Chapter 8: The Recovery

His blood trickles into the stream. It clouds crimson. Little fish dart away, terrified of touching his blood, of being tainted by his evil.

Every emotion is pounding in his head, beating on his skull. It's hard to concentrate. He wants to scream, but doesn't. It would do no good.

A rat skitters by. He lurches forward and catches it by the tail. Quick and deft. His massive hands twist the rodent apart. Hot steam bellows from its entrails. He is hungry, so he swallows it in three bites.

Leaves rustle behind him. He turns around to see his princess, beautiful and frail, lying on a soft bed of leaves. She's bare, except for her flimsy hospital gown. Her wrists and ankles are red from the hospital straps. The cuts on her leg have caked over in brown clumps. There are dried blood streaks down her pale, slender legs.

He reaches into the stream and cups a handful of water. Gently, he pours it on her legs.

In the distance, there are gunshots. He looks up, his muscles tense, and he reaches for his weapon. Sharp blades extrude from the back of his forearms, reaching out towards his elbow. Similar razors-sharp talons eject from his back. His firearm is as silent as his blades, and even deadlier for long-ranged combat. He is ready to kill again if necessary. He will do anything and everything to protect his princess.

The sounds fade. Moments later, the buzz of a motorcycle ignites, then falls to a whisper.

"Uhhh..." she murmurs. He leans close to listen. "Uhhh..."

His body returns to its calm state, its humanoid state. In his palm he cradles another handful of water and carefully washes her face. She's so delicate and harmless, he thinks. Why would anyone want to hurt her? How dare they hurt her?

Her eyes move under their eyelids. "No..." She slowly twists her head side to side. "No... Noooo... Raaachael..."