Prompt: "It's two hundred years in the future. Dragons, vampires, and unicorns exist…because of genetic engineering."
It's been nearly fifty years since that day, but every little detail is ingrained in my memory as if it transpired merely a week ago. My senses were overridden with the stench of rubbing alcohol, the crinkling of latex gloves, a silver light driving stakes through my eyes, and a sweet taste glued to my palate. Chasing my master's enemies through the dim-lit streets of Aknave always brought me back to that day.
The day – some would claim – I died. But how could I be both dead and alive? My master had spoken to me of a conundrum the humans had come up with, called Schrödinger's cat. Schrödinger, a scientist way before his time, had locked a cat inside a box and stipulated that, until someone opened it and looked inside, the animal could be both alive and dead; and there was no way to say which was true. Maybe that's why some humans thought of us as Schr��dingerians; a term which, after years of misuse, had become pejorative in our eyes. We thought we would never surpass our vague nature, trapped between two states, and firmly kept under human shoes, but, a hundred years ago, Bariq had finally toppled the human governments and the tables had turned.
This human was particularly afraid of me and my kin taught me to hate everything different. She stank of horror and frustration as she careened through the empty cobbled streets, looking for a way out of the center of the city, a maze of narrow streets and drooping rooftops. Rows upon rows of cloned buildings made to confuse any intruder wandering in. Probably the reason human spies had yet to infiltrate the Parliament successfully and lived to tell the tale. The humans must have been horrified when they realized they had created the tools for their destruction. Not that they seemed to have cared in the beginning. My kin had to reverse global warming and all the other disasters the mortals managed to bring upon themselves; they had smirking at the humans' inability to take responsibility and admit it was all their fault and they had fucked Earth up big time. Why would they? God had chosen them as his sheep.
Too bad divinity was a work of fiction, or it might have struck them down before we had.
By the stench it left behind, I guessed it was a female, no older than thirty. She was well-trained but she lacked the real-life skills one requires if they wish to survive an encounter with – I believe they call us – The Monster Army. I found the name preposterous; not only were we not monsters, but we were hardly as numerous as the concept of an army suggests. A battalion, maybe. A regiment? Hardly. Suffice to say, their leaders like to pose and claim they knew all about us, then send ignorants to do their dirty work.
She hit a dead end, almost tumbling into the brick wall of a closed café. I watched her, perched on the rooftop of another building, and cloaked in shadows, waiting to see her gun flashing in the night as she prepared to make a final stand. They always draw their guns, despite knowing it would never kill us. Her hand fumbled inside her jacket pocket and extracted a crucifix.
I scowled. No one had pulled a crucifix on me since my first day in the field, nigh on forty years ago. Humans had soon realized their little toy made no difference to us. And neither does garlic in case you were wondering.
The crucifix trembled in her hands, but she clutched it tightly, her dark eyes searching for me and finding only shadows. She wouldn't see me if I didn't wish to be seen. I made sure to squint, so the glinting of my eyes wouldn't betray my location. Rookie mistake, which had cost me a couple of victims before I learned it's best to take all precautions and never – I mean never – underestimate a human. Desperation makes them do the stupidest things. Like holding a crucifix above their heads and whisper prayers to a fictional deity.
I jumped from the rooftop, grabbed the pole horizontally lodged in the wall, and placed my feet on it so I could hang upside down. Apparently, we were supposed to be bats. We do enjoy playing with the fears of the humans.
"He isn't going to answer, you know." I made sure to make my voice gruffer than in reality, baring the false fangs my master insisted his lackeys wear.
Once you understand everything is showbusiness, the real world makes much more sense.
"He's been dead for two centuries. That is if he ever existed at all."
The human whirled around, trying to pinpoint my location. She screamed when she saw my fangs glinting in the darkness and took a step backward, gulping when the brick wall stopped her retreat. Painfully aware she couldn't escape; the perfect time to draw a gun. Yet, she stubbornly refused to do so. Until she did, I couldn't take any chances. Bullets do ricochet off our chests, but our heads are still vulnerable. Call it a factory defect if you must.
"Your employer should have known better than sending a rookie to do a pro's job. It's quite humiliating actually."
She let herself drape down and hugged her knees, hiding her face inside. Some don't like to see what is coming, while others stare it in the face and spit on the ground. How under-trained was she really?
It was then I allowed myself to fall, certain there was no gun to be pulled. Even if she did have a pistol, she was too terrified to use it, let alone get a fatal shot in.
"Why did he send you?" I edged closer, grabbed her chin, and lifted her head.
Her cheeks were red, mucus dribbled down her chin and her eyelashes – too black and long to be entirely real – were heavy with dew-sized tears. Her whole body shivered at my touch, but she had no space to recoil.
"You're as fresh as an apple tart out of the oven." I drew my tongue over my fangs, resisting the urge to step back when she burst into tears.
I had been sent to annihilate a threat against the Parliament but the girl sobbing in front of me told me otherwise. She could be a decoy, meant to divert my attention. Knowing my master's enemies, it was more likely they were blackmailing her into getting herself killed for a greater cause.
The bitter smell of fear reached my nostrils and made my stomach turn. I stared at my hands, crimson in the moonlight. Stained with so much blood, no amount of scrubbing would get it out. I should kill her, even if just for the fact she was a human.
It was at that moment she chose to speak. When I look back at that moment, I am certain it must have been fate.
"Please," she begged, not daring to look at me. "I don't want to die."
It's amazing what a few words can do to a person, even a hardened killer like myself. They deflated my bloodlust and conviction like a needle driving through a soap bubble and raised so many questions inside my mind I had to cover my ears and slink back to the shadows. She noticed my reaction quicker than I thought she would, but she remained on the ground, her face frozen, her tears forgotten.
I cowered inside a corner, hiding my face from her. There was something vile inside of me – I could feel it now. It squirmed inside my chest, retreating from my mind. Her words had sent it screeching and rendered it useless; against such an innocent plea, it had no strength. Sometimes, an innocent soul is more powerful than the filthiest of hearts. I clutched my chest, scratching away at the skin underneath the shirt, digging my fingernails inside until a trickle of blood stained the white fabric red. Genetical engineering had taken away any chance I had of feeling pain; I had been grateful for that. But now, it seemed like pain would have been my only absolution. Agony alone could wash away my sins and extirpate the dark creature which had tainted my being.
I remembered it then. What they had put inside of me to make me a vampire. In my pride, I thought I recalled that day with utmost perfection, but, as it turns out, I was missing a piece. The most important one.
What separates a human from a vampire? Some people think it is our lust for blood, or the inability to die unless we have a bullet in our brains. Others speak of anatomical differences, such as fangs, sharper nails or eyes with cat-like vision, and an acrobatic skill which allows us to vault over rooftops like modern-day ninjas. Few know what the distinction actually is, and they guard the secret with their lives.
And yet, when she glanced at me, I could see she guessed this darker truth as if she sensed there was something inside of me, fighting for control. If it won, she'd be torn to pieces. Maybe that's what prompted her to stand up, shivering, and make her way to me, crouching by my side with pity in her eyes.
"What are you?" She drew her hand through my hair, much like a child does with an especially adorable dog.
The barest whisper of a smile flickered on her lips, but it was gone in an instant when her eyes locked mine and my hunger shone through my pupils.
"What did they do to you?" She grabbed my palms, stopping me from scratching myself to death. "You're not like the others, are you?"
Am I not? My name is Lack – fittingly chosen, I suppose. I am what I have been told I am; I can't be anything else.
"You're different."
It must be true – if she says it with such conviction. I stared at her, my heart threatening to explode. Her eyes, once filled with horror, were now pools of confusion and curiosity. She was looking at my pasty palms, tracing my lifelines. It tickled me and I had to resist the urge to draw my hand back.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Lack," I found myself replying, despite my training.
She should have been dead by now. I should have made sure of it.
"Nikki." Her smile pushed the darkness inside of me, driving a blade straight through its heart.
I heard it scream and writhe against my ribcage, unable to fight the light Nikki had projected on it. With one smile, she reminded me I had been someone before Lack. I wasn't sure who, but a part of him – whoever he was – had managed to survive two centuries of solitude.
"Come with me."
She dragged me to my feet, and I followed. I had to know who I was. Even if it killed me.