Chapter One

So I decided from then on out that I absolutely hated butterflies.

And can you honestly blame me? After being impaled by a half deranged mutant bug from hell any sane person is liable to take up an abhorrence to those twitchy flying things. Me being no exception. Hell, no. Then again, I probably am the exception, seeing as though people don't normally get killed by butterflies on a day to day basis. At least not where I'm from anyway.

I guess that's where it all starts. Me turning around in all of my egotistical male pride in the light of my presumed triumph and psycho-turned Boaz ramming her blade arm into me at full speed from behind. It hurt. Oh, how it hurt. I could practically hear the wretched specimen ripping my organs out one by one, them sloshing around in the visceral fluid as they exchanged pleasantries on their way by. Why hello Stomach, how are you doing? Very well Pancreas, how's it going down there? Yeah, I'm sure they were saying stuff like that.

It was the loss of blood making me hallucinate. I swear. My organs don't usually make audible noises.

I vaguely remember staggering, the world going fuzzy and edges coming in and out of focus like I had consumed too much alcohol again (not something I'm terribly unfamiliar with but doesn't mean I welcome the side effect with open arms either.) I think my chakram left me to finish the duties I could not properly accomplish, though I'm not entirely sure. I was rather preoccupied with, ya know, staying alive and stuff. I then recall my face becoming personally acquainted with the cold, metal floor as I bashed my nose into the aluminum at speeds threatening those who had finished first in the Daytona 500. It was a lovely experience I'd rather not talk about; the cracking noise of my snapping nasal bone and the harmonious thunking sound of my forehead splattering against the tiling. I don't have much else to cough up as far as passing out goes, all I can offer is the cliché everything went black and I woke up with one hell of a headache hours later.

o-o-o-o-o

I was never particularly fond of blood, especially my own. And there it was, splattered out in front of me like modern art, all red and blotchy just dying to seep back through my wounds and into my warm, pleasant body. I don't really blame it, it was ridiculously frigid in Prague, almost as frigid as this one woman I met while commiserating on a less than legal mission in the depths of Alaska. I mean, talk about cold, this girl personified a flesh and blood human blizzard. But I should know better than to hit on ladies sporting ten hand grenades and a personal blow torch whilst trying to hunt a demon demolishing all existence as that particular town knew it. Then again, I was never known for my astuteness either.

And seeing my current predicament, even if I was known for my outrageously high IQ, it wouldn't have done me much good. Bleeding to death doesn't just magically stop because you are able to calculate quadratic equations in your head. Lux Veritatis training. That's what would get me through this. If only I could focus my damn eyes.

I risked a glance southward to assess the damage inflicted on my lower abdomen. It was a pretty neat wound, if wounds had the ability to be neat, and I assumed it would heal rather nicely if I could just manage to stay alive long enough for my flesh to close over. If I carked it now, my bleeding would indeed stop but then again so would my breathing, which would defeat the purpose entirely.

I attempted to stumble to my feet and toppled over almost immediately upon standing upright. Oh how my father would love to see me now. His perpetually whimpy son, unable to walk out a door all because of an insect on steroids. My untimely demise: a butterfly. A butterfly with mutant claws, no doubt, but still a butterfly. He was laughing from the heavens. Or hell. Which ever place he ended up.

Eventually, after about five more miserable attempts, I made it to my feet. If I had not recently been impaled, there would have been much rejoicing, which I usually never participate in lest I am drunk or significantly stoned. Neither which I recommend doing, by the way, unless you enjoy spontaneously making a fool out of yourself in front of prospective significant others. There may be a reason why I have been perpetually single.

Then again, the whole demon hunting aspect may have something to do with it, too.

Not that that off set Lara. Aw, bloody hell. Lara. She's off being all cheeky with Eckhardt and probably hurtling verbal cyanide at the guy before promptly delivering his ass to him on a silver platter. I may have only had two decent conversations with the girl, but I could already gather she was not one to exchange pleasantries with people threatening her life, or the demise of the entire known world for that matter. See, when people threaten my life, I just shoot them. Or slice them. Or stab them. Something that ultimately ends their existence. Participating in witty banter when my hands are itching to fight isn't something I'm accustomed to doing. Death. Blood. Violence. Take me to the action and leave me there and I will be fine.

Unless, of course, it happens to involve an over grown demonic butterfly. Then I'm just flat out screwed.

Let's not talk about these things.

With thoughts of the well endowed female still lingering in my head, I opted to leave my chakram precariously placed on the floor housing my blood. That thing had a homing device that latched on to me a million miles away. Lara was a smart girl. She'd figure it out. While I couldn't be there to greet her person and congratulate her on saving the world, I'm sure a puddle of my blood and a personal weapon would suffice.

We were never very good with small talk anyway.

While I was slightly peeved she was busy taking what should rightfully have been my ultimate act of vengeance against the man who so brutally killed my father (I may not have been particularly fond of the bastard but, hell, he was still my father) I knew she was in much better condition than I to be fighting right now and my best option would probably to have been checking into a hospital somewhere and getting myself patched up.

But let's not forget my infamously low IQ. I was never known for doing things that need to be done. Or saying things that need to be said. I point and I shoot. That's the basic story. All other things are up for grabs. Occasionally I'll win some more persuadable females over with my good looks and charm, but even that's an extreme rarity that tends to only work in underground bars and demon lairs where the typical female isn't freaked out by the personalized twin pistols you are holding and psychic super powers you posses.

Funny. I would think that would be a turn on.

Didn't phase Lara at all. Then again, I'm starting to think nothing phases that girl, living or dead, realistic or not. I could sprout another head out of my shoulder and all she would say is, "My, that's fascinating," then promptly proceed to blast the crap out of it until I was once again down to only one cranium. To this day I still can't tell if that's something that's turns me on or turns me off. Best not to ponder it.

So I limped away, in total hero like fashion, all battered and bruised by battle. My plan: check into a nondescript hotel room, have a smoke, drink some beer, and congratulate myself on not dying. Unless, of course, Lara failed. Then my plan would go something like: go into hiding, stock up on grenades, say my prayers, and prepare to get blown into oblivion by the long extinct Nephilim race as they dominated the planet. But as of the moment, all I cared about was getting myself a drink. If the world was gonna end it would wait until tomorrow. Right now just wasn't convenient for me.

And with that, I stumbled off through the gaping doors promising freedom and alcohol and cigarettes. I thought for a second about leaving Lara in such abrupt fashion, but it didn't bother me too much. Hardly at all, in fact. Demon hunters don't get attached. Demon hunters don't do relationships. Demon hunters don't have friends or significant others or families. We hunt, we kill, and we drink. Eat. Sleep. Breathe. Repeat until dead or killed by some unholy monster from the bowels of hell. This was the mentality I was brought up in. This was how I was raised. Leaving behind a temporary acquaintance? Typical. And I thought nothing of it. I considered myself more than benevolent simply by leaving my beloved chakram there. It would find its way back to me eventually. Lara would probably need some assurance I wasn't dead because, well, she's a girl and they, like, cry and stuff when people die.

I bid thee ado, Lara. It was fun while it lasted, but beer awaits me and you are more than capable of taking care of yourself. But for what it's worth, I always thought you were rather cute.

o-o-o-o-o

AN: I wanted to see how this story would fare out in the depths of fanfiction. I'm hoping I'm not the only female out there who fell for Kurtis the minute they saw them, though it has been brought to my knowledge that a 'Kurtis Estrogen Brigade' exists somewhere out in the realms of the world wide web. Reviews are significantly appreciated. Oh, and they also make me update faster. Just thought I'd throw that out there (hint hint.) So lemme know what you think. :)