Awakens the Predator

Morgan stood stock still as the blade penetrated his pancreas. The horrid screaming from onlookers and passersby was more trying than the chef knife in his gut. The incoherent ranting of the attacker about the evils of capitalism and aristocracy just made the surreal sublime. Michael lay sprawled on the pavement where Morgan had knocked him down. Morgan grabbed the attacker's arm, and threw him thirty feet into a wall. He carefully removed the blade as blood gouted down the front of his white shirt. Morgan pressed his right hand on the wound and surged towards the madman. Ruby rivulets ran between his fingers as he picked up the broken body of the antagonist and demanded an explanation from him.

A quick mental read told him that the body in his hand was unconscious. Michael peeled himself up and mentioned that the man's head was oozing fluids. Morgan dropped him in disgust. “How are you?”

“I...” Michael looked at the growing bloodmark. Morgan wasn't one to ask lightly. “I cracked my chin on the pavement. I think I need a Band-Aid. You need surgery.”

“I just need to walk it off,” Morgan said flatly. He was paling, but decided to walk away from the scene. The blood, the crowd, the excitement, the adrenaline singing in his ears was too much. Michael took a step forward and suddenly felt dizzy. Touching his chin, he discovered he was bleeding faster than he'd originally thought. A flap of skin on his chin was hanging loose. Michael sat down to prevent himself from falling over.

Morgan loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. The desire to hurt something badly thrilled through him. An odd taste collected in his mouth. Bile, perhaps? The city breathed like a thousand marks and he himself was the marksman. He subconsciously reached for the edge of a cloak he wasn't wearing.

He heard a scream in the distance. It was quickly stifled. He said something vile under his breath and the wound ceased hurting as a prurient green substance covered over it. A gentleman corpse running to the rescue of some nameless hooker. It doesn't get much more noir, Michael would have commented. But he wasn't there.

Funny how two blocks can make the difference between mega-chic and squalid back alley. Or maybe his sense of distance was off. But above the coppery tang of his own injury, he could smell predatory pheromones and fear. Four aggressive, testosterone and rage-driven thugs. One helpless female, straining but losing consciousness. A curved, transparent blade grew from Morgan's hand. Fangs unsheathed in his mouth.

When she stumbles to the main drag, clothing ripped and spattered with blood, eyes dilated by fear, the cops stop her for questioning. Her mind has snapped to gibbering. They find the pieces of several people in the alley. She says a 'wolf man' attacked them.

Michael's chin required stitches, but he went back to the cottage and heard a newsflash about a predator on the loose. Several victims had been carved apart. Several more had been bitten. An odd green substance had been found at some scenes. They were calling the perp Wolf Ninja. Michael changed into a casual suit and raced out into the night on a motorcycle.

The bloodlust ebbed finally and Morgan's higher brain function finally returned. The mindblade dissipated and a mouth full of flesh and blood spit out its contents. He was on a wooden walkway and the sharp smell of saltwater and rotted fish suggested he was on a wharf. He fell to his knees. He ran his hands over his body. Bullet holes, knife lacerations, bruises. Nothing serious. It would all heal, given time. He wondered how many died. His newly awakened abilities were fierce, consuming. His abdomen felt distended.

From the reports, it sounded like Morgan had cut quite a swath of destruction through the rougher areas of Los Angeles. The victims they could identify were mostly gang members and mobsters. The rest were suspected felons. Half the city was calling this mysterious person a superhero; the other half figured he was a crime lord that wanted to clean out the competition while masquerading as a vigilante. It was obvious where he'd been, but no one was sure where he was going. Michael had an advantage the authorities didn't.

Admittedly, being helmetless meant he might attract attention. Michael walked along the derelict docks carefully. Water loudly lapped against the concrete bulwarks below and the creaking wood covered the sounds of his footsteps, but not his heartbeat. Michael made it to the edge of the sagging quay and thrust his hand into the water. The officer came up behind him as Morgan's apparently lifeless body was pulled out of the greasy water. Michael squeezed the water from Morgan's lungs and then hugged him close to his chest. Michael detected a faint pulse. The officer was going to call for backup and a bus when Morgan looked up at him and shook his head. “Leave us,” he commanded.

The officer blinked a moment. Michael, more softly, repeated the order to him. As his mind told him that he shouldn't, his body walked back to the patrol car and drove off. Michael walked into the night, holding his injured and crippled brother in his arms.