best as possible, before tucking it neatly back into its sheath. I stand up, check to see if anyone's around, and then admire my handiwork. The moonlight is still reflected in the blood. His body is twisted and mangled in pure agony; his final moments must have been excruciating. He's covered head to toe in cuts, bruises and wide gashes. His newest, and biggest, injuries are littering his torso. My carving was not, as he may have believed in his final moments, random. No, it had a purpose.
For you see, I am a killer who likes to have his work known. To that end, I have left my twelve victims to date with a distinct signature; a reminder to the authorities of who they should thank for ridding the streets of men like this man. This man, who marks the thirteenth entry in my ever-growing list of casualties. The carving on his torso spells out a word; a name I have chosen for myself while I work. A name the police have foolishly added to their most wanted list.
'Slade', the flesh reads.
The birds chirped cheerfully outside the large window, letting the entire world know that all was well with the new morning. The sun was shining, the clouds were white and fluffy, and Nack the Weasel had murder on his mind.
"Damned birds..." he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the king-size bed. The house he was staying in wasn't his; far from it in fact, it actually belonged to a family who just happened to be out of town. It had been by pure luck that the house was empty when Nack broke in the previous night, making a change from his recent streak.
Just as well, he had thought as he pulled the Marvellous Queen II round into the back garden. If there had been someone home, things may have gotten nasty. And that was something the weasel preferred to avoid. As far as he was concerned, violence was only really acceptable when threatened, or when he was getting paid.
Nack pushed these thoughts out of his mind as he got up out of the soft bed, wriggling his toes in the thick white carpet that layered the floor. Deciding he'd go for a shower, he grabbed a towel from an open wardrobe and headed for the on-suite bathroom.
Half an hour later he sat in the huge house's living room draped in a thick towel, watching the television. The towel wasn't for privacy's sake; mobian genitals were generally hidden beneath fur or weren't external until needed. The towel was simply there to dry his dripping fur, and to give a little extra comfort. He had looted the kitchen before settling in the living room, and had made himself some cheese-on-toast. Nothing special, but he was hungry and wanted some quick food.
He brushed some crumbs out of his bushy white muzzle as he flicked through the channels on the huge widescreen television before him. Everything was complete crap. From "I'm a slightly angsty teenager going through high school" to "I'm a serious character in a serious show and I really want you to take me seriously", the purple-furred hybrid could find nothing he liked. He eventually settled on a relatively new film called "Blue Streak." It was filmed as a sort of mock documentary, supposedly chronicling the life of Sonic the Hedgehog and his friends but actually just making fun of them at every available opportunity. It was Nack's kind of film.
He'd had his run-ins with Sonic the Hedgehog. Oh yes, the hedgehog had prevented him from getting his hands on the Chaos Emeralds; jewels containing unlimited power and allowing for limitless possibilities. But more importantly to him, the jewels had unlimited value. If Nack had gotten his hands on them, he could have named any price he liked and some idiot would still have bought them. Possibly Dr Robotnik, or Eggman as he now called himself. Nack had his dealings with the fat man too; he'd made something of a partnership with the Doctor years ago, the same time he encountered Sonic for the first time, in fact. He had agreed to assist Eggman in his search for the emeralds, without telling the megalomaniac that as soon as he had them, he'd scarper. Still, Sonic had beaten him in the end, along with Eggman, making his double-cross somewhat redundant.
But that was all in the past, and at least now Nack was getting to laugh at the ridiculous blue hedgehog. His entertainment was interrupted all of a sudden, however, with some sort of breaking news bulletin. Nack usually wasn't one to follow the news, but he refrained from changing the channel for one reason, and one reason only. The text flashing up on the screen contained the word 'bounty', and that piqued the weasel's interest. He was down on his luck right now, but it just so happened that bounty hunting was one of his many dubious occupations.
"Police officials in Central City today have confirmed that the infamous serial killer, calling himself 'Slade', has claimed another victim," the newsreader droned. She looked completely uninterested in what she was saying. "Authorities are not willing to comment further on the victim at this time, but they have released details of a reward for Slade's capture. A bounty of 150,000 rings will be awarded to whomever delivers Slade to the Central City Police Department alive, and 50,000 will be awarded if he is delivered dead. Officials believe that this will speed up the capture of the killer and hope it will prevent him from striking again. In other news-"
Nack turned the television off, cutting the woman's sentence short. This was an interesting turn of events indeed, and could be just what he needed to get himself back into the fast lane, and more importantly, back in the money. He stood up from the large sofa and made his way back to the bedroom, where his clothes were waiting.
"150,000..." he muttered to himself. A wide grin slowly spread across his face, revealing the overly sharp canines that had once earned him the nickname 'Fang'. He chuckled softly as he pulled on his heavy boots, thinking about all the things he could buy with that kind of money.
"Sounds like my kinda job."
So, any good? I'll be continuing anyway, but feedback is always appreciated.
Thanks for reading.
