Deadline

My space.

It's raining tonight.

The garage was made up of four walls and a steel skeleton for jacking up cars. There was a tool cabinet and the chassis of an old Volkswagen Beetle in there. He was dressed in a baggy grey t-shirt and black sweats. She was in a tight crop-top and matching black leggings. They both wore sneakers; hers red and white, his green and blue.

He took her hand and lightly led her around the garage. She kept up, postured, but kept looking at his shoes. She couldn't help but stare at his movements; she'd never seen them before.

''Look at my eyes,'' he said, indicating at himself.

She raised her eyes and did so.

They started again. He took her hand and led her around the garage. She kept up, postured, staring at his eyes. They were in sync. He led her around the car, then turning with her hand, guided her to slip beneath his arm.

She struck back, bending at the waist; and dipping herself into a dive, allowed the breath to leave her lungs. Then, taking her by the hand, he pulled her back into him.

They started moving with each other around the garage, in and out, back and forth, slipping in and out of each other's arms; her in a tight black vest which showed her abs, him in a grey t-shirt that was slightly too baggy for his heavy build. He ran his hands up and down her as she wove around him. He was the pole; she was the dancer. She would coil her legs up around his hard body and dangle from him, sliding across the concrete with her fingernails. She would skim dirt. She would let her teeth show past her too-thick lips as she concentrated on the music. He would step into her, then force her to bend; and she would bend for him and weave with her hips, moving with the beat.

They came together and she pressed herself back against him. She ducked and wove with her hips beneath his groin; and him, tight-lipped and shaggy-haired, moved with her. His hands slipped up on her. She cast them away. Then he grabbed at her, and she cast him away. She stepped back and twirled three times—twirled—and on each twirl met him in the eyes. He stood there, thoughtful, then when the beat resumed, he came after her.

She slid over the bonnet. He moved along it, wrestling it with his hands. She sat on top of the car. He went to climb it. She put out her foot and set it to his chin; and stunned, he rolled his face against it. The two of them slid onto their backs along the car, panting.

Then when they were ready, they got up again. Her sliding down the bonnet; him pushing off it. He came after her.

Against the door. Against the corner-wall. He looked into her eyes as she stood helpless up against it, staring into his eyes. Then beneath his arm she went, rushing, hitting the tool-case on the sheath-rack and making it all rumble. He lifted a heavy wrench into his hand. She saw it and grabbed at a trash can, throwing it in his way; and putting his foot up on it, he shoved it aside and hissed.

She let out a restless little rasp as she turned towards him, cornered inside the car door which she'd pulled open to throw herself behind. And like that, they both stared at each other—him weighing the wrench in his hand. She let her eyes simper, and he leaned in slowly, clenching the rung of the door. She looked at his lips—then staring for half a moment, she slipped into the back of the car.

The music continued as he got in after her. He pulled the door closed and locked them both in. Then a moment later, through the back windows, her hands spread like butterfly wings on both sides, feathering the air. Then it was her and him in the back seat, wrestling with each other. Her on top, turning her head away from him towards the wing mirror to fix her makeup—then it was him in her neck, pretending to kiss on her as she fixed her hair.

They moved to the front seat. Him driving, her talking at him. But he wasn't looking. He was just glaring into the wing mirror while pretending to turn the steering wheel; and a moment later, she shook her head and got out of the car.

She mimicked yelling at him. He staggered out of the car, banging on it with his fist. And kicking at the dust of the garage, she walked towards the end of the garage with her arms crossed, pouting in annoyance; and sighing, he hung in the car door with his head down, panting. His eyes searched the wing mirror. His gaze grew dilated and heavy.

Then restlessly, he sighed. Because she was feeling up his stomach from behind. She'd walked all the way around the car and started to touch his abs. He grew very still. Her hands clutched the hard muscles of his chest, then spread out across his biceps, caressing the hard veins in his arms; and him, standing, turned and went to face her furiously—but she just went toe-to-toe with him as he forced her to back up.

They walked like that through the garage, her hands inside his shirt, his feet scuffing up dirt. She got him all the way to the tool cabinet, which she bumped into. Then staring heavily into his eyes, she glared him into submission. And staring down at her, he lifted his hand up and delicately touched her face. She melted, easing into the tool cabinet; and taking his hand in both of hers, she shoved it up against her face... then sighing, she pulled him along.

They began dancing again, but this time, more slowly. She guided him around. She wore him down. She took his hands and put them on her stomach to hold her; then against the car bonnet, she made him sit down. And over his lap she dipped her back and hung there in his arms as he swept her at a 90-degree angle. A sharp crescent. She sprawled with her hands, swiping them over her head, letting herself be tossed. And then at the end of that crescent, he lifted her up heavily into his arms; and she hung her arms around his neck.

For a moment, they both just sort of looked at each other. And with his hands on her waist, he held her there, staring back at her silently, his lips very thin. She then hesitated, and leaning over his lips—

She didn't kiss him, and neither did he kiss her.

''Thanks. See you next time,'' she said, breaking the spell. She then got out from under his arms and ran towards the end of the garage, slamming the door behind her.

He slipped off the end of the car, then went and threw a sweat towel around his neck. A moment later, he stood there, deep in thought. Then shaking his head, he took his car keys and stepped outside, cursing.

"... What is it with this girl?"

My space.

To tell you the truth,
The peace is broken by the bitterest shade
The sun shining down fades to grey
I know now that I'm no starlit son
That my crystals have all ran dry
Bled out, like cracked tourmaline, foaming-white
All my darkness has ended this rite
There's no potion for my pain
Only shrines of black magic and wretched lines
I draw with chalk, but the Gods don't answer
My meditation provides no sweet ties
To the demon inside
So let me burn, let me burn

1x1. MxF. Action. Cyberpunk. Dark Victorian. Taboo. Historical-Fantasy.

Still looking.

My space.

THE SLAYER

Lorcan opened his eyes and stared at the stillness of the cellar. He had been thrown awake, and yet he felt no sense of drowsiness as he quickly scanned the room, sensing something was wrong.

A brief inspection revealed that the gravedigger was gone. The cellar door had been thrown wide open, and yet Margrave was sleeping soundly in her cot. He turned himself over and frowned, looking at the hearth. The flames were smoldering and only a small bundle of wood remained. The room felt unnaturally cold, and he noticed that the dripping had stopped.

Turning over in the bed, he put his legs down on the floor and wondered what time it was. Then glancing at the hallway, he saw that the dark light had faded from the end of the hall. The way to the Iron Keep was steeped in darkness. He could not see more than a foot beyond the kitchen door.

‘’What’s going on?’’ He whispered.

Standing, Lorcan limped across the cellar, frowning vaguely at the hearth. He then knelt down to break up the last bit of kindle. In moments, the fire was going stronger; and the darkness of the room lessened somewhat. Then he heard a scuffle behind him, and he turned his head to welcome the gravedigger back to the cellar.

''You’re just in time. It was about to go out. I hope you fetched some wood—'' Lorcan started, then felt his voice catch in his throat.

A man stood in the hallway. Though it wasn’t the gravedigger. It wasn't like any man Lorcan had ever seen. His hair was curly, lapping against his cheekbones, the colour of fire, and his eyes were red-rimmed and severe as he stared at the hearth. All he did was stare at the hearth, though his hand groped at the corner of the kitchen door introspectively. His fingers were long and sensuous. Very pale, with sharp nails and muscular veins rippling across the knuckles. He moved with ancient, primordial grace as he slipped into the room, almost like a serpent, and across his back a pair of wings ditched, collecting across his spine. Lorcan saw the muscles and tendons rippling inside them and knew they were made of skin and bone; and they were as much a part of him as his heart and mind. It was an angel, Lorcan realised.

He fell against the hearth and went very still. Beside him, the bucket that held the drinking water rumbled as it swished from side to side.

A low hissing sound filled the room as the angel glanced towards him. He watched the creature, for it seemed to stare straight through him. It did not blink. It simply stood there, listening, waiting for him to move again—and when he didn't, the angel took another step towards the fire. It walked through the kitchen and past the cutting board, its fingers drifting over the handle of a knife, and then stopped before the hearth and stared into the flames.

Lorcan dared to raise his head, and above him he saw the forceful body of the angel towering over him. Its feet were porcelain-white, with strict tendons, large calves, and a pair of powerful thighs. Its skin resembled marble; its eyes—carved into its face. They were judgemental, full of wisdom, and yet laced with anger and sadness.

''Lorcan...?'' came a voice from across the room, and a shadow climbed the wall as Margrave sat up in her cot. She rubbed at her eyes, clearly disturbed from her sleep.

''Margrave! Stay there, don't move!'' Lorcan hissed at her.

The angel spun around, and Margrave gasped as she clutched a hand over her mouth. He saw how she looked at it; the same way he had. The angel was both beautiful and terrible, like the morning and the night. Its eyes were wide and distrusting. But when neither of them said anything, it quickly seemed to forget about them.

''What does it want...?'' Margrave whispered as the angel began searching the kitchen.

''I don't know,'' Lorcan whispered as the angel ran its hand across the shelves. Pots and pans clattered as he quietly reached towards his father's sword. The blade was standing next to the cellar door. If he lunged for it, he could likely reach it in time.

''Where's the gravedigger?'' Margrave whispered frightfully as Lorcan crawled across the floor. The angel had found the water barrel and was examining it at length.

Lunging at his father's sword, Lorcan unsheathed it and glanced at the blade. It was dark and wet. The gravedigger must have serviced it whilst he'd slept. That, at least, gave him courage. Gathering himself, he then quickly stood up and made himself known. He soon realised, however, that the angel had no more interest in him than a python would a child. It simply continued what it was doing with the water barrel as if he wasn’t even there.

‘’Hey!'' Lorcan shouted, feeling how his knees had turned weak. He could hardly stand for the fear. ‘’I said hey!'' He shouted again, this time with more body. And at last, the angel stopped what it was doing and turned towards him.

Holding the barrel in its arms, the angel stood there, studying him with maleficence. It then glanced towards the sword and into his eyes, as if realising his intentions. Then parting its lips, it spoke at length.

A thought came over Lorcan, honest and pure. The gravedigger had lied to them both. He was protecting the last hearth out of guilt. He had allowed this world to fall to the Shadow, and the responsibility was all his. He was so-far fallen, in fact, that he would keep him and Margrave trapped here for an eternity, filling them with pretensions of hope. Their best hope was to defile this sanctum whilst they still had the chance, for he would not allow them to leave otherwise. The angel would assist them in this before leading them to salvation.

The angel's mouth moved slowly, spelling out this realisation, and despite the ugly nature of the truth, Lorcan realised he could not look away. The angel's lips were gorgeous in their sincerity as they told him what had to be done.

''Lorcan!'' Margrave shouted across the room, looking nervous. ''What's it saying!?''

''It says... that the gravedigger lied to us,'' Lorcan said as he studied the angel at length, pausing for thought. ''That he's responsible for the priests and the shepherds abandoning the hearths. It says that if we put out the fire... then it will escort us through the keep.’’

The angel offered him the water barrel and he instinctively came closer, putting the sword aside.

‘’Lorcan,’’ Margrave said doubtfully, shuffling with her feet against the cot. She looked ready to run. The fear in her face was palpable, and yet she did not move; the angel’s influence over the room was so great.

‘’It’s alright, Margrave,’’ Lorcan said, and taking a spare bucket, he knelt before the angel and allowed it to fill the pale with water. He felt the angel's sincerity once the bucket was full. It made way, gesturing towards the hearth, and as it did so, its eyes were pure poison.

''Lorcan... I'm not sure about this?'' Margrave whispered, leaning further against the wall. She then glanced towards the angel with dread. ‘’We should wait for the gravedigger to get back.’’

''We don’t have time, Margrave. It's the only way,'' he said as he lifted the bucket in his arms. He eyed the twilight flames crackling in the hearth, then felt the angel securing its hand across his shoulder. Its grip was firm and imperious, telling him what needed to be done. And he knew that it was right. He then drew back the bucket and prepared to cast it into the fire.

The cellar doors exploded as the gravedigger burst inside. The bundle of wood he’d been holding spilled across the floor when he saw what was happening, and then with a shout, he leaped across the room and threw himself between Lorcan and the angel.

‘’No!’’ The man bellowed with a voice like thunder. ‘’Don’t listen to it! Cover your ears!’’

Several things happened at once. The gravedigger yanked Lorcan’s arm away from the fire, knocking the bucket aside. In the same moment, he tore Lorcan's blade from its sheath—he had collected it whilst lunging across the room—and drew it upon the angel. The creature seemed to recoil, and with a hiss, it swung out for him with a back-handed blow. The steely muscle of its arm should've splintered brain and bone as it struck, but instead, the gravedigger heaved the sword across his body and parried the blow; and the fire spat and hissed in retort as the very air thinned about the room.

''Lorcan!'' Margrave shouted as she made a grab for him. He'd landed on the floor before her cot. Protectively, she threw her arms around him.

A struggle fraught the kitchen barracks. The angel twisted, lunging across the table and back towards the hallway, and the Gravedigger heaved with the blade, cutting through pots and pans, sacks of flour and raw garlands. The angel ducked the blow, lightning-fast, moving so quick its face remained a still image in two places at once. Its eyes wept with betrayal on one side. The other—an expression of the illest contempt. Yet it was retreating back towards the hall. It was attempting to speak to the gravedigger, but the fold across the man's eyes winced in response, and with a last effort, the man tossed a handful of ashes from the fire, and this time the angel screamed in agony and took off in flight. It neither ran so much as it walked, it neither walked so much as it hovered; it struck the walls and rebounded, its wings carrying it the rest of the way. And then it was gone, black wings in a monotone hallway, laughing and sobbing as it went, both fretful for the fate of man and anguished by a desire to extinguish the sacred fire and bring about the end of Mankind.

In the aftermath, the gravedigger breathed heavily, leaning against the sword. His robes had torn during the struggle, and across his back the occult depiction of a dragonslayer was tattooed across his shoulders. A barbarian, cleaving his way through a long black drake. Lorcan took one look at him, then heaving himself up from the floor, he whispered in surprise:

‘’... Dad?’’

My space.

Leon woke up and turned over and looked at her.

She was sleek, with sound muscles, a long body, and neat little hands that were folding back in the duvet above her head. She was twisting softly into the nook of his arm, taking a moment to breathe in his skin as she slept. There was a soft musk to the undersides of her arms; and he could taste it on the air as he leaned in and pressed against her with his lips.

Gemini inhaled, then exhaled; and the exhale was much louder than what came before.

Her gentle rasp sped up as he started to kiss her more quickly; and in turn, her body came alive.

Electronic signals danced beneath her skin. The gentle thrum of butterfly wings upside the windows reverberated around the room. The TV flickered on and off. She was a live wire. Behind her eyes, a few LEDs lit up, and then she looked at him head-on.

He was on top of her in seconds, pinning her, clenching her, holding her down with his thighs. Her lips raced his. Her hands--deep in his hair already. She was tugging and pulling, clenching and biting with her nails. She threw her head back, shook, struck, wound her groin against his. He was breathing so hard into her chest that he couldn't focus; and then, just as soon as it began, it ended.

"Love you," he said.

"Love you," she said, in almost the same instant. They continued to kiss. Soft, cloying kisses that never ended. They couldn't get enough of each other. Outside, across the city, a police helicopter roiled in search of them; and Leon came down and tucked her to his chest and she lay there quietly, staring out at the unimaginably hostile heights.

What happens when you steal the first conscious android from its creator? The world roils to find her. Except... she's the One you love. Leon knew this, and he wouldn't let her go. Even if they came to find her, even if the whole server rose up against them...

Cas' Jukebox.

///

1x1. MxF. Action. Cyberpunk. Dark Victorian. Taboo. Historical-Fantasy.

Yeah, so I'm looking for a partner.

/// Currently Seeking ///

Life for Rent: ✰✰✰

A young woman who lives in an android body (or a body made up of mostly rented parts) is forced to act as an unwilling spy in order to keep herself online. Cyberpunk. Sci-Fi. Grit. Mafia.



Expectations:

- Write back twice a week. I will too — guaranteed.
- Have questions? Ask them. Have doubts? Tell me.
- No ghosting. I don't ghost unless I'm severely depressed and even then I'll tell you why I can't continue.
- No romantic hubabaloo OOC. Chill, talk, share music, great.
- I write the male / white energy, you write the feminine / black energy. This can be fem/trans/tomboy/female-identifying. MxF.

Guarantees:

- I write hard, fast and play for keeps. You'll always get 2-3 paragraphs of reflective premium content. I will respond to your little hard-earned notes. I will lift up your character and make her stand out on the page by proxy.
- I write mainly cyberpunk, grit, dark fantasy, taboo, or somewhat unrealistic slice-of-life scenarios. If you like tried-and-tested, gritty stories with real thematical elements, I'm your guy.
- My men're unpolished. They're rough, rude, gritty, mean, sweet, candid, relatable and sometimes--even complex. Do not expect lovey-dovey dudes who always say the right thing; but do expect them to surprise you at every available opportunity.
- I tend to be very laid back in the inbox. If my replies seem lacking something, it's probably just because they're free of expectation. Don't take my relaxed nature as lack of enthusiasm. If you shoot me one idea, I'll come back with three. I'm a mirror. You give a little, I give a lot.

Hard No's:

- No Enemies to Lovers.
- No under 18 or anything suss.

Pairings:

Gangster x the woman who's supposed to be spying on him for the mafia.
Monster x captured victim-turned-unexpected-lover.
Rogue x sweet, sheltered guild leader whom he corrupts.
Tutor x student who loves to be punished and actively seeks it out.
Boss x secretary who he pays extra to act as his maid, but only to tease her/build up her sex drive. He allows her to relieve it now and then--but only on his terms.

You get the picture, all my pairings are unconventional. If ("but...") belongs between our characters, count me in.

My space.

I open that door to the ghost of memories. Stepping inside the house, I'm immediately under the suspicion I'm not alone. I can't tell what it is, but there's an aura. A deep underlying dread. The floorboards are rotten and coated in a thin film of what can only be chalk. A man's hand has etched it so deeply into the rough wood beneath the turned-up carpet that I can still see his bootprints and the shins of his knees matted in the old, curling fabric. And beside the window, which is splintered with shards of broken glass--and most of them rusty with a red perfume that looks almost like blood in this wicked, greying light stands a microscope. The kind you view the stars with. Only this one is hanging limp, like a broken bone before the moon; and the moonlight is the only colour in the room except for the red on that glass. I'm almost certain someone died here; if not in life, then perhaps in spirit.

"Why the fuck is this so familar...?" Is all I can manage. I look around the broken room and take in the shelves and old cabinets and the mottled sofa-couch which has been shoved so far up against the wall that the pillows are gone and the underboard shows. I look at the pictures on the wall, but the faces are all blotted out. I look at the kitchen door which is nailed shut; and then I look at the exterior hallway, which is as about as inviting as an empty picture frame, asking me to walk down it and become a lost memory. I don't move from the front door. I don't even want to step foot in this room.

"Fuck this," I utter, with no inclination to go any further. Then I reach back to open the door I came in through, only to hear a muffled, child-like giggle from outside.

"You little pricks?!" I shout to the glass as a shadow runs across the window, making me leap out of my skin.

The laughter curtails off into the garden, and I realise the door is locked. I try it three times, each time more violent than the next, but it doesn't budge. I go over to the broken window, narrowly skimming the cemetary of some man's life, and take a glance out through the broken pane. I see a black something curb around the corner, roughly the size of a kid.

"This isn't funny!" I yell after them, then hear how afraid I sound. My voice is shrill and tight, and no wonder. Things creak in this room. Things move. I keep glancing over my shoulder, looking for the source of the sound. Like there's a cat in the room. Like someone's watching me. Like there's shivers under my skin, slowly growing, an insane paranoia gnawing at my fucking mind;

"I swear I didn't see her, I just took the outside lane... and she was there. I had my wipers on, I swear. But the rain, and that stretch of road. None of its lit-up. I just... I didn't see her," I beg. I then slump to my knees, briefly paralyzed by fear, and then realise--the floor is thick with newspaper clippings.

DRUNK DRIVER RUNS DOWN WOMAN - TURNS OUT TO BE MIDLANDS COP. INEBRIATED POLICE OFFICER STRIKES CELEBRATED SCIENTIST, COUNTY MOURNS. ASTROLOGER PERFORMS WAKE FOR HIS LOVING WIFE - RETIRES FROM UNN UNIVERSITY ON GROUNDS OF GRIEF.

I fling myself back against the wall, then let out a sharp rasp as I feel one of the glass shards on the floor stab me in the back. I howl in agony, then thrust myself around to look at the moon.

"I didn't mean it! I'm sorry!"

There is a howl from the wind. It rips through the room and takes me beneath my clothes; and for a moment, I see her. Out in the garden. A skeletal, jaded, rippling face; black-eyed, haughty, her mouth hanging low, the gap where her teeth should be frighteningly wide. A woman. The woman I killed; my eyes fill with tears; my throat turns to lead; I see only my own Death. Then I find myself tumbling away as she walks across the garden towards me, pointing with a crooked finger. All her arms are bent and broken. Twisted beyond belief. I turn from her as she begins to pick up speed, then hurl myself down the corridor....

Nil.

Bonk.

My space.

It's an old tired thing. Maybe it once had a lot of life but now it just looks possessed. The window drapes are all curling out of the broken windows like long skeletal fingers. The soup of mist that clings to the garden is so thick I can't even dream about walking through it without wondering what I might step on. Hypodermic needles, rusty camping equipment, maybe some combination of crushed glass. If I fall on that grass I'll tear my hands wide open. I get my gloves out the dash and put them on, the leather caressing my palms like an old friend, and for a moment I feel better about the whole thing. But then looking back at that hell I don't. So I put the brandy bottle to my lips and realise: I'm so shook-up I forgot to remove the cap.

"Fuck," I utter, unscrewing the cap, getting angry, and tossing it into the garden. I hear it bounce against something; and then I see the kids bikes.

There's three of them all mangled-up in the driveway, and all three of them are wrapped around the undercarriage of a used-up silver Peugeot 206. For some reason, the car looks familiar, but I'm too far gone to figure out why. The car is parked on a slant, still rolling in neutral. The brake lights are on and the front dash is all lit up in yellow, and when I stagger towards it, it gives a last, dying breath and stalls. I take a wary walk towards the driver's side door. I see the skid marks leading up to the garage. For a moment, I expect to see a couple of bodies, maybe some blood, but there's nothing. I'm stunned to see there's no one inside but that the doors are wide open; and the whole thing has a nasty, stale air of something gone wrong happened very recently. I reach for my gun, then realise I left it in the car.

"Fuck me," I say, then hurry back to the police cruiser. I reach in, turn on the headlights, see one of them is wrapped around the garden fence, then slam my fist into the dashboard. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I curse as I reach for the radio and practically rip it out of the socket.

"Car 1-Adam-2 to dispatch, over. Car 1-Adam-2 to dispatch, over." The window drapes of the house flutter here and there, and I think I see a stroke of mist walking across the garden in the shape of a woman. A cold shiver runs down my spine and I briefly glance at the moon. It's so full and eerie I feel a little unnerved. I take another look at the bikes wrapped around the front end of the beaten-up 206 and speak again.

"Car 1-Adam-2 to dispatch, over. I'm at the cabin at Stillwater Basin, I need a unit out here immediately. Possible 10-54. I'm going in to inspect the house. Do you read me, over?"

I'm looking at the house again when I feel my hand drop to my side and realise there's no resistance from the black box. I look down and see the headset is hanging disconnected from the socket. The wire must've got caught when I ripped it out of the holder. Now it is hanging around the cigarette lighter, disconnected. I try to plug it back in, then realise the wire is too badly damaged to be of any use to anyone.

"2-Adam-3, what is your status, over?" The radio operator says to another patrol car, and I slam my fist into the black box and realise: I'm alone out here.

I look back at the house and the car, hearing the sirens go off in my head. A sort of dull whining sound that I heard not too long ago while staggering drunk and alone along a terrible winding road not too far from here.

They found me one and a hours after incident, too far gone to remember my own name, too uncooperative to explain how I was a police officer. It was only when they recovered the body from over the side of the cliff and found my gun and badge in the offending vehicle that the cover-up started. I was lucky. They'd put me in the drunk tank to cool off and didn't have an officer question me until I'd sobered up. At that point the husband had come to identify the body and I'd had to look him in the eye on the way back through the station. I remember my eyes being puffy from crying. I never told him I was sorry. To do would've been an admission of guilt, and cops don't cop an easy plea. I still remember the look on his face, though. I'd never seen a man so desolate with grief. He looked a nice sort of guy too. The kind of guy you'd have nightmares about if you just so happened to kill their wife whilst driving 80 mph in a 45 zone.

I look back at the bikes. I'm in the police cruiser again, leaning out the side door. I feel my stomach roil, then let out another round of vomit and wash away the taste with brandy. I feel so weak and tempermental that I can barely stomach the strength to look at the cabin. The last thing I need is to go into that house and find three more bodies. I doubt I could take it. I'd probably crack, like one of those cops you hear about on the evening news. A guy who gave up on his wife, his family. A schizophrenic loser.

I look back at the driveway. In this sort of situation, you'd usually find the perp moping about and regretting their lives, too in shock to leave the car. The fact there's no one in the vehicle and no sign of the kids doesn't speak well of the situation. You don't just crush half a dozen bikes then leave your car in neutral with the doors wide open if you don't intend on running; or at the very least, hiding something.

I'm not certain what I'll find inside the cabin, but I'm half-tempted to start-up the cruiser and drive away. It's only when I see the guilty eye of the moon staring down at me that I feel the weight of responsibility hanging over my head.

If one of those kids is in pain, won't it be just the same thing all over again? I tepidly reach for my gun, straying it into my hand, then weigh the baseplate against my head, knocking it there a few times before easing myself up to make the walk through the garden....