Clamping his arm around the neck of that breathing piece of filth, Azrael trapped him in a chokehold. His body tensed in terror before attempting to struggle against the imposing form dragging him backward into the shadow of an alley. Desperately, his neatly manicured nails turned ragged as he clawed against the harsh shield of scales on Azrael's forearm, without a chance of leaving even a scratch. Like an insect caught in a trap, he couldn't quite comprehend that the end was coming.
Life tends to fight to keep living even when it can't.
The nameless man kicked his feet out violently, the soles of his shoes no longer touching the ground as Azrael stood at his full height, suspending him from his neck. A human stood no chance against a dragon, especially when caught off guard. Polished leather scuffed against the stony pavement, an uncomfortable cacophony, a muzzled animal's muffled death throes. The coughing agony of his breathing began to dull, becoming quieter as his struggling weakened.
Once his thrashing began to slow, Azrael felt the man's neck compress and his spine, finally, crunch. Revolting in its finality, the vertebrae wrenched apart, severing his spinal cord completely. His body went limp, paralysed, in Azrael's arms as he let out on final exhalation. A wheeze so weak it was barely audible.
He dropped the dead man hurriedly, like his skin was poisonous to the touch, so he could stare at the lifeless husk, contempt clouding his blurry gaze. This was the first time that Azrael had the chance to see his face and this version of it was certainly the most accurate look into what that human had been on the inside. Whatever the man had looked like in life was thoroughly purged away in death.
Blood-shot eyes bulged from skin so red it was like it had been peeled off, flayed until his muscles were displayed. Lips were the bruised, greenish shade of an addict's veins, sickening to look at, filling one with the urge to itch their skin. Frothed spittle dribbled down his chin. A revolting visage to match his rotten core. The world was marginally better now that he had wasted his final bit of oxygen.
Disgusting fucking pig. Azrael snarled to himself, kneeling down so he could sling the corpse over his shoulder. The dead weight pressed heavily on his spine, eliciting a low groan as he stood back up. Leaning his head around the alley's end, he looked up and down the unlit street to make sure that no one was coming before stepping out of the shadows. Unsurprisingly, the road was devoid of pedestrians and any cars were parked, empty of prying eyes, giving ample opportunity for Azrael to walk the few metres to his car with no risk of being questioned about this suspicious affair.
With a final glance to either side, he swung open the boot of his car to unceremoniously toss the corpse onto the tarp-lined floor. That thing did not deserve any respect in its journey to its final resting place – Azreal hoped, not for the first time, that if there was an afterlife, there was no rest for a creature like him there. Quietly, his hand guided the door closed to avoid the sound echoing down the desolate road, in a bid to keep away any unwanted attention. Releasing a tense exhale, Azrael finally decided to get into the driver's seat.
Taking his time, as the long day began to catch up with him, Azrael parted his wings so he could comfortably place them around the customised indents on his seat. He blankly gazed forward, his vision flickering between focused and not as the dim light from the streetlamps illuminated the permeating darkness. Before pulling away, he reached across the car to grab his thick-framed glasses from where they sat in their case on the passenger seat. In a practised motion, he settled them on the deep bridge of his nose, their weight almost comforting, as the world became marginally more detailed. He could at least see the road signs now, even though it was unnecessary – this trip had been thoroughly etched into his mind by now.
Snapping himself out of his untimely stupor, Azrael kicked the car into gear, leaving the graffiti-vandalised, derelict street and merging back onto the main roads of London. The oppressive traffic was absent due to the late hour, better people having no reason to roam about the streets in the cover of night. He was quite far out from the city centre, so there weren't even many drunken stragglers stumbling about. As the streetlights flickered and blinked like the eyes of giants overhead, he squinted at the signs that led him out of the city, following them with just a single thought in his focused mind:
Dispose of the body.
He didn't have to think so steadfastly about it, the charade of it all having been deeply ingrained into his routine for nigh on seven years. Despite that objective truth, the relentless mantra was inescapable, so he didn't fight it off as he took note that the sprawling suburbs had finally fallen away. Free from an urban nightmare for the much calmer, peaceful countryside, finally. Even if this venture, like most of Azrael's excursions out here, was not for leisure.
Fortunately, he didn't need to read the signs with any close attention at all anymore, finding himself on a winding road he knew like the scales on the back of his hand that led him to a secret hidden within a tangled copse of centuries-old oak trees. After driving on the country road long enough for the sun to begin winking over the distant horizon, Azrael slowed the car down before parking and turning it off behind dense shrubbery, hidden from any untrained, prying eyes.
The hard part is yet to come. He grumbled internally as he unloaded the corpse from the boot and threw it over his shoulder again, resting it's limp arms and lolling head between his wings. Steeling himself for the short, but arduous, hike, he set off, following the path his feet had forged in the undergrowth over the many days, weeks, months and years he had marched to the clearing within these trees. At some point, his back began to cry for mercy as the corpse was heavier than he had expected. Without an ounce of hesitation, he dropped it to the ground, it's dishevelled clothes becoming dust-covered and grass-stained, to allow himself a slight break before continuing his journey after a short reprieve.
Finally, as his feet joined the agonised protest, he arrived at his final destination. The once flat, barren clearing that stood before him was now filled with haphazardly spaced mounds with green moss growing thickly over some, while others were barely reclaimed by the undergrowth. Delicate wildflowers made a patterned bed of yellow, white and purple – it was almost enough to be called beautiful, if Azrael was unaware of the truth. If he ever took the time to count the mounds of human fertiliser, he would probably be perturbed by how many graves there were, but he didn't bother because he knew there was no point.
Would I actually be shocked?
Azrael's ever-growing body count was evidenced before him, but he knew he would not – could not – cease what he was doing because it was a necessary evil, as weak of an excuse as that sounded. With a laboured grunt, he threw the body onto the ground, before rummaging in a nearby tree hollow to find the duffel bag of tools he had stashed there. Pulling out a worn shovel, he briefly thought about how he was to explain away this man's death. Disappearing one of these types was nothing hard to deal with – an unsent email hinting at running away, a suicide note in his drafts – so it became tomorrow's thought. His mind drifted away from the ghoulish face glaring at him, blank-eyed, and he found himself thinking of the reason he doing all of this at all.
He found his lips curling themselves into a satisfied curve, not a smile, not even close, as he dragged over the corpse and heaved it into the grave that he'd dug while in thought. The animal he covered with dirt was another danger that had been removed from the life of his purpose. The one constant in his life that had given him a reason to continue on. Even if the man didn't know it. The man Azrael made sure would never have the misfortune of knowing him but lived in the world that he fought to make safer for, though it was slow going.
His unwitting charge.
Pavel.