Black hair, strewn over the cold, hard, fake wood desk...eyes half-open and glazed over, mouth ajar and leaking saliva...all of it hung as freshly in Gregor's head as if he was still seeing it. It was an image, painted in his mind's eye and maintained their by his concern. He couldn't fathom why a girl would just go limp and slip into unbreakable unconsciousness out of the blue. Sure, she'd been a little off-kilter as of late, but what high school student wasn't on edge at this time of the year? Greg had convinced himself that it was simply some heart condition, probably genetic in origin. Now to think of it, he'd read a dozen articles on some website or another detailing the very same phenomenon, probably. To some degree Greg knew he was trying to reassure himself that all was well, but he was also aware that in traumatic time a level head is a must. No use obsessing after all--if he couldn't do anything, why worry? Still, Greg couldn't forget the haunting image of his friend suddenly and inexplicably silenced.

As the bus ran over a bump in the road, Greg's reverie vaporized and he was simply another kid on the way home from school. He shifted in his seat, trying to forget his mental discomfort by seeking more physical discomfort. Naturally, no amount of fidgeting could rid him of the number-one issue plaguing him: the cold. Ever since he came to Japan the generally cooler weather perturbed him, especially since he loved the heat. Back in Australia as a little kid he would be outside playing on days that any reasonable human being would panting in front of an air conditioner. And so, despite his fleecy jacket, Greg King was chilly. Another fifteen minutes remained on the bus ride (more due to traffic than distance) and so he'd have a while to shiver. Since his seat was empty but for him, he had the rare opportunity to stretch out. "Aah," he sighed, finally settling in.

-=-=-

They were watching, but the warrior wasn't afraid. He walked alone through a forested path, spattered with dappled sunlight leaking through the foliage. To either side of the faintly cobbled autumn road, however, the sunbeams did not penetrate, and it was there that the monsters lurked. Ironclad took his time, moving with deep, measured strides, almost mechanically. Only his tail belied that he was no automaton; it twitched back and forth, sweeping across the bright, fallen leaves and gritty cobblestones. Every now and then the little scythe blade on the lash's tip would drag across one of the stones and gouge it, making a slight grinding noise and scattering sparks. Though the alter ego's orange eyes, glowing like metal heated to melting point in a forge, eternally pointed forward, he was well aware of the creatures, For all of the response he gave, however, he could have easily been oblivious.

Ironclad paid the shadowy entities no mind because he knew they wouldn't attack. The unknown, creepy shapes were fierce, but he was fiercer. Their dark teeth and tendrils could crush, tear, and puncture; his blades had yet to encounter flesh they couldn't sever. They were monsters, feared by many and hated by all. Unless he showed weakness or provoked them, they would keep their distance. Yes, they were monsters...but so was he. 

Heavy, rhythmic footfalls continued to break the forest's silence. Once in a while the song of a bird would resound through the dense woods, breaking the beat. Ironclad's tail ceased its catlike whipping and simply trailed behind him. In ten minutes he would be out of this place. leaving the watchful eyes behind.