Pretender

Back into storymode, people. Thanks to the hoodie I'm wearing.

 

All I gotta do is flip the hoodie over my head and I become some masked superhero, skirting the skyline.

 

No, I'm not sitting at a computer typing this.

 

I am standing on the precipice of disaster as rain cascades through my hair and lightning flashes in the distance. The rumble of thunder roars through my veins and makes the cement below me tremble.

 

I crouch at this building's edge, looking below, looking for trouble. Looking for the Daemons.

 

They've always been there, not quite out of mind, lurking in my peripheral vision. Sometimes, if I turn fast enough, I can spot them before they cackle and disappear.

 

I grip the staff tighter in my left hand. Its always been with me. My first cracked skull was done by this bad boy. With this staff, I've exacted revenge and found my personal daemons, killing them one by one. But they always come back, in one form or another. But as long as the metal spins within my gloved hands, I know that there's a certain amount of safety that I can expect. I gripped the staff and jumped.

 

There is something about floating in midair. Well, not so much floating rather than falling at terminal velocity. The speed that you can fall no faster and there is no way in Hades that I can slow down unless I fling my hood open. The lights sparkle within the raindrops as they fall, painting the night white with droplets of holiness. Everything becomes a blur. I blink to squeeze away the tears.

 

I thrust out my arm, trusty staff in hand. It connects with the rough side of the building that I am currently floating down against and I feel the jerk and catch of metal into cement, I grind to a halt, 10 floors from rock solid earth. I would hate to think what would become of me if I did not break my fall. Using momentum, I flip myself up the right way around and crouch on the staff like some precarious gargoyle. The hood caresses my head and lands softly on my shoulders. With a shrug, the hood comes back around my ears and covers me again, protecting me from the rain.

 

I see them. And they see me.

 

They circle below, waiting for me to hit the last few metres before making mincemeat out of my flesh. But not tonight, boys, I mutter, not tonight. With a flick of the wrists, metal spikes suddenly protrude from the ends and along the shaft. It bristles like an aggravated porcupine. I suspend the staff in midair and I pass my gloved hands over the spikes. They start to glow. I hum and the light increases.

 

Now. I am ready.

 

I hang from the staff and wrench it away from the wall. Already, I am falling and already, I feel the rush of air as my daemons leap up towards me, jaws agape, ready to taste blood.

 

But the only blood they will taste tonight will be their own.

 

Spinning the staff around, it collides solidly with the first beast. It howls, and blood spurts. I must have hit an artery.

I land, once again, crouched, staff glowing deadly in both hands and the filthy beasts patter around me, wary, growling in anticipation of the kill but fear of pain. Of being killed.

 

"Come get me, boys," I whisper and the staff becomes a deadly shaft of light and deliverer of mercy, mercy from the rage that bursts within me as I satisfy my bloodlust and the rain continues to drift in the changing winds and droplets of blood becomes one with the droplets of rain.