I am a shadow in the dead of the night I am a demon or I am a ghost I am not here; I'm a phantom at large There's nobody here in the deadening black I am the reason you're afraid of the dark I am the shadow which gives you a fright Stray from my path and you'll live to see day Cross my path, you'll see the ferryman Charon ---------- Kagemusha I'm called the Stalker in some circles, for I clothe myself in the night and hunt by using shadows, but universally, I am feared as Kagemusha, the Shadow Warrior. Odds are, if you've seen me, you're dead. I don't make a habit of revealing myself unnecessarily. I'm the phantom that doesn't exist, the wisp of thought in the back of your mind, the darkness cast by the light. If you see me, it will be all you do. If not, all the better; you'll believe I never existed. I make a living upholding that belief. I am the Shadow Warrior; pray I never come after you. It is believed that a person who is real enough will not have a history. Cruel, that history should define us, that our past should hold us, that our scars should tell us of the trouble we've seen, and portend what we can expect. Cruel, that every present moment is a mirror: the path before us oftentimes reflects the path behind us—or as fools would say, history repeats itself. But I am the darkness. The darkness has no history. It's too real to need one. All I have to do is assimilate its form and I will have no bounds, no sense of falsehood: in many ways, no lack of freedom. Shadow Warrior. You wonder why people call me that? No, you really don't. You don't want to know. If I told you, I'd have to kill you. Well...maybe I will tell you. I'm in a bad mood, and I feel like hitting something. Once I tell you, I'll kill you, and then I might feel better. But who are you anyway? Just another person I've been assigned to "track down"? Or just somebody in the way? I'd rather not get into the past now—I'd rather not reveal why I am what I am, because that would be harkening back to my past, and I have no past. I have no "I". I'm just a shadow, a ghost of a thought. You can't see me, I don't exist, so there. The shadows begin to whisper. Tonight, Jet Park, there's going to be a robbery, and a rape, and he'll be hiding in the dark. Oh, what sweet, vicious irony! He thinks he can hide in the dark! He couldn't be more apparent, not to me. Now let's see. Should I wait, allow him to think he's getting away, and come in at the last second, destroying his hopes? Or should I just slink by, run him through, and he'd never know the difference. Decisions, decisions. The darkness yields infinite paths. I can take one, or several, or even all of them at once. The darkness can embrace you and never let you go, and if you let it, the hug will be as gentle as a mother's embrace. A hint at my history, if phantoms have histories. The room is still dark, minus only one shadow. The darkness does not feel empty; it is Empty, and one less shard of darkness will not make it lesser, nor will an addition make it greater. It doesn't need, but it always takes, and if you let it, the darkness will even give you something in return. But you'll have to fight me first. Science says that light travels at 186,000 miles per second, but in the universe of dark space, light simply cannot be any quicker, because space is dark and vaster than light can comprehend. The darkness, however, is everywhere in space—it doesn't need to move, because it's already there. It's everywhere. In the limitless valleys of the universe where stars cannot touch, darkness is abundant and plentiful; there are endless gardens of it, unlimited spans of vastness, black upon black and void beyond void. I didn't need to move fast because in truth, I didn't need to move at all. Since the darkness was already there, so was I. I caught him raping a woman I had no care for. So what? I just heard he was doing something "wrong", so I came here, now that I have a legitimate excuse to smash this human scum. Why smash them for no good reason when you can wait for their sins to come? (Alas, Sin is the only thing even quicker than the dark! It would take me my whole life to catch up to it) He gave a startled shriek, fell backwards, tripping over his lowered pants. His legs and his crotch were hairy and flabby; I stared with malcontent and watched him squirm away like a half-crushed bug. The woman wailed: she didn't know whether to thank me or shirk away herself. Maybe she would've been safer with the rapist. "Shut up," I barked, pushing her away with a gesture. Black clouds were over her, and she rolled away, half-naked, into the unknown areas of grass. Maybe the darkness swallowed her; I never saw her again (but I don't recognize one of them from the other, they all look so ugly). I followed the wailing, wiggling man, feeling tempted to laugh. Poor dumb fool was trying to put his pants back on. I had to wonder if people went to Hell naked, to live eternally in open shame. If so, why bother dressing? And why bother talking to him? I just walked after him, making sure he didn't stand and run (though where would he run? I'm everywhere). He finally covered his legs, moaned in agony, and held up his hand, indicating surrender. He knew what was coming. His gesture—it was utterly useless! "No, no!" he roared. "Mercy! Please! Mer—" I decided to get it over with and took a swing at his neck. In an instant, a sword of deep obsidian produced from the dark, nearly as sharp as sin, and tore open his gullet effortlessly. Ah, blood looks so black in the moonlight. Too bad it still stinks. I winced—not from the smell, but from the glare coming after me—and hissed, retreating into the dark. I knew my activities would get discovered sometime, because I'm not the only nocturnal stalker out here. People had heard the scream, and came running. One produced an electric torch from his bare hand, and it was this that repulsed me. "Who are you?" demanded the torch-bearer. His comrade swallowed, noticing my face in the light. I might have been as disgusting to look at as the humans, but I was not as ugly as they are. There's a difference. Well, the dark's not omnipotent; maybe she was stricken by shadowy beauty, or she stepped on a thorn. "Or what are you?" she wondered. I don't know why I felt inclined to answer—but first impressions, ah, first impressions. "The reason people are afraid of the dark." And it was true enough. "Did you kill that man?" "You could say he killed himself." Not suicide, they knew; his throat was too well-torn for that. His crimes killed him, his sin killed him, his desires killed him. He killed him. "Or you could say the darkness killed him." This was also true, because I am the darkness. Well, maybe it was a joint effort. "Who are you?" demanded the torch-bearer again. I had no time for this delay, and I didn't want my identity revealed. Few see me and survive, so I wanted to make this clear to them. I gave them a message before fleeing from their light and their eyes. "I'm a phantom; I'm not here. I didn't come to kill you, so you shouldn't ask." When I was far from those two, I asked the shadows if I would ever see them again. Not in the foreseeable future, of course, for we can only see things happening now. Circumstance may favor your meeting, or they may be lost forever in the ocean of people and living creatures. For now, they are not our concern. You need to rest, dear one. No I don't. I'm not tired at all. Killing a man is as easy as sitting down to me. I'm fine. But you're worried. You're rather low on funds. You may have to turn into a whore again. Ugh, don't remind me. Not a sex-whore, but a money-whore; the proper terms range from freelancer to mercenary to bounty hunter, even thug, crook, cheat, swindler—killer, yes—you name it. A thousand names for the same thing, just like God. Just like a whore, I sell my body to those willing to pay for my services, but they expect performances such as revenge, assassination, all sorts of dirty work—not sex. Never sex. If they wanted sex, I'd kill them (well, I might stab them in the genitals first out of perversity). And just like a whore, I need that money, because without it, I can't survive. Or rather, without it, she can't survive. Another hint of my history. But shadows are too real to have a past. "What am I doing this time?" I asked Employer. I didn't call her boss, chief, or ma'am; I called her what she was, just as she called me what I was. "Stalker, we've got some people who are late on their payments." "Send a thug to do a thug's job. Do I look like a thug?" She laughed. "No, of course not. But they insist. They insist so much." "So send a stubborn thug." "They insist with mortal conviction." Meaning they were armed, and had probably killed before. "So? I don't care." "I'm not prepared to spend ten-thousand units on people who will fail me in the end," she added evenly, foxily. Damn. My lip curled in disgust. I couldn't afford to ignore that much money. Damn! Am I just a fish who'll follow the juiciest worm straight to the hook? Damn. "Where are they?" Don't forget now, her voice echoed in my mind, disgusting and vile, but damn it, I had to endure this evil. I had to. "Don't forget," she had said, "when you come back, I'll have a bonus for you. Something to think about." Ha. I hope it's your heart in a box, and the box is layered with splinters, and your heart's still attached to your body. Or maybe it's your tongue, screaming in agony. That would be so great. But I may as well let you live as long as you throw money away (hence, why I feel like a whore). Regrettably, they had prepared for me. Even at midnight, every lamp on the street was on, every neon sign blazing, every torch and every sparkle of electricity was turned on at maximum, shrinking the darkness away, turning it into a snail—saline to slime, slime inside shell, recover for the day and crawl on wet sand, damned thing. I was restricted with all that bright light. The brightest light may cast the darkest shadow, but curses, the flimsiest candle can chase away the most encompassing vortex. I was no black hole; I could not absorb it forever, so I hid and I scowled, and nearly passed out. Darkness was scarce, wet and cool in the hot brightness. I stalked quickly, but had to use my legs, since I could not depend on the black forms cowering away. Darkness, light, and clouds are unreliable, among many things, and these you cannot control, unlike humans with some fright in them (example: you can stop pissing in your pants now. Or, try this: I wonder if you'll keep urinating when you die). But you can adjust. You can slink around, avoid the bright lights, sprint through the dim ones, and catch your breath wherever it's dark. They were hiding out in an apartment, top floor, and since they knew they were expecting debt collectors, they had set the place up real nice, bringing only the finest decorations. Snipers. Bombs. Helicopters, search lights. Bodyguards. Steel security doors. Cameras of all kinds, in all places. A police watch. And enough light to turn the darkest night into morning. I thought only one thing as I stared at it all in its glorious stupidity, its uselessness, its proud delay. No reward is worth this. "You're early," noted Employer, five minutes later. She turned around and sent a scowl hurtling in my direction. "Too early." "They knew I was coming." "Of course they did. You may be mysterious, my dear, but that doesn't mean that people don't know about you. You're an infamous face, so naturally they'll prepare for the worst. So let me get this straight: you just ran back?" "It wasn't worth the risk," I snorted, shrugging my cloak further onto my shoulders. "Do it yourself." I turned to leave, but even before my foot could touch shadow, she called to me. "How much would it take for you to accomplish this task?" I paused. Well, that could be negotiated. Even the proudest whore will sink to the newest low if offered enough—and with enough, my past could be healed. Hint, hint. I called a high number. "One million," I breathed, "six-hundred forty-two thousand units, up front." "Ah, that's a lot," she muttered in a pale voice. She wiped her forehead and sighed. I couldn't help but wonder, are these people really hurting you that badly? Is that payment really necessary to you? Or are you just stupid and ugly, and...fat? She suddenly said, "And I don't trust you with that. I'll pay you half and you can get the other half after the mission. Plus that bonus." "I don't trust you," I countered. "And I could kill you." "So could I," she stated, icy and sharp. "Enough halogen lights in the room, a few chains, a sunroof...maybe a knife or cudgel just to make sure? Hmm?" She hummed and curled many things, including fingers, brows, lips, voice. Damn. "Seventy-five percent up front." "Sixty." Damn. A lot, but not enough. A thought just occurred to me. "Do you even have that much?" The curls became flat, flat as her face and her voice and—I wish—her chest. Her chest was curvier than a serpent, and just as deadly. "Yes, of course." There were no shadows to speak of in the room; it was too well-lit. Even she did not cast a shadow. She trusted me less than she trusted a hungry dog with a steak. "I'll be back tomorrow," I promised, accepting her proposal of 60-now, 40-later. I added emptily, "If you don't have that money, there won't be a light strong enough to save you." She just laughed, knowing it was all a bluff. Rather, dear Stalker, there won't be a slip of a shade left in your corner, and that would really be bad, wouldn't it? ......... I must be mad. Yeah, that's it, because I'd never hit anyplace during the daytime, least not with a sensible mind. Mad—that must be it. But the shades lived in the light; they lived in hiding, posing as refugees, coming out as the world tilted and the bright star curved at just the right angle, expanding and lengthening. There were devices that could be used to keep a slim but permanent shade around, and as I had no fondness for the light, I implemented these devices liberally. I carried them around: cloak, parasol, shades, visor, and so many other futile efforts to extinguish the everlasting fire above. I had to admit, I felt awfully vampiric. I approached the place and found it less populated, less guarded, less cared for. It still had all those things, but in half the amount. Ah, so, I had turned my weakness into my strength! They must've thought the same—that I would never attack them in broad daylight—and dropped their guard, or most of it. O Fortuna, has thine smile at last curved my way, or is it the twinge of perverse knowledge, the "Oh, let's see what happens next", the glee I feel? Fortune can be sick; it can't be killed; it eats both the light and the darkness, and I need her though she may kill me. Carefully, I slinked in behind the building, opposite the sun, into the only place that had shade (ah, irony?). Sidling, I began to feel for holes, rifts in the shadow, places I could go in-and-out, for I can traverse through anything as long as it's in my world. I found a single hole and slipped through. I was inside an empty closet, crammed with a broom and a bucket, plus a mop and several yellow cones reading "Caution" in different languages. Yuck—but I couldn't be picky. I tried the knob and cringed: light! The hallways were filled with light! I looked up and wondered if I could go through the ceiling... Lovers, whether meeting in secret or congregating happily in public, rarely do me a service. These three or four performed a good act by holding their tryst in the dark, hidden and safe behind locked doors, laughing from lack of vision. I tried not to despise them as I gave them a glance, and hurled myself up again. Empty room, and up again. Closet, and up; unused bathroom, and up; more lovers, and up; empty room, and stop. The room above had light. I moved around, checking spots here and there, desperate like... A fish, gasping to breathe lethal oxygen? Lovers, lovers, emptiness. Lovers, lovers, emptiness. Secrets, secrets, gone, gone, further up and further in. The onion grew bigger the more I peeled it. The top floor was bathed in light, every last corner of it. I would have to take the stairs, and open doors, and walk naked down the hallway to the room, and I could not call upon the darkness. It might've actually been better to roll around nude in a thorn bush—but I needed that money. Damn my prostitution! I was in good shape, but the stairs wore me out. Sunlight passed through glass windows shaped like raindrops, coloring the world and, regrettably, myself. I felt dizzy, nauseous, as if I really were a fish out of water. The door took the grip of a boa to open, and the push of a bull. I stumbled into the hallway, nearly collapsing— Collapsing right into the rifle, pointed right at the door, and now, effectively, at my chin. Shit. I looked up. He grinned and touched the trigger. I sighed. ............ When at last I came to, it was in her arms, resting uncomfortably (why do humans love the daylight so? It's just one of the many things that annoy me), wishing I was more of a mercenary than a genuine slut. She had actually paid me the rest of my pension in sex-money. I would've refused and slapped that money in that witch's face, but... No, I do have a past, unfortunately, and it burns me like the light of damning heaven every day. It puts my feet in eternal ice when I wake, and it turns my pillow into hardened rock when I sleep. It hugs my ribcage like a snake, it goes down into my throat and calcifies as bile, it poisons me deep as a disease, and it follows me, as my own shadow follows me, eternally attached until the end of time, when light overwhelms the dark so much that it becomes completely extinguished. "You know what annoys me?" she whispered. What audacity. "I don't care." She stroked my breast. I'd rather be raped by a sewer rat. "You made such a mess, dear." I shrugged. "It's what you hired me for. I was gonna die in there, so I had to fight to survive. I taxed myself and got a few bad hits in the meantime. But I got the job done, so why're you complaining?" "Not the apartment," she said with a giggle, biting my ear. She'd be dead and gone, buried in a bed for a coffin, if she hadn't engaged in sex with the damn lights on. "You made a mess," she continued, "after sex." Oh, God, spare me. (What, a prayer from me?) I left the next day and decided: screw her, I don't need to waste my time there. Ugly whore of a woman (what, her or you?). She was too careful for me to kill, but what would stop me would never interfere with somebody else's work. Hmm, somebody else's work. Now there's a thought. "And just who," groaned the ugly receptionist, "have you come here to see?" I frowned. The Grim Reaper, ass. I've come to beg him, her, it, to swipe your chest in two. "Yohko Kamaguchi," I muttered bitterly. "And could you please tell her it's urgent?" ---------- The day is saved, but for how long? Tune in next time when several completely new characters are revealed! But will any of them actually have the time for HLS with so much crime? All this and more in the next chapter, "Sidetracked". You won't want to miss it!
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