The Docks

In a corner of a warehouse, a lone satyr crawled to safety behind one of many shipping crates inside the building. Echoing across the building were the sounds of grunts, impacts, and pained screams.

He didn't expect this.

It was a simple, slow night with an even simpler task. Guard the warehouse. He did just that. Playing Hexus Hold'Em to pass the time as a few caravans came to deliver stashes of weapons, drugs, and more. He didn't expect to be in the center of a massacre.

Peeking around the corner, he looked to the center of the building, where a table once stood, now shattered to a million splinters. He saw bodies litter the floor. Some still had blades embedded in them, while others were eviscerated beyond recognition. If he weren't so deathly afraid of being found, he would have vomited his dinner at the sight of such a gruesome image.

He saw an oni get up, grabbing a massive spiked club and catching a few breaths before charging at someone- Some thing- at the other side of the center.

The thing in question had just finished off a wasp demon with a haymaker so powerful, the mere sound of the impact could make one wince. It rose up, cape flowing at every inch as though there was a constant breeze, just barely reacting to the club swung down by the oni. With one vambrace covered forearm, it blocked the club, and with the other, it struck the oni in the gut hard enough to send it reeling back in pain, dropping his weapon. The satyr had never seen an oni feel real pain, let alone the most physically imposing member of this party.

The satyr watched as the caped figure grabbed the club and swung at the still recovering oni with such a force, he swore he heard bones break. The oni collapsed on the ground and that was all the satyr could watch as he turned his head around the corner again. The only thing he saw was the blank walls, illuminated only by moonlight, and the only thing he heard was the sounds of bones breaking and the bludgeoning of metal against flesh.

Then he heard the sound of clattering metal. That thing must have tossed aside the weapon like trash. Did he dare look? He did.

Once again, he peeked around the corner, seeing the cloaked vigilante move around towards one of the crate piles. He saw it dig his nails into the wooden lids and open them with hardly much effort. He stood there for a second before going to the next crate. And the next one. And the next one. Rinse and repeat until the next pile. The satyr could only wonder what it was doing as it kept opening crate after crate.

The satyr kept watching with an almost morbid curiosity. Just moments ago, this thing had just killed everyone with a vicious sense of brutality, but now? It was rummaging through the contents of the warehouse like a curious animal. Soon, it eventually did find something of interest. A glass bottle filled with a glowing liquid. The satyr recognized the potion used in explosives, covering his mouth as he did so.

It turned its head turned towards him.

He reeled his head around the corner in shock. He knew it was too late already. All he could do was hold his breath and stay perfectly still in a vain hope to stay hidden. He heard heavy footsteps inch closer and closer to his location. The clinking of chains was faint, but noticeable.

Then the sound of steps stopped right at the crate pile he was hiding behind. The creaking and cracking of wooden lids being ripped open made every hair on his body stand. He held his breath longer than he had ever held it. Did he dare try to move?

The noises stopped. No sounds of rummaging, nor steps. A million thoughts racing through his head. Did it get bored and stop?

The crate he was hiding behind being flipped to the side answered his question.

Screams followed. He pleaded at such speeds, they may as well have been gibberish. He stopped begging when he felt the cold metal of a chain wrap around his neck like a vice, and no longer felt the floor beneath his hooves as he was raised in the air from a single chain. He found himself looking in the green, hateful eyes of a thing hellbent on violence. He struggled to breath, feeling the chains around his throat getting tighter by the second. After much struggling, he finally managed to croak out the words, "don't… hurt… me!"

The chains loosened. Allowing him some room to breathe. Those tiny gasps of air felt more relieving than anything in the world. Suddenly, the figure moved, and unfortunately, he followed, trembling and gasping for air along the way. The chains carried him in the air as they moved towards the door. Along the way, he heard broken glass on the floor being crunched. He looked up to see the top window of the warehouse shattered from when the beast made its entrance.

He felt his body being flung to the floor. His throat being free meant he took the biggest gulps of air he had ever done in his life. He looked back and backed up against the wall as he saw the thing staring at him.

"I didn't do anything!" He cried, "Don't kill me! Please!"

"If you don't shut the fuck up, I will."

Forget the hair standing up, they may as well have fallen off completely when he heard the figure's voice. Guttural. Deep. It would turn anyone into a shriveling mess if they heard it.

The figure continued speaking, "I'll admit that it took me almost all night to find out what you lowlifes were doing. Hiding away and gathering at certain locations. Clever."

The satyr, paralyzed with fear, said nothing as he kept talking. He did, however, yelp when he was lifted by the neck once again, a dagger pointed incredibly close to his face.

"I want you to deliver a message for me," the vigilante said, moving the dagger close to the caprine's eye, "tell your bosses that I'm cleaning up this city one thug at a time. And I'll be coming for them very soon."

The satyr finally mustered the strength to say a few words, "we- we know about your cult. You don't scare us!"

A sinister chuckle emanated from the figure hearing this, "clearly I do," he then tossed the caprine to the ground, "and I'm not part of any little posse. I'm a one man army. Got it?"

The caprine nodded, "d-do you have a name?"

"Call me 'Spawn.'"

Spawn then went forward to the door and opened it, or rather, ripped it off its hinges, pointed to the outside, and commanded, "go. Before I change my mind."

The satyr didn't need to be told this twice. He rose to his feet and rushed to the door without a hint of hesitation. When he passed the door, he sprinted faster than he ever had in his life. He didn't care if he would be running out of breath soon. He did not turn around. He didn't turn around to see if Spawn was still there. He didn't turn when he heard the sounds of a blazing fire behind him a minute later. He did not turn around.

Not once.

Black Diamond Penthouse

"Son of a bitch!"

Morningstar tossed a mug at the mist form of Crowley, said mug passing through him and hitting the floor instead, shattering. "You mean to tell me that we've been getting our asses handed to us by one guy !?" the witch yelled, grabbing another thing to throw, this time a paperweight, and tossed it at the mist form of Draven instead of Crowley, "one freaking guy!?"

"Morningstar, your heart-" Griffin said calmly, before being interrupted.

"I know about… my…." Morningstar responded before slowing down his speech, and taking a few deep breaths, "alright. I'm calm."

"If I knew you were going to react like a toddler throwing a tantrum, I would have kept it in the dark and let you figure it out for yourself." Crowley said, folding his arms with a smirk.

"Oh, shut up."

Orlok spoke up, "I will say, I'm most impressed at this one's progress. He has done more damage to our forces in less than a week than Belos' forces could do in a whole year."

"A warehouse destroyed, entire squads dead," Griffin added on, "it would be admirable if it weren't annoying."

"You really show your anger, Victor." Wilkes slyly said to which there was no response from him.

"Take this seriously, Wilkes," Morningstar interjected, making Wilkes roll her eyes, "this affects us all and you know it."

Crowley adjusted his pelt suit as he spoke again, "now before Morningstar derailed this conversation with his tantrum," he flashed a cheeky smirk at the witch, which he did not appreciate, before continuing, "from what the survivor reported to me, this guy is supposedly a one man army. With the strength to tear metal, and capes and chains that move like they got a mind of their own."

Griffin spoke up, a slight interested tone in his voice, "At the very least, we have a grasp of his abilities now. Was the survivor aware of any magical potential?"

"Aside from the weird capes and chains, none that he knew of. Whoever this guy is, he's certainly a professional. Relied on the element of surprise, had the brutality of a rabid cur, with the efficiency of a trained killer."

It was then that Draven decided to raise his own voice, "Crowley, if I may ask, did the survivor tell you anything else regarding our new foe?"

The homunculus put a hand on his chin before answering, "I believe the guy told me something about his name being… 'Spawn.'"

The lich put a bony hand to his rotten face for several seconds, deep in thought as if remembering a faint memory. Then, his eyes- or rather, what remained of the muscles in his eye sockets- widened and he disconnected from the call, leaving behind a very confused group.

"What was his problem?" Crowley asked, only to be met with a shrug from most of the group.

"Draven is older than all of us-" Griffin said, before receiving a nasty look from Orlok, "- most of us combined. It's only natural this description would remind him of something he may have read over the years."

"More secrets, then." Morningstar muttered.

"We all have secrets, Morningstar," Griffin replied in a low tone, folding his arms behind his back, "some more than others."

After a period of awkward silence and glances between the remaining members present, Morningstar spoke up again, after rubbing his brow, "so with all this new information, I think it's time for a new set of orders."

Everyone nodded as he continued, voice raising with each sentence, "we're shifting our priorities to find this son of a bitch. I want every one of our men to scour the streets. Leave no stone unturned. Ask every damn junkie who buys from us, civilians who get in our way, or cops on our payroll. Torture them if we have to! I want this bastard's head on my wall!"

Wilkes, Orlok, and Crowley flashed sinister smiles in response, while Griffin only nodded, a faint, barely visible smirk on his face.

With that, they all disconnected from the meeting. The mist returned to the cauldron as Morningstar stood there for a solid minute staring at the hunk of metal before looking forwards to an empty spot on his wall.

That's the spot. That's where he'll place his head.

If it's a war this Spawn wants, it's a war he'll get.