Child of the Night

Child of the Night

By Miss Scarlet

And on he walked. No need to rush. He knew where he was going. Or, more precisely, he knew whom he was going to. He could sense her, feel her, see what she was seeing. She was so close almost within his grasp. A chorus of squawks broke out from in front of him, black shapes darting here and there, flapping leathery wings as they cried in indignation at his interruption.

I would do anything for them. They are the gods, after all. They rule us all from above, destroy us with the nod of a head, control our lives from above without a second's thought. And if they say jump, I jump. I wouldn't have it any other way.

His milky eyes flicked upwards, alighting on great black bulk of the police station towering against the darkened sky. He knew, without thinking, that she was near. And he would find her. And then he would kill her. He knew that for certain.

I will tear the very stars down from their lofty hiding place, present their heads to the gods on a platter. Why? Because they want it so. The stars must be destroyed, for they desperately try to shed light on things that should remain in darkness. Like me. I need the darkness. It powers me, it feeds me. It hides me from them. I will not let this darkness be taken by the foolish stars.

A rabid dog scampered away from him, whining. He paid it no heed. What use was a dog? Where did one single dog fit in the grand scale of things? Right at the bottom, if he was any judge. He walked on. His prey was so close, so very, very close

When the stars are gone, they will be pleased. We do not need the stars. They have done wrong, and now they must be destroyed. It is the way of life. It is how things are. Justice will be done. And who decides what is just and what is right? They do. I am their warrior, and I will tear down any in their path. The proud, the haughty the breakers of the law. The laws of the gods. Not the laws of these panicked humans, dashing about like stupid guinea pigs. Their laws mean nothing any more.

There she was! The prey, the woman, the fallen star! He sped up, teeth bared in a feral snarl. The star turned around, the expression on her face one of complete terror. He began to run. He outstretched an arm, so close to the prey, so close, so close

The prey shouted something unintelligible to him, and skipped through an open door. He snarled in frustration. So like the prey, to attempt to put off the inevitable. Much better to get it over with, to accept your punishment and stop all this foolishness. But obviously the naïve prey thought it still had a chance. How can any mortal have a chance against what was decided by the gods? The gods, in their tall towers and white coats, with their clicking pens, plush swivel chairs and big clipboards. None could rival their power. Anyone who tried was destroyed. Just like the stars. Just like they would be. Soon.

The door gave way before him immediately, the ancient wood needing not much force before it splintered roughly. Stupid human doors. They could stand up no better to the powers of the gods than the humans themselves could! An alleyway. Why would a human put a door at the end of an alley? It didn't matter. But where was the prey? Where had that troublesome prey run?

He stormed along the alley, knocking over old trashcans and cardboard boxes, ignoring the moans of a dead man behind him. Stupid mortals. Why can they not accept death? Why can they not welcome it? Even after death tightens her icy grip around them, they come back, groaning and moaning and being of no use whatsoever. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Death is going to get them eventually, so why do they insist on running?

Running is pointless. It tires you out, it blinds you, it hurts you. They run even though they know they will soon have to stop, because their stupid mortal bodies cannot cope with it. Stupid mortals the gods never run. They walk, they think, the wander. Sometimes they stride. They scratch their chins thoughtfully. They even shout, if they have to. But they never run. I do their running for them. I am their legs. Only my legs don't hurt after a while, and I do not stop, doubling over, breathing hard. I am not like those stupid mortals. I could run forever.

Someone cried out to the right, and gunshots rang out. The prey! Probably shooting another of those stupid mortals that were too stubborn to stop moving when they were killed. He stared intently at the wall, beyond which he knew the sound had come from. So where had the prey gone?

There was a chain link fence a bit further on, and it looked like the prey had climbed over it. What other explanation could there be? Cloudy eyes flicked back up to the police station, which loomed even closer. He crashed right through the fence, the flimsy metal wires breaking apart easily, and looked around. A dirty pathway, lined with trash cans. Silly prey. Silly place to go.

The gods want her dead. So shall it be.

The prey was now very far way, but it didn't vex him. The prey could run forever, but she couldn't hide. She couldn't escape. After all, what chance did one woman stand against the Nemesis? None whatsoever. He was as inevitable as fate, as death itself. No one could escape his power.

Blackened gums worked furiously, forcing his misshapen mouth to speak, and he said the only word he knew how to say. "S.T.A.R.S!"

He would get her, soon. No need to worry. And on he walked.

---

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes resting lazily on the city below him. His city. Lights blinking on and off, cars trawling along the roads shop windows, bar signs tinting the night sky with luminescent orange. His sky.

He swung around, and picked up his big black clipboard. He glanced down it, brow furrowed. His hand found his pen, and – click – he held it over the clipboard, idly ticking boxes as he saw fit.

Click – went the pen again. The door hissed open, and another man stepped inside gracefully, head lowered as a mark of respect. So fitting. He was after all, the one in charge.

"Sir" Click. "The Nemesis prototype has been destroyed, sir. I'm sorry." Click.

"Of course it has. I'd like to see a bio-weapon that can withstand a nuclear blast," the man said with a hollow laugh. Click. "Is there anything else?" he asked, a note of impatience creeping into his tone. Click. Click, click.

"Ah yes sir." Click. "We have reason to believe that the Nemesis prototype was destroyed before the missile hit. One of our sources claimed—"

"Before?" the man repeated, sounding surprised. "How?"

"One of the S.T.A.R.S members. Jill Valentine." Another click.

His face darkened a shade. "Valentine, eh? Well, that's the last time she gets in our way. Send the Nemesis after her."

The other man floundered for words for a moment, confused. "But sir!" Click. "The Nemesis prototype model has been destroyed!"

"I know. But that was only the prototype. Go." Click. The other man sagged, visibly relieved, and turned to leave. "Oh, and this time" Click. "You'll just have to make Nemesis better. After all, we can't have our little child of the night' letting the side down, can we?" Click.

He set his big clipboard and clicking pen back down on the desk, and swung his plush swivel chair back around to face the window, which looked out on the city below. Ah his city.

---

Hope I didn't offend anyone with that brief trip to the – ah – surreal. Big shout out to Don Seto for the inspiration. Also thanks to Microsoft Encarta, who gave me the short but sweet paragraph of text from which this minuscule story was born. Go check it out under the word Nemesis' if you want to know what I am babbling about. It goes on about how Nemesis represents divine justice and so on and so forth. Interesting stuff. I would also like to thank my readers. For, uh reading. . And last of all thank you to anyone who is about to write me a review. I love ya loads.