Crime...

His one final flutter had not paid off - did any of them? He should know better by now. And creditors were snapping at his heels - little debts, big debts, ones he didn't even remember - ones he didn't even know existed. He couldn't keep track of them all. So in the end, he snapped. Did what he had promised himself he wouldn't do. He had just stolen another car and sold it on to Lenny the Rat - in a few days it would be back on the streets: new paint job, new license plates - no one would be any the wiser. No one would ever track it back to him.

He returned home - stopping off on the way to buy a bottle of something and a pack of cigarettes to celebrate. His new money was burning a hole in his pocket, he could pay off some debts and the fact he had just committed yet another crime… he shrugged it off. It wasn't his problem.

It was easy, he told himself, as he opened his door. He didn't get caught. He didn't care about whoever it was he'd stolen from. They were a human, let their human police deal with it. He was above all that. Or beneath it. Whatever. Besides, he was only going to steal cars when the ponies weren't working for him. And they weren't at the moment. It was this or risk getting his legs broken - or worse. So it wasn't even really a question - it was just a matter of necessity. And if people didn't like the way he lived his life, well … he wasn't a person. So it was none of their goddamn business.

He didn't even imagine Harri's face, her expression, if she saw what he had just done. Or that's what he was telling himself. He wasn't thinking about her, he thought, thinking about her. He wasn't her husband anymore, he wasn't Francis. He didn't care about the law and he could break it if it suited him. And Harri had no hold over him. Nope. None at all.

He eased open the door, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and then turned to close it behind him, putting the chain on. He couldn't risk any of his creditors breaking in whilst he was in there. Even if he could pay them off now, they wouldn't wait to find that out before they battered him bloody. He took his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and threw them down on the table beside the door. Then he struggled out of his jacket.

He tensed up. He could sense someone in the room with him. Pretending not to notice anything, he took the cigarette from his mouth, stubbed it out in the ashtray and then picked up the baseball bat he kept handy, ready for occasions such as this. He held it over his shoulder, ready to swing.

'Who's there?'

'A friend.'

'I don't have any friends.'

'Well, then, more like a relative.'

A monster, in a plaid shirt, stepped out of the shadows. It was the same kind of monster that Doyle was - green, with those hideous blue spikes marring his face. A Brachen demon. It wanted his help. 'I don't know what you think I can do', Doyle told him, 'I've got problems of my own.'

They were being hunted by a pure blood army of demons, The Scourge - this demon called them, and this demon wanted Doyle to help him and his family to hide. They weren't asking him to help them fight, just asking him to help them hide. But Doyle shook his head. 'You've got the wrong guy, pal. You want to set up a little off track betting, then I got the know how. But demon hiding? It's not my line.'

Bank robbery was his line, now. Car theft. And gambling. Whatever this creature wanted, Doyle couldn't give it to him. He was a monster, he didn't help. But he wanted to be human - and so he didn't want to see any commonality with the demon in front of him. He wasn't one thing or the other. A half breed, a mongrel. Humans didn't want him. Harri didn't want him. And he didn't want to be with the other monsters. So it was just him, all alone. And that was the way he planned to keep it.

'You're one of us,' the demon told him. That annoyed him. 'No I'm not,' he protested, 'I was raised human - and I'm not looking to explore me roots.'

'Raised human' - like he'd been 'raised Catholic', like it was a choice. Harri hadn't been 'raised human'; none of those normal people out on the streets - the ones he envied so much it hurt - had been 'raised human'. They just were. But for him, there could have been another way. And that hurt. He blamed his father for this. The man, the monster, he'd never met. It wasn't his mother's fault. No way had she chosen to get pregnant with a thing - a creature, like him. This must have been forced on her, and he was the result. He wondered if the demon in front of him knew his rapist father. How else would he have known where to find Doyle?

'We don't have anyone else to turn to', the demon said. His voice sounded choked up, like he was fighting back tears. Before he'd turned into a demon, Doyle had never realised that monsters could cry. He knew, now, that they could. He'd done enough of it, himself, since his 21st birthday.

He sat down on the arm of his chair, balancing. 'Look, man, I don't know what to tell y'. You're up against something real big, here. Anyone who helps y' - well, they're taking a chance. And I'm not - dying - to take chances.'

'If you don't believe we share a common family, believe that we share a common enemy. Doesn't that mean anything to you?'

Doyle just looked at the demon, he didn't say anything.

'I guess not.' The demon left. And Doyle began to chain smoke.