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THE TASTE OF TERROR

Chapter 6: Prologue

The Watchtower, as it is known, was built thirty years ago near the heart of the city. Named for its command of spectacular views of the surrounding urban, mountainous and forested areas, the building has long been praised for its elegant design. It was the final work of progidal architect Rowan Martino (the 24-year old leopard was reported missing two days after submission of the final schematics, and to this day remains completely vanished), and stands a proud thirty-six stories tall - the highest in the city by nearly fifty metres. The Watchtower contains more than a hundred luxurious apartments for the discerning homeowner, and to this day remains in the same smart, well-maintained condition it was opened in.

There is just one curious discrepancy to this fine building. Or rather, there are two.

The first is that should an interested or simply bored visitor to the city happen to decide to sit down and take a careful look at the soaring structure, he or she might notice after a while, and perhaps a careful recount or two, that the rows of gleaming windows actually rise to thirty-seven stories.

The second is that in all its years as one of the most iconic buildings in the city, even when compared to the majestic University Hall, or even the Crusade-period council palace... no-one has ever noticed this. Not even the inhabitants of floor thirty-six.

And that is as it should be.

The air in the rooms of the floor which does not exist is currently cool and still, undisturbed as it has been for several weeks. Its owner is an irregular visitor, and when he does appear his time there can vary just as much. But what does it matter to this place, held in potential for the slightest whims?

It is simply waiting.

***

And now another place, in a simultaneous moment. Here all is just as still, broken only by a faint sigh of lonely wind... but the cold is not merely chill but icy. A slow stealing of heat which can set into the bone in moments. There is cold silence in the air, almost reminiscent of slumber, as if the craggy giants sprawling across the land, dusted with snow, are not merely mountains but sleeping titans.

The dark form poised resplendent yet languid upon a rocky outcrop, however, is not sleeping. He does not sleep.

He could perhaps be called a titan, though.

Uncaring of the climate and the light snow settling upon his wings, great talons flex, grazing the ice-flecked granite. The terrible eyes are closed, but it matters not: what he is looking into cannot even be described in the terms of the physical universe. He smiles softly, and a sound breaks the silence imperceptibly: a smooth rumbling, deep as the vast citadels of untamed stone around him.

But behind that statuesque calm, he feels the hunger smouldering, growing. One day soon he will open those eyes again - perhaps still here, perhaps another place, it matters not where he goes in this world - and at last, the fire of murderous passion will have ignited fully behind those molten orbs, restrained only by its own cruel desires to prolong its pleasure.

Soon. For now... he lounges, and prowls the eternal night of the space between, and waits.

***

And yet another place, and here again, all is cool and still. Almost still.

The enormity of the night fills this lonely country lane, a few miles away from the life of the city. But in all its quiet and darkness, it is marred by one intruder.

He is not trying to sleep this time: he has learned that can be no escape. He merely sits, curled in a small huddle of snowy fur, with his eyes of crystal blue staring into the dark vastness, and over their lucid, frightened sapphire lies a glaze of diamond tears. Precious, precious tears.

Quietly, softly, hardly daring to break the terrible peace, he sobs.

Slender, delicately formed, intelligent and kind in aspect, there is a strange kind of gentle purity to him which strikes an observer immediately, even as he is: nestled at the base of tree in a frozen hug of his knees, thick tail curled around him as he stares straight ahead... but it is not what he sees that is causing those slow, keening sobs. It is what he will see. Soon.

And so here he sits, waiting. Terrified, weak, frightened beyond all the belief of the happy, innocent creature he once was. His death will come again soon, silky-voiced and cruel, crooning his pain into trembling ears with every drop of blood.

"Nnn..." a squeak, feeble and soft, shaking with the passion of fear, and he gulps it back down before any more can anger the darkness enfolding him. Out here, so vast and so lonely...

Out here. Another hopeless solitude.

Had he hoped to find some relief from the waking nightmare then? Alone, with no cars for miles and not even the sun for company? First his own home had the playground of his slaughter, again and again until in desperation he sought new places, places where his own mind might not be so packed with terror. Perhaps out here, now that he was truly alone - not just alone in his tortured spirit - he could confront his despair, his misery, and try to accept even the tiniest part of his fate.

He tries so hard. He wishes by now that he could trying, and just... stop wringing his broken soul into this pathetic show of resistance, a facade of wretched glory, which is crushed with the mere sight of those horrific eyes and leaves him sobbing and begging once more... but he knows it will never be so. It's just against his nature. He can't give up on hope, no matter what.

Even if it's given up in him.

So he sits, snuggled into his thick, fluffy tail, a tiny figure of white in the vast blackness, and waits helplessly for the true dark to take him again.

***

But now... the cycle is broken.

Another place, not far from where the small, huddled ball of white lies curled and weeping. Here, yet again, the air is cool and still. No heating on, despite the chill: heat signature would be an unnecessary risk, and besides, the being waiting here is not in need of comfort.

He is almost a dozen different people, but currently he is none of them.

Does he feel pride that it is he, here and now, making what could be seen as the first genuine move? Yes. That much emotion has not been completely scoured from him. Before, it was pride which made him fight... pride in his country, his world. Then he joined a higher order, and now it is simply and puritanically pride in existence which drives him.

And so here he sits, flexing fingers patiently, waiting for a certain signal from the voice inside his head.

The task he intends to undertake is defined merely as "correction of an anomaly", perhaps, but in reality it is so much more than that. Their first reveal.

It is a necessary evil. The process cannot be disrupted by individuals acting in inexplicable fashions.

But he knows, and yes, excitement may have a slight quiver in his untraceable thoughts. Everyone knows by now. They've become so much more active recently. It's starting.

The Sacrifice will be made.

Ramrod straight, he tenses slightly, suddenly. A finger caresses the temple, ears cocked as if listening to the voice behind the fur and the skin.

A thin, mirthless smile breaks his deadpan expression. Let it begin with an ending.

***

And back again, as shadows rise in the night. Another night is passing, his doomed life ticking away. The fox stands, weary and numb, exhaustion running through his very veins. He takes a moment to marvel at the willingness with which his limbs react, strong and ready to serve. Unknowing of the uselessness of it all: his fate is not about the strength of his body, the power of his mind, the will of his spirit.

It is darkness. Hot, wet, dripping darkness, again and again until he is utterly consumed.

The night is moonless, and he carries a small pocket torch to return home with when he has cried all he can. A quiet shiver, an automatic scan of the darkness all around, suppressing the callous laugh inside - as if h- he would let you see him unless he wants you to - and he starts to pad off, shivering in the cold despite his thick, luxuriant pelt. A road stretches on ahead, weary and feeble.

The fox bites his lip, curling his arms around himself with a tremble. He stands for what seems like a long time - is it, though? In this torture without end, what use has time? - in the centre of the worn tarmac, feeling oddly like he should say something. But what is there to say? What point was there in speaking at all, when the only one who could hear him didn't need him to speak to tell his entire life, and didn't care for how he felt anyway, save to make him suffer?

The fox sighs quietly, his breath misting before him in the cold air, and starts to walk. The journey home will be long and slow and lonely, but it doesn't matter. There's a strange peacefulness out here anyway, in the silence and the inaudible hum of his despair. Maybe it's just an instinctive hope: he'll at least hear if something tried to sneak up on him, won't he? Of course, that thought is wrong, wrong, wrong. If his stalking murderer wishes for invisibility, the little creature could not hope to find him in a million years. But since when did the hopelessness mean he stopped fighting his useless battle?

He hesitates, looking around again at the silent treeline. You're... y-you're there, aren't you?

_ _

No reply.

The vulpine bites his lip, feeling tremors beginning to quiver through his small body. This is the beginning - the signs are all too well-known. Before long, he will be shaking uncontrollably. Then the paralysis: a horrible, smothering sensation of weakness, buckling his body into a small, shuddering ball of fur. He will have just a few moments to look at the outside world again, to try and prepare for the next hour of misery... and then, in a slow, roiling wave, the sobs will take him.

Those terrible golden eyes will rise behind his own.

No! He begins to walk faster, fists clenched inside pockets, fur fluffed out against the chill. Not this time. Not again so soon, when he'd already given himself over to the weeping for the past two hours. He won't... he can't stop fighting. He has to stay strong. Please.

Cold. Keep going: it's only a few miles to the city. Maybe get a late night bus to home to home then. Or keep walking, on through the streets empty of people now asleep and happy; those who don't suffer.

Another sigh, and as it fades into a soft keening near the back of his throat (the cracks are beginning to show. Maybe he won't last this long after all. Oh god...), the fox feels a slight vibration, humming into the soles of his paws.

The air is still, but the ground is not. He blinks, and glances around at the dark world. Nothing stirs. The snowy-furred vulpine frowns nervously, flexing his legs and cocking his head nervously... and then he shrugs, still walking.

No. Wait. He freezes, sudden horror flaring. What if... oh, no, no, no... what if this is it? If... if he is returning?

Even without daring to say the name, a throb of pulsing terror punches through his chest instantly, releasing all that choked-up breath in a gasp of fear. The fox utters a feeble squeak of panic, spinning in a circle, suddenly frantically alert. And this time his reasonably good night vision, heritage of whatever happened in that unearthly Catalyst of two thousand years ago, picks out a spot of darkness.

There is no glint in the gloom, no shine. All he sees is a blackness, growing, moving towards him... moving fast. And here is where things are suddenly in the balance, for inside the fox's head strikes an instinctive, terrifying chord.

Him.

_ _

"NO!" before he knows it, he has uttered a whimper, frozen to the spot... but the illusion is torn away. The monstrous sadist who stalks him eternally is far, far larger than this low-hung, sleek object. For a blissed moment, he feels an overwhelming wash of relief soak into his soul.

Then reality comes back in another split-second of panic and confusion. The car is now two hundred metres away, and now more details can be made out: it is travelling fast. Very fast. Impossibly fast. Now it is less than one hundred and fifty. Now it is one hundred. And still no sound: the thing is absolutely silent. An engine would normally be roaring at this lunatic velocity but the fox realises with a shock of alarmed horror that had it not been for his paranoia, he would not have known a thing of it.

And even now that he knows, he will never move in time. Fifty metres. Limbs seem to propel themselves in horrified slow motion, launching him into a step which will be his last. Confused and horrified, the vulpine reflects in a weak, stunned tone that after all the pain and despair, it seems his death has come from a completely unexpected source. And-

NO!

_ _

It is a scream, an ear-splitting shockwave of psychic fury which smashes into his mind with an almost physical force. White hot emotion, trapped in this sliver of eternity as thirty metres is gobbled up, closed enough now to see the faintest hint of a dark silhouette behind that tinted windscreen, but no things are impossibly fast. The vulpine feels his own body wrenched away from him with all the delicacy of a wrecking ball, his terrified soul subsumed in an instant beneath the new, dominant ego. Muscles cannot run faster, but they can turn and twist and LEAP and little one, I swear they will burn for... I...please...

_ _

The fox feels himself springing, twisting hard in the air - much too hard, a leg twangs with sprain and he tries to part his jaws for a wail of dismay, but the control is blanketing everything, holding him solidly within itself; no time for subtlety.

Besides, the that pathetic twinge is nothing. One quarter of a second later, with his body still rising into that frantic jump for life, the car strikes home.

Here, the stillness of the night is barely broken. Simply a wet, meaty thunk, punctuated with the faintest of gory snaps, and a sound like a balloon deflating in an instant as nearly every cubic inch of air is driven from the vulpine's lungs.

_ _

But far away, in the icy chill, thoughts aflame and wings already bearing down in a massive crack of

the cold air, the mountains resound with a deafening scream of rage.

And total, absolute horror.