Damn it all to hell.

They will be looking for him.

He shouldn't have left that note.

If they find the note, they will find him.

He doesn't want to be found.

It wasn't even meant for them.

Damn, he doesn't want to be treated as a child. He is a grown man. He doesn't need them peering over his shoulder, sending him pitied looks. He doesn't. They thought they knew him, they truly did. They had no idea.

He is standing in an alley. His equipment is shoved into his trench coat pocket. It is nothing much. A bright, orange cylinder containing smooth little tablets haflway up. When he sees it, he always thinks the color is inappropriate, considering it's purpose. A sleek, razor-sharp dagger, small and nasty. A gleaming haven in his dark. Finally, and perhaps to the most extent, that little cube. It was small, dark blue, the color of a clear night sky, stars abound. It was smaller than a child's pinky, but the assumption that it was powerless would have you meet your untimely end.

He grunted impatiently and back-kicked the wall he was leaning against. Why weren't they here yet? Only once a nebula moon could they meet, and they were late. When he sees them...

He was broken out of his wonderings by a soft moan from behind. Whipping around, a gasp unwillingly left his throat and entered the air.

It is smiling an unearthly, wicked smile. It's gruesome black claws curl drip a sticky red liquid that the he prays is an unfortunate animal's. Slit eyes stare into the young man's own, baring violet teeth, flesh--human flesh--caked in between the many rows. It's tall body--scaly red, yet covered in tufts of magenta and mauve fur--hunched, long, bony legs sliding in preporation to pounce.

He does the same, slowly pulling out the little dagger, swiftly pushing it in between his pointer and middle fingers, one leg in front, one in back, eyes narrowing. His hair, long and dark in the midnight shadows that dance to the soft ballad of the city sounds, blows in the gentle breeze from under his black hat. The hat pushed some hairs down so they covered one of his eyes. His gloved hands quivered in quiet fear. Nobody, not even a Slayer, could not quack at the sight of the Rozanda Jeag; the Wendle's Demons.

It's horrible, hoarse voice boomed from that gnarled face. "This is not a breeding ground for Demons. Why are you here, Slayer?" It demanded, voice hushed. He silently thanked his lucky stars that this was a calmer Demon; not the brutal sort he usually had the luck to run into. Still, he chose not to answer, instead deepening his stance.

"Answer me." The Demon roared, so loud all of Las Vegas seemed to turn and look for the source. He is unfazed by the Jeag's mood swing; many often let their instinct wash over their cunning.

The Demon roared it's mighty roar and attacked. It was so swift he did not have a moment's notice to prepare his counter before the Jeag was on top of him, ready to sing it's horrible purple teeth into his skin. Wrestling his own, knived arm from under It's ginormous hand, he raises the knife--which has been soaked and cut in Kyork's potion--and sinks it into It's scaled, yet soft, back skin. It's terrorized scream gave him the strength to lift It's hulking, heaving body off of his own, long enough to roll out of the landing zone.

It gives him enough notice to pull out the box, the tiny box that is barely a vibration in the air. He mutters the word, the secret word that only he knows, under his breath. He feels the box begin to shake. "Hurry up." He mutters as It pulls the knife from It's back, as It's instinctive beast took over.

He finally decided he couldn't wait anymore for the box to do it's sorcery. Seperating his legs, one arm clenched into a fist at his side, the other raised in front of him, palm flat out, he concentrated intently. He knew it was fading; the power was dying out, and that was why it was so difficult to gather up his strength to unleash his beginning blow. He knew he had to stop his frivolous ways, but...

Snapped out of his thoughts by the Demon's mighty battle cry, the young man, taking a heaving breath, unleashed his power.

Electrifying blue rays shot out of his offered palm, lighting the dark alleyway enough that, if a passerby happened to be walking along, they would've seen both the gelatinous Jear, midway in a pouncing assault, and they young man, hat and hair shielding his face, trench coat billowing in the powerful wind he gave out from his gloved hand. The azul light was both dazzling and horrifying as it connected with the Demon's large and scaly black chest, it's sheer force slamming him into the dead end alley wall. It crumbled under his weight, nearly knocking him out.

To finish the job, the young man gathered up his remaining strength--though he felt himself barely able to stay awake--and pounced. Turning, he ran into the side wall, half-scaled, half-walked up it's two story length at a bullet speed, and, reaching the top, he let his right foot rise kick into the edge of the roof, and left leg rise above his head into a twisted, spiraling cartwheel through the thick Nevada air. His hat now on the ground, his face was quite noticeable, but he failed to notice as his boot cleanly hit the wicked Demon's massive head; successfully rendering him immobile and unconscious.

Landing gracefully on his feet, he swiped up his hat and placed it back on his head, careful to mat the hair over his right eye. Than, with an angry glare into the empty horizan and desolate rooftops, he limped away, despite the shooting pain coming from his leg and arms, as all had suffered damage while pinned down. He had to figure a way to explain the nasty gash on his forehead. It wasn't so big that he couldn't hide it behind his long hair, but it would seem odd, as he usually wore it in spikes.

Damn it. They were there by now, he just knew it. Knocking on his door, slamming it down, perhaps. Reading the letter that had not been for them after receiving another letter that had not been for them. Imagine what they would think he was doing. They probably expected to find a bloody mess and a long silver knife, or an empty orange cylinder rolling around a cold, limp form. That same figure could even be soaked in an overrunning bathtub, eyes closed in a peaceful slumber. God, imagine what they must've thought when they read it...

His clan. That was who it was meant for, not those meddlesome coworkers of his. His clan was called upon months ago, warned of the power failure, warned of the imending danger, warned of the meeting on this very day, at this very location, at this very time. When he gets his hands on them...

No time to fume, he told himself. You must get back before they call the police, their pathetic excuse for protectors. They knew not of real danger--think torture is bad? Wait until they feel the wrath of a Jeag slashing at them, ripping out the blood vein from their wrists...then they can start whining about danger.

He had shaken off his pain to a nagging numbness that left his limp barely noticeable and, with a straight back and confident stare into the apartment complex, he doubted anybody would ask him of his injuries, if anybody in this Sin City were to see or care of such a thing. By the power of all who ruled, he prayed their would be no hassle, that they had not arrived yet, that they would not misinterpret his letter, that he could just lock himself into the apartment and mend his wounds, which still bled freely. He also added that nobody notice the color of the blood, or density, or that it glowed an illuminating glow not unseen on tin foil.

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit...

There it was. He knew it was coming. He knew it. A truck. A truck he recognized from the lab parking lot as Sara's. Sara Sidle's. The dark-haired, gap-toothed woman humping the boss and who had come to be a close friend. It was parked askew across the No Parking zone, the doors still somewhat hanging open. Damn it all to hell. Son of a bitch. All the other profanities he'd heard them whisper throughout his tim in the lab.

And the pain keeps coming. Someone was walking down the stairs that led to his own room. More than someone. Quite a few someones. Walking in a rythmatic unison, melting together in a perfectly syncing melody. Though he couldn't see their faces, the young man saw the form of their heads staring straight ahead, not even fazed by the bouncing caused by their steep steps. He recognized those looks.

Oh, god, he'd kill them! He was happy they had bothered with ccoming into contact at all, but son of a bitch, they had to...

The group had moved past the stairs and were heading for the truck. Sara climbed into the driver's seat, with Grissom, the boss and her fiancee, in the passenger seat, and the others--Catherine, a mother figure to the young man, Warrick, who always acted icy towards him, and Nick, his best friend--piled into the back. None appeared to say anything as the truck pulled out from it's awkward position and drove off into the night. He knew that, when they went to sleep that night, they'd forget what they'd seen. Though he hadn't been there, he knew exactly how it went down. It wasn't pleasant. He was glad they didn't have to remember.

Trudging up the brick steps, leaving a trail of thin, shimmering liquid behind, he tiredly opened his apartment door, not caring that the lock had been slammed off, or that it was cracked like a head had jutted it, and collapsed against it from the inside, shutting it with his back and sliding to the floor, knees bent.

A small puddle of blood had formed around him before he picked himself up and went into the bathroom. He stitched and bandaged what needed to be stitched and bandaged. Cracked what needed cracking. Whiped what needed whiping. In his position, it had all become routine. It was so boring to him, that in his daze, he failed to notice the arrow that had been stuck to the bathroom door until it whacked him in the head, reopening the gash.

He sighed in frustration. He knew their calling card. Pinned down under the arrows sharp, hand-crafted red tip were two pieces of paper; one being a plain white notebook sheet, crinkled and scribbled on with a dull pencil, the other, under it, was a neon orange piece of computer paper, with neat, blue ink writing a familiar message. He, ignoring the blood pouring down his face and weakening him, yanked out the arrow and threw it to the floor, catching the two sheets.

The first, the notebook paper, was barely legible, but he was used to it.


Sorry we couldn't make it. Problem with them Jeags, y'know, bro? When we got there you were handling one of them pretty well, so we just decided to come here. You've gotta keep a better eye on those fuzz you work with--noisy bunch. Screaming and breaking down the door--didn't know why till after we put them on FMNs (they remember, in case you didn't know. Didn't have all the ingrediants. As far as they know, they came in and freaked out because you were sleeping on the couch, now they feel all stupid. Go along with it) and saw that note you left us. Again, sorry we didn't get it, but could you BE anymore of a drama queen? Blonde lady, by the way, nearly hysterical. Reminds me of Mom, huh?

J and M and N all send their props. Take care of yourself, aight? See you at the next meeting--or sooner, by the looks of it. I know what you were saying about the fade...comin' fast...


He laughed and shook his head. Finally, they weren't bugging him about when the fade would start--or in M's case, if it would start at all. And he had some new material.

Underneath that note was his own letter--entirely in code. They--his coworkers--must've plucked it from his locker--which he never bothered to lock anymore--and flipped a pancake.

I can't. It is too much to bear. I cannot keep this up. I must go. Let the blood flow freely...out of control...do something. It is sucking out everything...it will leave me hollow. I must go. I must. I'm sorry. I just have to.
It really was a rather dark and suicidal note to the unknowing eye. His clan, however, knew the meanings of it. Blood always stood for the Demons--it meant to let them run free for the time being and come meet. The 'I must go on' stuff was emphasizing the urgency to be there. The sucking--well, it was symbolic to their ever-growing weakness, their loss of power...the Grands, they refused to see it, refused to do anything about it. They had a never-ending source of power, they did not care...did not care if all of them withered away into nothing...

The Demon's gash was really making him dizzy...he had to stitch it up. Tell them he fell down the stairs or something. Get some sleep, he tells himself, picking up his thread and needle, he quickly put a few stitches into the flesh, sealing the hole and ceasing the bloodflow. He would've collapsed into his small bed and burry himself into the meager mattress if it had not been for his pre-set alarm clock blaring that he had to go to work.

"FUCK IT!" He screamed into the empty apartment, using what little strength he had left to crush the wretched clock between his fingers, leaving it as a puddle of scraps beside the bed.

Stripping out of his blood-stained clothes, he changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a black grunge band T-shirt. Muttering curses under his breath, the young man, with his now-spiked hair and big red scar, dragged his car keys and vest out the door with him, abandoning his recovered dagger, the box of pills he had yet to use, and that little box that still wouldn't do anything in his blood-soaked battle suit, wondering when the time will come, when the battle will begin. The label on the vest he carried with him read Greg Sanders, CSI Level 1. That was his name. His alias. It was as the mortal world knew him. In the world of Mendle, in the world he ruled with his Demons. And it was Greg who led the rebellion, him and his clan, his family. He was a Rider of the Dominions, a Jumper of the Sky Dragons...he was a Slayer, destined to lead the battle that was to come. Never would he have thought it would've turned out like this.

It has begun...