Cyborg 009 Fan Fiction ❯ Bullet in the Dark ❯ Night Wolf ( Chapter 2 )

Disclaimer: I don't own Cyborg 009. The guy who owns him is dead.

Bullet in the Dark

Chapter 2: Night Wolf

Author's Note:

None of you are reading this, are you? Oh well. I didn't think so, anyway. This is just the spot where I ramble about stuff you probably don't want to know about. *shrugs* Time for you to read and me to move on to some other story to write.

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It was getting dark, and he knew he had to get ready.

Not mental wise, mind you.

Oh no… He was always ready for a kill.

He stared into the sunset; dusk was arriving. The sun was slowly setting into the sky like blood, streaking the clouds with red.

An ironic smile graced his facial features. Even the sky was bleeding. Bleeding slowly, like a clogged stream. Even it knew someone was to die tonight.

A crow cawed somewhere in the background like a bad omen. Its eerie call would have raised goose bumps, but not on him. He was too impassive for that.

His thoughts were jumbled. Years of blood had taken their toll.

He couldn't stop thinking about the girl, the blood… the words she said, her face, her smile…

She didn't deserve all this. Didn't deserve it in hell.

She was like an angel, an untainted being.

He was what? A sinner, if there was ever something as a God, who didn't deserve mercy.

The sun plunged into the sky, burning into his memory. Somehow, this sunset seemed different than the others.

Unholy. Unreal. Something not of this world.

A cold wind blew on his cheek. He didn't mind; he couldn't feel anything.

Death does a strange thing to the human mind, especially if you have to do it very often. It soaks up emotion like a dry sponge.

Particularly fear.

He still hadn't noticed he never felt fear anymore. No fear for pain, for out of control emotions, no nothing.

Did he even know that he was turning into a robot? Just a weapon for other's amusement or money, or some other worldly possession that he knew he shouldn't care about?

No… Of course he didn't.

He was still ignorant towards it all. He was just there for the blood. For the control he craved so much.

Not ambition.

Never ambition.

He wasn't one for that kind of power-hungry monster he heard about so much these days. He was just…

What the hell was he thinking?

It was already dark, the waning moon rising like a mystic orb in the sky.

His ears pricked up, hearing people leaving the large estate. Snatches of laughter from those shallow, but moneyed, groups of society departing in their flashy, imported cars.

He heard the light of the young woman's room click on.

She was just another of them, was she not? Wealthy enough to know she was just political chess piece, right? Without a doubt she did not.

A fool…

His eyes closed, cool winds still blowing, clearing his mind.

What was she? A hecatomb so important he could not stop thinking about him?

Impossible. Never. Not ever.

She was merely a sacrifice. Nothing more, nothing less.

He reminded himself that he was just a killer. A nothing. The cause of most political deaths… the unexplained ones.

He knew that --insert a bitterly ironic smile-- if the police ever caught him, he was dead. Trial or no trial, he was dead.

But he didn't need any pity.

If he died, he would be doing it with dignity.

Silently --oh-so-silently-- he crept down from the roof.

Foolish people. Did they believe that their invisible, electric fences could keep him out? Or maybe their trained dogs, or maybe the muscular guards standing wait? Him, who the newscast had so quickly dubbed the Night Wolf, the one who could go into any house, any mansion, without a sound?

He knew she was asleep from the regular rise and fall of her chest, unmoving, as if dead.

Her golden hair lapped around her in a halo, long eyelashes caressing the pale skin.

He shook himself of these thoughts. What good did a beautiful face do? Nothing.

He was helping her… This way, she would stay forever fresh, like the delicate blooms in the garden, in her loved ones' minds.

His gun was pulled out, waiting for the trigger to be pulled, ending her life.

B-bump. B-bump. B-bump.

He was ready for the final shot, the final beats of her heart.

B-bump. B-bump. B-bump.

He prepared the trigger. Nothing was holding him back now.

B-bump. B-bump. B-bump.

It clicked, and he looked at it, surprised.

It was suppose to be a silent gun, to have its victims not know what was coming. Why did it start talking now?

But that one click was enough.

Her blue eyes flew open, dark in the cheerless night. They moved to him, and to his gun.

They filled with tears, shaking with emotion.

She looked back to her lap.

"Go ahead," she whispered. "Go ahead and kill me."

He almost dropped the gun in surprise. No one. Not one of his 'prey' had ever said such a thing. Not one.

Not one in dozens he had killed in the last three years of his life.

What was wrong with her?

At his hesitance, she looked back up, blue eyes piercing his brown ones.

He saw life passing before him when he looked into those orbs.

They told of so many things, so much emotion.

Innocence. Pain. Bitterness. Blood.

Inwardly, he smiled satirically. She was an innocent. Even her eyes showed him that, proving his assumption.

But there were so many things…

So many things he knew. So many things he knew an innocent, a girl like her, should never know until they lie on their deathbed, peacefully awaiting to be cast from the world.

It made him hold back.

Why?

Because she was attractive?

No. Of course not. He had killed plenty exquisite ones.

Her plea for him to murder her in cold blood?

No. He would do that in a heartbeat.

Then why?

Why couldn't the Night Wolf do it?

But he knew. He already knew…

She was just like him.

The idea struck him dumb. No one in the world should have to claim those images.

He walked closer to her, eyes hidden behind his bangs.

Reaching behind her neck, knowing her eyes must be wide with surprise, he gently pressed her pressure point.

Almost instantly she dropped off into a dreamless sleep.

Carefully, smoothly, he picked her up.

She was strangely light, like a pillow, and just as soft.

He walked towards the balcony, preparing to leave.

He knew that they would be outraged. They would be sickened, in fact.

He didn't care what they thought about.

He cared for himself now.

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Tell me that was a good chapter. I loved it this chapter. I love this story. I love the plot. Dear God, I'm in love with my writing! That's good, right? Please tell me what you think!