Chapter 1: Prologue

Amidst the quiet streets of Ebonpoint, iron-wrought lamps holding flickering flames, came with it noise beyond civilized levels. Stained-glass windows reflected the firelight, beating back the darkness of night to illuminate pointed arches and weathered stone walkways.

The Drowned District, named for both the abundance of chemical waste filtered through its pipelines, and the never-ending stream of alcohol that circulated through its inhabitants’ bodies, rarely found a moment of peace. Beyond the constant crunching of old gears and sloshing pipes, bars and whorehouses ran overtime, concerns of health and morality suffocated under desperate needs for comfort.

But even in such amoral places, there existed rules both spoken and silent, and being too great a disturbance would inevitably lead to grubbing it in the streets. Few knew this in such an intimate manner as Jack Rimes, his wrinkled coveralls crinkling, dried vomit cracking along the toxic yellow fabric.

Another day working the pipelines, leaks spraying deadly chemicals, each encounter quickening his loss of hair, sallow cheeks forever twisted in a horrid scowl. Another night stalking the dilapidated shacks fashioned into makeshift alehouses, drinking the hours away, and making a litany of bad decisions. Of stumbling down forgotten streets, bottle in hand, cursing his lot in life to alley cats that gave him only cursory attention.

An orange tabby tore through rotting garbage, little more than skin and bone, Jack stumbling to the ground in rhythm with its manic feasting.

Back sliding down against faded brick, the rough wall acting as his anchor, he fell into a browning puddle of water, left over from that morning’s storm. Jack lifted his whisky, glass bottle clinking against rotting teeth, liquid amber spilling down his stubbled chin, leaving lines down the old boiler suit and its myriad other blemishes. Acid burns, patched leather, blood, urine, and half-a-dozen other dried fluids that Jack couldn't remember.

In the Drowned District, everyone lived and died in such suits, the thick rubber their only defense against toxic waste and dangerous chemicals. Some even wore gas masks to protect their lungs from the acrid smoke pumped out through the day, but Jack had broken his in a drunken brawl months ago, a mistake he cursed himself for with every horrid breath he was forced to take. The only thing that overpowered the stench was the booze, the last drops now dribbling along his cracked lips, bottle slipping from between his numb fingers, rolling off into the shadows.

With the last of his liquid solace gone, the pleasant burning of alcohol in his throat soon became the choking burn of industrial smog, and weeks-old garbage. “Damn it all,” His voice came out in a slurring croak, damaged long ago by the caustic environment. Déjà vu struck, Jack’s foggy mind bringing back memories of other such nights, sitting in his own filth, only malnourished animals that would devour his corpse for company. “Guess we all have it rough down here, eh?”

His eyes snapped to the side, befuddled brain working overtime, catching movement in the corner of his eye. So often finding himself in a drunken state, Jack was used to seeing shapes wisping by, fuzzy creations of his own mind that would disappear when he noticed them. But this was different. Whatever he saw, it felt more solid than usual, more… predatory. Dragging himself to his feet, sludge and dirty water seeping into his heavy boots, Jack stepped forward.

“Hello?” He should run, get away from the area as fast as possible. He knew this, but like any fool in a terrible horror show, like the ones they played on the radio during his evening shifts, he pressed forward. “Who’s there?” Silence greeted him, the alley a void, sucking the air from his lungs. Realizing that he was holding his breath, he exhaled. There was nothing, nothing at all. Rubbing his eyes, Jack chuckled. “Going crazy down here.”

Feeling his bladder loosen, Jack turned back towards the brown puddle, unsealing his suit, relaxing to the sound of his stream hitting water. For the moment, there was no one but him. It was a feeling known to many in the Drowned District, the workers up-top lacking the comradery that the mutants down in the slums felt with one another. And as his golden stream stopped, and he resealed his suit, Jack took in the silence. Complete, oppressive silence.

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The cats were gone, rats having scurried into the shadows at the arrival of the felines, and no one would pass through this particular alley for hours. Strange, how one notices such small details, a primal brain still working to protect the modern man from predators. Something scratched at the pavement, quiet beneath the dimly-lit oil lamps jangling in the wind. Jack smiled. The cats had returned. He turned, his only friends having come to keep him company once again. “Welcome back, little ones-”

He was running now, eyes adjusting to the pervading darkness of the alleyway’s depths, his heaving body several steps ahead of his broken thoughts.

Cat. Big cat.

Long fingers. Boney. Claws. Fangs. Beady eyes.

Not a cat. Not a cat! NOT A CAT!

Viscous flesh slapped against concrete, each passing second bringing the slavering maw closer, elongated limbs loping meters with each rotation of its bloated wrists.

A pothole, one of hundreds within the Drowned District, caught Jack’s foot, throwing him to the ground just as teeth crunched where his neck had been only moments before. Body twisting, his shoulder slammed into the concrete with his body’s full weight behind it, a loud crack singing out into the dead sky. Were his lungs not burdened by the decades worth of decay wracking his body, Jack might have screamed. But, poisoned by his home, and out of breath from his escape, he had nothing left to make even the smallest sound.

Thus, as the creature loomed over him, grinning in anticipation with blackened teeth, Jack could only scuttle backwards, panic throwing away all logical thought in favour of blind survival. It took two more steps on webbed feet, its prey finally cornered, and smiled, a depraved sense of joy spreading across its already twisted and malign features.

At least he would die not having soiled himself, he thought, unlike so many other killed in this cursed city. Sometimes, there was little more you could ask for. Jack breathed his last, throat torn out in one powerful clamping of fangs, the man’s last thoughts of pain and a life’s worth of mistakes.

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