The scent of blood permeated the air of the alley. Even so, it was mild enough that one could think without succumbing the modern instinct of disgust.
Subliminal.
Yes, it bypassed that new filter of "decency," inspiring something that most would find terrifying.
Hunger. The purest manifestation of Consumption in sentient thought.
Just beyond the ray of orange light cast from the mouth of the alley, was the body of a creature. Clothed from the waist-down in a pair of trousers befitting of a motorcyclist, and combat boots, it appeared human at first.
In reality, it was something more—or less, depending on your point of view.
From its uncovered torso grew thick silver fur. From a gash on his side oozed the source of the sent. Its arms, similarly furry, were outstretched, reaching for something just out of its grasp and now eternally frozen in this last effort.
Perhaps mercifully, its face was pressed against the pavement. Blood pooled around it, soaking into the beast's fur, steam rising from where it met cold ground.
This was no murder.
Distinctions like "victim" and "killer" meant nothing, here. The duality held no moral complexities—allowed no grey area. Black did not represent evil, nor did white represent good. It was simply survival. One had survived, another had not.
This empty vessel that had once contained life was not the alley's only occupant. The victor—no—survivor stood, facing away from the would-be survivor, her pink cardigan and turquoise skirt streaked in crimson.
A girl in her late teens or early twenties. In this scene of violence, she was almost a beacon of normalcy—of civilization. Were it not for a bloodied knife in her right hand.
Her name was Gunhild Dao, and she did not see the world as her father had.
"No matter how I rephrase it, it doesn't make sense..."
The voice that spoke did so with a bitter tone, conveying a weary anger. She took two steps back, swaying right, then left, stopping with her feet side by side.
"This world doesn't care, and I accept that. But..."
She looked up, brown, bespectacled eyes meeting those of her captive audience.
That is to say, her audience of one, who happened to be bound by thick cords. They were nailed to the wall at the corner of the alley. Though its face was shrouded in shadow, its eyes glinted back at her from the darkness. It let out a bestial snarl.
Gunhild was not fazed.
"Was I really born just to be consumed?"
The beast gave no reply she could understand. It simply growled and snapped as she raised her knife once more.
"That's what I thought."
More blood would be spilled before the night ended.
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Inborn
अलौकिकA novel I started but never finished, conceived during a college course. Maybe I'll pick it back up someday. Burdened with the "Primal Traits" of Consumption and Creation, 19-year-old Ulysses Ikenkeobara has moved to Colossal City to attend college...
