Who: Damien Thorn When: Night Where: His workplace, then a cyber cafe What: Attacked! Rating: R Warnings: Graphic violence, gore Status: Complete
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It would seem that after suppressing it for so long, his humanity would be a detriment to his survival. He wasn't full demon. He knew that. Though to be technical, he was part fallen angel and part jackal. But the demonic hit squad didn't seem to care about that. He'd blame his father. He was supposed to look human, dammit. To blend in with mortals, the better to deceive them, lead their nations, to be worshiped by the multitudes when his time had come.. just before the final battle with that accursed Nazarene. According to his destiny, of course. Elaine had sort of convinced him it wasn't set in stone.
Not only did Damien look very human, but he also had several human followers already in this city, and was going to obtain more soon. Not to mention what he had been doing for the homeless in spite of his ulterior motives. The fanatical goose-steppers did not care of that in the least. Only one thing mattered: he was not a full demon, therefore he had to die. How ironic! It was usually the very human holy men of the church, those faithful to God, who demanded his destruction. Now it was demons that wished it.
It had started without warning. He had planned to tag along in one of the trucks that was transporting the food drops in the back lot of Thorn Industries. They had packed up the boxes of clothes and canned food. As he had climbed on to the back of the Ford pickup, he had heard something odd. Marching. The sound of boots on pavement, one step after another. In formation, organized. Perfect. He knew those sounds! Oh yes, he certainly did. He couldn't have spent five years at a military school and not recognize that familiar sound. And, he had also watched a few Nazi movies, so that was something else that reminded him. "Umm.. guys.. better hurry up. Now."
The sounds seemed closer.. closer. One of the men nodded, moving to open the door to the truck, when the guy suddenly made a gurgling sound. A throwable knife blade was sticking in his neck, the blood pouring down, and he clutched his hands at it in a helpless manner as he fell to the pavement. There was a gunshot, and the second man fell down next as a bullet entered his skull. And the few bystanders on the sidewalk, walking by? They were shot as well.
Damien shook his head, frantically crouching over and grabbing the truck keys from the first corpse. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck.." He got up and made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder instead of running. There were men. Uniformed. All had boots. And weapons.. knives, guns, blades, anything that could kill. And they were obviously demons. And walked in unison, with purpose. To kill the impure scum in this city. To wipe out the human taint forever and start anew. To purge the unworthy from existence.
There was another shot, and a bullet hit Damien in the upper right leg. He yelled out, practically hopping into the driver section (as well as leaving a slight blood trail where he walked) and started it, wincing at the pain as he sat on the seat. There was yet another gunshot from a weapon.. and he was hit in the left shoulder. "Goddammit! No, no.. please, no..." He didn't want to die this way. Not so soon. But he could very well perish. He fumbled with his foot, pressing down on the pedal and sped off the lot. The open door had hit a telephone pole, causing it to rip off. Great, now he was a sitting duck. He didn't stop. He kept going, gasping as he felt both pain and numbness in his wounds. As he sped off he saw in the rear-view mirror that two of the demons, together, was bent over the corpses.. touching the blood. As if to write something. It would be revealed as PURITY to the public that saw it later.
He kept going, hearing the marching in the distance. He had to get underground. Or find a safe haven. Somewhere to hide. At the same time, he despised that notion. The Son of Satan did NOT cower from his enemies. He arranged their demise, usually in a creative yet violent accident. But this was not his world. That was clear more than ever now, even though he had used that fact to his advantage sometimes. One thing he did know for certain was that he could not go to a hospital. Regardless of the fact that he was wounded. That he needed the rounds removed, needed to be bandaged up.. to be healed.
The man sped on the streets like a speed demon (no pun intended), and about twenty minutes later, pulled into the parking lot of an internet cafe. He slowly got out of the truck, staggering slightly toward the door. He shook his head and blinked several times. Damn. He also discovered that it wasn't wise to lose consciousness. He had no doubts that he might survive. Part of his physiology. But he also knew what a danger he was in from these monsters if they caught him. As he took each painful step into the building, gasping with each limp, he made his way to a terminal, avoiding the stares sent his way. He also noticed blood dripping from his hand. He almost panicked at that. But then he realized it was from his shoulder, the red liquid had just been going down his arm under the sleeve of his coat. He sighed, taking a heavy breath as he sat down.. and started to type with one hand.