Story #89 - Deacon First IV

Deacon First - IV

Slumping against the wall, he drew in a ragged breath. The night had been a twisted warren of avoided confrontations and almost-kills, and his fur was wet and matted both from the steady rain and time spent coiled under piles of garbage.

He'd been given a new life; one he'd never asked for and that demanded far more of him than he could bear. Others of his kind seemed mindless, driven to extremes by the same force that he knew was floating in his own mind, but that he could resist – mostly – with ease.

Tonight it had not been so easy.

More were coming; he could hear their footsteps along the slick stones to his left, and he could feel the hunger rising, feel the will of his creator building within. He dug his fangs hard into the side of his mouth; tonight, the creator's gaze seemed focused on him. Springing forward, he drove himself up and over the brick wall and onto the roof, running as fast as his legs would allow. Rooftops blazed by as he ran, struggling to keep his body moving and avoid what he was being commanded to do.

Kill.

Kill.

Kill.

From the first moment he had felt the creator's touch there had been no question that the being was evil. In his previous life he had taken the view that morality was a relative concept, that judging another culture or individual based on his own standards was unfair – they might simply have a different view of the world. The creator had changed that view, a week too late for his living body and a lifetime too late for his mind.

Evil surrounded the creator in the same way oxygen surrounded the planet; it clung thickly, swirling around the being and tainting every action. Perhaps underneath it all was a troubled immortal soul, simply reaching out for comfort, but he didn't really think so. In his opinion, the creator was evil all the way down to the ground.

A gap in the roofs ahead meant more concentration was needed, and he could feel the creator's presence strengthen. The thing had expended a great deal of energy on his creation, and had no intention of letting him seriously injure himself. Suicide was an impossibility; the body he had been given was immune to almost all forms of physical damage, but from a great height he could harm himself enough that all of the creator's power couldn't get him up and killing.

He could feel the creator's power infuse him as he reached the edge, and he made the jump in one smooth leap, passing over the heads of unsuspecting Deacons below. Each night, the creator directed his brethren to different locations in the city, their attacks seemingly random. Now and again, locations would become infested with both his kind and the others, and the Deacons would rush to save the day. They had no idea how they were being played.

As soon as his paws hit the next rooftop he tried to wrest control of himself form the creator's hands. Immediately after he'd been imbued with the thing's power, it had to recede for a time, and in that moment he knew he had a chance. Flexing his own will, he tried to shake off the compulsion that drove him and take back total control. He had almost managed it once before, in the face of a sandy-haired young Deacon who had the misfortune to stumble across him in the dark. Something about the young man had surprised the creator, and he had almost been able to break free.

Not so tonight, as he could feel the thing's will rush back into him. It knew he was a threat, and wasn't about to leave him alone to his own devices.

“Why?”

He came skidding to a halt at the top of a large apartment complex. What?

“Why do you resist? You could be so much more, so much better.” The voice didn't seem to coming from inside his head, but everywhere, from every part of his muscled body.

“Because I don't want this,” he said out loud, “I hate it.”

The voice laughed, “And? Many of history's best have hated what they became. I chose you because you are strong, stronger than the rest. Follow me, and together we'll end it. End the suffering, end the killing. But first we must rid the world of them.” An image flashed in his mind of the Deacon he had found, surrounded by a pure white shield. “They interfere.”

There was a temptation in the words, a dripping desire to give in, to let the creator have his way and finish whatever plan had been put in motion. It was clear that he was a pawn in a larger game, one in which he knew nothing about the players. Something set him apart, giving him greater ability than an average and discarded spark of life, and making him someone this being needed to convince rather than coerce.

“Leave me for a time,” he said, “and I will consider it.”

Another laugh followed. “You think me that stupid? You are mine, creature. Still, I will grant you a reprieve.” The force on him lessened; he could feel the hunger for flesh recede and the thirst for violence abate. “Think on my offer. I will return.”

The voice was gone, and with it a feeling of tight oppression he hadn't even realized had been there. He had been fighting for so long, struggling so hard, that this sudden respite was a shock to the system. The creator was still there; he could feel the thing lurking in the back of his mind, but at least it was no longer trying to directly control him. His offer of consideration had bought him an unknown amount of time; he had best use it as well as possible.

He had to find that Deacon.

- D