With muted whirs and clicks, metal moved and skimmed above worn tiles and stone. Metal has no feeling; it needs no love, no care, or warmth. One streak after another of moonlight gliding over polished grooves. Metal is created, forever loyal to thy maker. Jumping to full view, encased in the illusion of the light with the moon behind as the backdrop, a machine the size of a small wolf, streamlined and swift on rush paws, landed like the single drop of liquid from the heights above, silent and unnoticed. No fur but steel, no claw or tooth but sharpened knives, all tuned and ready to kill. It dashed across rooftop to rooftop, over the tightly packed houses of Oxford, Great Britain.
As briefly as it was shown, the lifeless wolf disappeared to the shadows dancing to the ground, rustling all the fallen leaves in its wake. It sped down the street, under the intense beams of the sidewalk lights and the specks of stars in the swirling mass of dark matter called the night sky. A wind of brisk cool yet calm, brushed the metal, caressing the edges and curves. Carried by unseen hands, wind not only brought temperate moods, but gentle drizzles watching with fearful eyes, their death to the ground below.
Wind was nothing, rain was only a slight deterrent but not in these amounts. A soldier on a mission to capture its silversmith's enemy, the Director of Operations of the British Library, failure ventures on the impossible. The Director, in regards with the information given, was only a mere human, not anything dangerous as a paper master or so. All will be finished in a mere hour.
Only fifteen minutes from the location of the metal, the Director sat in his home office, alone. Only illuminating the small room whereas everywhere else in this house was pitch black, light from dimmed lamp and the glare from the laptop screen played on the worn face of Joseph Carpenter. Instead of clicks from slithering metal, these clicks were born from the tapping of his fingers against the keyboard. One-thirty-seven gleam its little lantern on the corner of the screen. Glancing at the changing time, he only shrugged and continued on. One hand slid off the keys and to the files that riddled his desk and drawers, tired eyes read the words, now meaningless by endless print and mention.
Letting go, the words gradually flew on paper wings to the desk. He rubbed his eyes; his fingers finding the familiar place around his neck, counting and counting the minutes away; not the seconds but to his heart. Each beat, each tick, slowly, softly, lull him to a sort of sleep. A sigh and a stretch, he closed the laptop and grabbed the still steaming cup of tea hidden behind some papers. He left the room, flicking off the light. Ten minutes.
The metal moved faster, each contact with the pavement was now a pound heard loud and clear. The Director shifted from the office to the living room, equally dark as the rest of the house with the most prominent feature the window wall, the hot cup of tea help in his hand, sipping occasionally; his gaze fixated through the glass, rain running down the invisible barrier, in the distance was the shimmering waters of the Thames which reflected the moon like a mirror, pure white and stainless, the tall trees that lines the edge, a dark foreground to the bright back.
Five. The metal snorted in excitement.
Four. He placed his hand against the freezing glass.
Three. Metal had spotted the house.
Two. He took another sip of his tea.
One. Metal roared.
Piercing howls riding doom reached his ears, his head jerked from the view to the fleeting sight of a pouncing wolf, a fleeting sight of silver nails, a fleeting sight of his own blood. Crimson filth splashing to the floor, he tumbled back onto the coffee table crashing through it as the wolf collided through the window; glass dived from their colleagues all around him. The metal claws, freezing to the touch, etched deep into his skin, ripping through his collar shirt and muscles. Screaming in pain, desperateness caught hold of him. Sharp barks and growls, fear went wild. His hands trying to cuff and push away the snapping jaws, many times reaching too close for comfort. Breaths, short and weak, the machine so feral. He felt himself give. The weight of the machine crushed his airway. Its head veered with sudden force out of his hands, jaws open and crunched on his left wrist. Squirts and rivers erupted from the severed veins and arteries.
"Ahhh!" he tried to jerk back, but to no avail. In return, it bit harder. His right hand found a large splinter from the table and jammed it into the jaws. Clenched teeth with sweat mixing with the blood, fatigue set in with hooks, coaxing him to give in. He forced his arm to pry the jaws open. The teeth, once silver, now dripped with crimson. He kicked the torso of the wolf; his legs previously pinned down by the hind legs but slipped off as they struggled.
Metal jumped back, taking with it large amounts of flesh. Glancing at his hand, eyes wide and horrified, he could see his own bones. Growling metal compelled him to scamper, whimper, panting to the office. He locked the door, barricading it with a nearby chair. Hobbling to the desk, he searched all the drawers, wincing at the sudden thump from the door. Panic started the rise, he tore the drawers out of the desk, papers were soaked with his blood, and slight relief filled him when he found the heavy comfort of his revolver.
But it didn't last long, the door cracked open, Joseph turned around and fired. Speeding bullets bash through the metal's shielding, striking the circuitry, sparks flew from the open wounds. Yelping in wild screeches, metal charged one last time. He emptied all his bullets, and struck the wolf away. Finally colliding with a bookcase, metal gave no reply.
Exhausted and pale, he propped himself against the desk. His blurry eyes sought his phone and discovered it under mounds of more paper. He grabbed it and entered '999'.
Author's Note: I do hope you did enjoy. I'm not much of a writer, but I'm learning.