Deamonbane — Roleplayer Guild

Looking in the mirror felt odd somehow. Mike didn't recognize himself anymore, staring into his reflection. If anything, the face that he stared at was more handsome than he had seen himself. With his face harder than he recalled, the gaze in his pearly-grey eyes startlingly cold, he felt like he was looking through a window at someone else. His hair was dark, not grown too long, nor kept too short, Both would attract attention in some way or fashion. His features weren't exactly bland, but weren't memorable, and easily altered with some stubble on his face, a mustache, some glasses, or even sometimes just a change of clothes would do the trick. He stood there shirtless, just a white towel wrapped around his waist, with the logo of the hotel that he was staying at written... somewhere. His body was well muscled, nothing too big and puffy, nothing too skinny. His uncle had taught him the importance of keeping himself in shape. There were scars across his marble-white skin, each one holding the story of some different kind of monster that he had 'ganked'. Each one had been burned into his memory, even the ones that hadn't left scars. He remembered every last one of the beasts that he had killed.

And there was that cold gaze again when he thought about it, his eyes chilling, his face going hard. Clenching his jaw, he scowled a bit at himself, almost surprised when his reflection scowled back, and he left the bath room, letting the towel drop to the floor as he got himself dressed. People remembered a slob as much as they remembered someone pristinely clean, and they remembered a bum as much as they remembered a billionaire playboy. And he had become something of an expert at finding the perfect compromise between all four to make himself... as unmemorable as possible, at least when it came to looks.

He was dressed in a rugged-looking formal shirt of a bland grey, the sleeves pulled up to just above his elbows. He put on some neutral cologne and a scentless antiperspirant, and his black hair was done neatly, nothing too shabby, and nothing too sparkly. Just enough to be an average Joe in a crowd. Jeans weren't in perfect condition, but that had to do do more with the fact that he didn't really have much time for clothing shopping than blending in. His shoes were something different. Comfortable on the inside, not too heavy, but with a hard outside and a dense rubber sole, these were made for easy running and fighting, something that he ended up having to do a lot in his line of work.

He took a deep breath, picking up the well worn but sturdy bag that he always carried with him and stepped out. It was 9 PM at night, and his shift was just beginning. He piled into the rental that he had picked up a few days ago on a fake driver's license, and pressed the engine forward. While his driving seemed aimlessly drifting, he had a purpose, and a destination in mind. It was just instinct that kept him from going straight to the place. He didn't want anybody following him, thinking that he was up to something. After about an hour of aimless driving, he slipped the Taurus into high gear and got on the freeway for fifteen minutes, then got off, driving down a side road for another hour, stepping off near an abandoned farm house. He moved silently, not slamming any doors, slipping his hand into his bag and pulled out a machete, thick and glowing like new. The blade had been covered in silver, a thin layer, but enough to do the job on anything that didn't like silver all that much. He had a knife in his pocket of similar make too, in case of a rainy day.

He sneaked to the farmhouse, careful not to make a sound and remaining upwind, just to make sure his scent didn't take away his surprising edge. He had scouted the place out for days now. He knew that this was where the pack was staying during the day, along with the fact that this was where they were keeping 5-year-old Mary Smith that had gone missing 12 days ago. He had read the story in the paper while in Jacksonville 10 days ago, and had gotten here 9 days ago, found the spot six days ago, and come up with the plan of attack 12 hours ago. Everything was about timing in this business.

He slipped inside the darkened barnhouse, his eyes flickering quickly from one side to the other, checking his peripherals as much as possible. His night vision was understandably perfect, and he knew how to fight in the dark as well as most creatures knew how to hide in it. He moved to the center of the barnhouse, as it seemed it was abandoned for the moment.

Suddenly, he heard a car starting from the house outside the cracks in the wooden walls of the barn letting the light of the headbeams illuminate the area around him. There was a small, girl lying down about ten feet from where he was, in the hay, he quickly saw. He had been made. They knew that he was coming and had high-tailed it out but quick, but why where they leaving their victim behind?

He moved over to the motionless child and placed a finger over her pulse. There was none, but her body was still warm. They had just killed her. He suddenly realized that his hand was slick with something dark and thick, the metallic scent of it smelling like blood. Her throat had been slit. But again, why had they left her here, he wondered.

That question was answered when he heard the sound of sirens in the distance.

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