The following story should not, under any circumstances, be read by children or the easily offended. Please, if there are any kids with you right now, do not let them read it. Thank you.
Review replies;
Movie-Brat: Actually, I had not seen AT4W yet, thanks for spoiling it. }:| In addition, I have noticed that you only comment on this story when you want me to do something - I am fine with people making requests, but that's all you do. You are my friend and I'm not infuriated or anything, but can you try not to be so demanding? Thanks.
Cartoonatic55: It could have been...but sadly, it gets worse as it goes along. I would have done more, but...I have plans. :P Thanks for reading!
TweenisodeOrange: Yeah, that's what I thought, to. Though one person claimed it was in Oregon... :\ Thanks for reviewing!
Dimentio713: I don't think I was supposed to be scary, but it still failed in whatever it was aiming for. :| Thanks for the review!
Zim'sMostLoyalServant: I'll try to write 'em more often, then. :] Thanks very much!
25/10/11 – The Hunters
They came at night. Every time, they came at night.
They would stride down the street in their antique uniforms, outdated weapons freely displayed, and no-one would ever notice them bar their victim. They would locate their target, and they would deal with them with extreme prejudice. None would ever be spared.
They were the damned of the worst battles – the Somme, Ypres, Verdun, Gallipoli. They were the ghosts of the past, sent to clean up the mess of the present. For better or worse, they would answer any summon, and carry out their orders to the maximum effect.
They were the Hunters.
Dib Membrane locked his apartment and strode outside. It was dark over the city – there was no moon, and no stars. The streetlamps were out – a blackout seemed to have struck.
He pressed his hands into his pockets and began to walk. Where, he didn't know. Gaz had kicked him out (again) and the only other person he knew was Zim. There was no way he was going to his house.
He sighed, his breath foggy in the cold night air. It was strange for it to be so cold in the middle of July, but not unprecedented in this part of the country.
He stopped, and looked around.
He had walked into a dark, misty alleyway. Where had the mist come from? It looked like a sea mist, but he was nowhere near the ocean. And where had the stars gone? Why were the streets so empty on Friday night?
He listened. He could hear the distant thunder of gunfire and explosions, but there was no sign of any battle nearby.
He felt his coat for his camera, only to find that it was gone.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps.
Looking down the alley, he could see three figures emerging from the fog.
Two of the figures wore dirty combat fatigues. The one on the left was wearing blue with red trousers. His uniform seemed too bright and very old fashioned. It contrasted his sunken eyes and wrinkled skin. A filthy blue kepi sat on his head.
The one on the right looked much more practical. He wore a grey uniform, which was extremely utilitarian. His helmet was large with painted camouflage, and bolts attached to either side. He too had sunken eyes and wrinkled skin, but he also possessed a nasty gash on his right cheek.
The middle figure was the most striking. He wore what might once have been a smart, khaki uniform, were it not for the dried mud and grime. Over this uniform he wore a greatcoat. His head was covered with a brimmed helmet with a tan cover. He looked younger than his companions, with pale skin and smooth features.
"Dib Membrane," the officer stated.
Dib raised an eyebrow.
"You know my name?" he quizzed.
"That I do," nodded the Officer, "Gentlemen."
The two soldiers quickly marched up to Dib, and grabbed him firmly by the arms. Dib shouted and tried to escape their grip, but his efforts were useless.
The Officer pulled out a stained sheet of paper, and began to read it.
"Dib Membrane," he read, "By the declarations of Fate and Destiny, we are under orders to charge you for your transgressions against history, morality and mankind."
"But I haven't done anything!" exclaimed Dib, trying to wriggle free again.
"You are sentenced under the following charges," the Officer continued, ignoring him, "Multiple counts of attempted murder against one Invader Zim..."
"...He brought it on himself!"
"...destruction of public property..."
"That was collateral damage!"
"...and wasting the time of innumerable people."
"...wasting time? You wanna book me for wasting time?"
The officer raised his hand.
"That's three counts," he nodded, "We should mark that down."
He pulled a knife from his greatcoat. Dib squirmed, and tried even harder to break free.
Calmly, the Officer held the knife over Dib's left arm and began to carve.
He ignored the screams of agony from his charge, whistling 'It's A Long Way To Tipperary' to drown them out. After a minute of cutting, he finished his work.
Dib breathed and bit his lip, the sting on his arm almost unbearable. He glanced down at the Officer's handiwork – three lines were neatly cut into his skin.
"Now," said the Officer, "On to your punishment."
"Punishment?" gulped Dib. He had thought that that was the punishment.
"First of all, wasting time," mused the Officer, "Do you know how many people have had their minutes taken listening to your conspiracy theories? That's theft of time, you know."
He looked at his watch.
"Added up, you've stolen forty days worth of time from your father and sister alone," he stated, matter-of-factly, "In all, converted to blood, I'd say that's worth...a hand."
He smirked at Dib as the investigator turned pale.
"Hold up his left hand, please," he asked.
The grey-uniformed soldier raised Dib's hand. The Officer nodded his thanks and prepared his knife.
"No," gulped Dib, "I...don't...no..."
The Officer lowered the knife in a lightning fast slash.
Dib screamed, but his hand did not fall. A deep cut was opened on his wrist, but his hand was still attached.
The Officer shook his head, as if he was trying to fix a cabinet, and hacked again...and again...and again...and again.
At last, it was nearly over. Dib screamed one more time as the last of his bone was cut through, and the mangled hand hung loosely from his arm.
The Officer put a hand on his hip.
"Are...are you done?" wheezed Dib.
The Officer shook his head.
"No use wasting a blade on this last bit," he decided, putting down the knife.
Dib's eyes widened in horror as he realised what was about to come next.
The officer grabbed his mutilated hand and began to pull.
Dib's agonized wail echoed down the alleyway for all of the ninety seconds it took for the Officer to rip off his hand. All the while, the Officer continued his work, whistling again. At long last, the hand fell, and a gush of blood washed over the concrete.
"Charming," deadpanned the Officer, "Now, onto the next count; destruction of public property."
Dib, now in utter pain, could only mumble an inaudible response.
"I feel for the poor workmen, you know," sighed the Officer, "Every time you break something in your little fights with Zim, they have to fix it. Time and time again. Evidently, you don't care, either."
He reached into his greatcoat again, removing a revolver.
"If you're hoping for relief, you'll find none here," he explained, "The gun is empty."
He looked it over as if it was a work of art.
"A Webley revolver," he announced, "A classic revolver design. She uses six .445 bullets, and when unloaded, she weighs thirty-eight ounces."
He grinned.
"So when unloaded...she makes a lovely club."
He flipped the revolver, the barrel landing neatly in his hand. He approached Dib, brushed away his hair...and he began to club.
Dib could not even scream this time, as the heavy grip of the gun smashed into his mouth. He just shut his eyes and mentally prayed for a release from the agony. All he could hear was the swishing gun, and the Officer's cheerful whistling.
At last, the Officer was done.
Dib's face was, to put it simply, an unrecognisable pulp. He could only open one eye – the other was in so much pain he wondered if it was even still an eyeball. Most of his teeth had been knocked out and his nose was crushed.
"Well, he was ugly to begin with," shrugged the Officer.
He crossed his arms.
"The final charge – attempted murder," he sniffed, "Taking another life – the worst of all sins. Luckily for you, you've never actually killed anyone...but that does not exempt you from punishment."
He reached into his coat one more time, and pulled out a gasmask, slipping it on. He then pulled out a canister that looked far too large to fit into the greatcoat's pockets.
"Death will come for you, my boy," he warned, "But it will be a long time yet."
He opened the canister, and it began to hiss.
"That is your punishment," finished the Officer.
Dib blacked out.
Dr. Hibbert walked out of the operating room, confronting Professor Membrane and Gaz in the waiting room.
"What is it?" demanded Professor Membrane, "You are distracting me from my inventions!"
"Your son is in that room, Professor," replied Hibbert, somewhat harshly, "He was mugged last night."
Professor Membrane shut up, his face turning white. Gaz tilted her head, looking vaguely interested.
"His left hand has been severed," explained Hibbert, "He's also been beaten heavily in the facial areas, and his system contains damage from an unidentified gas. While he will live, he's physically and mentally crippled – he'll probably never function properly again."
Membrane swallowed. Even Gaz looked horrified, or as close to horrified as she ever was.
"So...m-my son..."
"Your son is an invalid," snapped Hibbert, "You'd have known this if you'd answered my calls earlier."
Membrane fell back onto a chair, sweating.
Above the well-lit hospital, in the clear night sky, the full moon and the stars shone.
Sweet dreams, everyone! :D