Disclaimer: I don't own Left 4 Dead, only the OCs and the storyline.
A Broken Cr0wn
Introduction
He stood on the roof of a small skyscraper, looking in the direction of Mercy Hospital, all the way across the city. He'd been traveling for two days and had barely made it halfway there. He'd seen everything the infection had to throw at him; Boomers, Smokers, Hunters, Tanks. And, of course, Witches.
His name was not known to anyone but himself. His parents, his family and his friends were all dead by then. To other survivors, he was known simply as the Witch Hunter. He hunted the small, frail beings wherever he could find them. He hunted with a deadly detachment and coldness, but he hunted not for revenge or anger. He did it because of pity.
You see, our hero is empathic. He can read other people's emotions with near-perfect accuracy. This extended to the Infected, as well. Most of them felt nothing but rage, but this was not the case with the Witch. She felt nothing but pure, crippling sadness. It was so consuming, so utterly extreme, that the first time he felt it, he fell unconscious.
From that day on, he traveled the city and killed every Witch he could find, simply to end their suffering. It was the best he could do for them. We join him now on one such hunting trip…
Act I
He turned away from the sobering view and began to descend the fire escape, dispatching a few commons below with well placed shots from his .45. He stood a full six and a quarter feet, and wore a black leather trench coat. He had a pump shotgun strapped across his back, a desert eagle on each leg, a knife in each boot. He strolled calmly down the street, clearing the way ahead of him without missing a single shot. That was when he heard it.
From a nearby store, he heard the familiar sobbing that never failed to tug at his heartstrings. He swung the shotgun off his back, loaded and cocked it. For the first time since he left the roof, he became tense. He walked quietly into the building, measuring his every step.
He searched the place methodically, clearing each room of infected, and locating the source of the sobbing in a small stockroom. He reached for his shotgun, dropped into a crouch, and crept up behind her.
She sat in the corner, facing the wall. She mewed and sobbed constantly, her long claws digging ruts in the concrete floor. Every so often, she'd try fruitlessly to push her long, unkempt hair out of her face. Her skin was the color of a storm cloud, grey and hinting at a power not immediately obvious in her stature or appearance.
He could not see any of her facial features due to his awkward positioning behind her back. He held up the barrel of the shotgun to just below the line of her hair, closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer to Artemis for the poor, lost soul. He squeezed the trigger.
Click. He froze. So did the Witch. Several thoughts raced through his head when he realized that his shotgun had jammed, most containing expletives. He tried again, several more times. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick. He swore under his breath as the Witch started to turn around. "Fuck."
He caught sight of her blood-red eyes, which we locked on his shotgun. They slowly rose to his face. Then, something happened that made his blood run cold. The Witch spoke to him.
A/N: This is my first fic. Review if you want more chapters, people. I also need a beta. PM me if interested.