slammed into his body, but he was quick enough to avoid being hit too many times and when he was, his body healed itself.
He reveled in the death, in the slicing and dicing. It was over in seconds, body parts lay scattered about. Christopher had claimed their souls, but the piece of hell inside him was not satisfied. He could smell others inside the building.
He grabbed the large garage door and wrenched it up, breaking the internal locking mechanism. He was greeted by screams and more gunfire.
Despite the slaughter outside, he had caught them by surprise when he broke open the door. He used this to his advantage. He had been shot several times and despite his accelerated healing and the driving force of the rage inside him, the gunshots were taking their toll.
He moved fast, avoiding the gunfire as best he could.
Two men and three women were in the garage. In a blur he saw that all of them had dark stains on their souls, but much less than those outside.
The power inside of him did not care. It drove him forward, fiery blade flashing out, power crackling down its length.
At first they tried to defend themselves. The two men ran forward, guns blazing. Christopher dove behind a car, using it as a shield.
One of the men ran around the trunk of the car and the Weapon flashed, slicing his head off and taking his soul.
Christopher leapt again, almost hitting the steel beams across the ceiling, but he managed to duck in time.
He crashed down on top of the other man, driving his fist into his face. He was unused to his own strength and the man's head was torn open by his fist, killing him.
Before he could stand the women charged at him, desperation in their eyes and auras.
The Weapon, angry at being denied the soul of the man at his feet, almost jumped in his hands at the women's approach.
Christopher knew that this might be wrong, knew it in some distant way, as though some part of his consciousness was watching what was happening on a TV somewhere.
But here and now Christopher wielded his Weapon like a harvest scythe, reaping this gang of thugs.
The last girl tried to escape. In one last desperate attempt, she tried to run for the back door.
Christopher could feel the Weapon twisting in his hand. It had become a javelin. He threw it without hesitation.
It streaked through the air, leaving a trail of ethereal fire and pierced the woman through the heart, then struck the door. The woman died instantly and hung there pinned.
Blood was everywhere. Bodies, mostly in severed pieces, lay strewn about the inside and outside of the garage. The smell of blood overwhelmed Christopher's senses.
The adrenaline was dissipating, the overwhelming power that had been there moments before retreated. He was left feeling hollow, empty.
He saw the broken garage door and the dead all around him as though for the first time. Such power , he thought. This was practice? Was it practice for the men and women who had just died? Maybe they were evil, maybe it was true what he smelled on them, but was he the one to judge? Was it even him doing the judging? Or was it the power inside him, the Weapon in his hand? He looked at the javelin embedded in the door and the body hanging off of it. He shivered.
This was not practice, this was slaughter.
The sound of sirens in the distance brought back his focus. He pulled the Weapon from the wall and instantly it transformed back into a pocket knife. He didn't want to touch it, but he had too, he couldn't leave it for the police.
Speaking of which , he thought.
He went out onto the street, pulling the shadows tighter around him, making his hood darker. Whether out of protection or shame he did not know. Other people were out now, mostly looking through their windows, but one or two were coming out their front doors.
It was time to leave. He leapt to the top of the building he had arrived on. As quickly as he could, before the shock of what he had really done hit him, he ran home. But by the time
He reveled in the death, in the slicing and dicing. It was over in seconds, body parts lay scattered about. Christopher had claimed their souls, but the piece of hell inside him was not satisfied. He could smell others inside the building.
He grabbed the large garage door and wrenched it up, breaking the internal locking mechanism. He was greeted by screams and more gunfire.
Despite the slaughter outside, he had caught them by surprise when he broke open the door. He used this to his advantage. He had been shot several times and despite his accelerated healing and the driving force of the rage inside him, the gunshots were taking their toll.
He moved fast, avoiding the gunfire as best he could.
Two men and three women were in the garage. In a blur he saw that all of them had dark stains on their souls, but much less than those outside.
The power inside of him did not care. It drove him forward, fiery blade flashing out, power crackling down its length.
At first they tried to defend themselves. The two men ran forward, guns blazing. Christopher dove behind a car, using it as a shield.
One of the men ran around the trunk of the car and the Weapon flashed, slicing his head off and taking his soul.
Christopher leapt again, almost hitting the steel beams across the ceiling, but he managed to duck in time.
He crashed down on top of the other man, driving his fist into his face. He was unused to his own strength and the man's head was torn open by his fist, killing him.
Before he could stand the women charged at him, desperation in their eyes and auras.
The Weapon, angry at being denied the soul of the man at his feet, almost jumped in his hands at the women's approach.
Christopher knew that this might be wrong, knew it in some distant way, as though some part of his consciousness was watching what was happening on a TV somewhere.
But here and now Christopher wielded his Weapon like a harvest scythe, reaping this gang of thugs.
The last girl tried to escape. In one last desperate attempt, she tried to run for the back door.
Christopher could feel the Weapon twisting in his hand. It had become a javelin. He threw it without hesitation.
It streaked through the air, leaving a trail of ethereal fire and pierced the woman through the heart, then struck the door. The woman died instantly and hung there pinned.
Blood was everywhere. Bodies, mostly in severed pieces, lay strewn about the inside and outside of the garage. The smell of blood overwhelmed Christopher's senses.
The adrenaline was dissipating, the overwhelming power that had been there moments before retreated. He was left feeling hollow, empty.
He saw the broken garage door and the dead all around him as though for the first time. Such power , he thought. This was practice? Was it practice for the men and women who had just died? Maybe they were evil, maybe it was true what he smelled on them, but was he the one to judge? Was it even him doing the judging? Or was it the power inside him, the Weapon in his hand? He looked at the javelin embedded in the door and the body hanging off of it. He shivered.
This was not practice, this was slaughter.
The sound of sirens in the distance brought back his focus. He pulled the Weapon from the wall and instantly it transformed back into a pocket knife. He didn't want to touch it, but he had too, he couldn't leave it for the police.
Speaking of which , he thought.
He went out onto the street, pulling the shadows tighter around him, making his hood darker. Whether out of protection or shame he did not know. Other people were out now, mostly looking through their windows, but one or two were coming out their front doors.
It was time to leave. He leapt to the top of the building he had arrived on. As quickly as he could, before the shock of what he had really done hit him, he ran home. But by the time
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