The shadows of night seem to obscure everything under their dark cloak. For who would fail to notice two tall, masked men with bloodied clothes and blades that gleamed crimson in the moonlight? Perhaps it was indeed the darkness itself that concealed them. Or perhaps the darkness is what ushered anyone who could bear witness inside their homes at night for the fear of what the darkness concealed, like the two dark silhouettes in the moonlight.

Whatever the reason, the pair went unnoticed by all except the occasional stray cat that immediately fled upon their arrival. Perhaps it was the darkness behind the one's white mask where his eyes should have been, or the unlife that the other seemed to radiate. Or perhaps it was simply the scittish nature of the cat. Such a nature was to be appreciated, for there is nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal, especially a wounded animal with a friend.

The shorter of the two, though still like a tower to most, clutched his side where four long gashes slowly oozed blood through his fingers, staining his blue jumpsuit even more so. He was hunched over slightly in pain, though his white mask, which was forever frozen in an emotionless stare, betrayed nothing of his struggles. The man squeezed his kitchen knife in a tight grip, his knuckles whitening, in both reassurance that it was there if he needed to defend himself, and trying to relieve some of the pain.

The other looked to the sky at the sound of thunder, and blinked away raindrops as they came through the holes of his hockey mask into his eyes. He did very much like the rain. It's soft, rythmic patter as it hit the ground. How it dampened the ground and crisp leaves upon it making his quiet footfalls silent. How each droplet of water made its own tiny disruption in the lake, a vast sea of little waves across the surface of the otherwise calm water. He looked to Michael, to enjoy the sound of the rain with him.

Instead, the man next to him was shivering. He's cold. Jason realized. Michael was anything but human, as the hockey-masked man had come to know, but he was closer to humanity than Jason was. The cold never bothered Jason, pain really never felt like anything but an inconvenient weakness when he broke a limb or had lost so much blood. Such things never bothered him, but they did bother Michael. He is alive. I am not. He feels more...

Jason wanted to embrace the smaller man, protect him from the weather, but he stopped himself. This is Michael. Michael does not like to be touched.

Instead, the hockey-masked killer drew his tattered jacket over the other, shielding him from the elements. Michael flinched at the slight touch, and being so close to the other killer, but he did not break away, as he usually did when someone was so close. Upon seeing his consent, Jason pulled the smaller one closer to him as gently as he knew how. Michael panicked slightly, having a moment of feeling trapped, but realized the gentleness of the embrace. He knew he could easily get away if he pleased. But there was something else. He wasn't bombarded by the usual confusing feelings he got when touched. Rather, he felt comfort. Michael didn't understand, but he decided not to question it, saviouring his mental peace.

Walking out of the dimly lit town into the even darker forest, the two murderers disappeared into the night from whence they came, and shall come again.