Vigilante

Joe searched for suspicious persons as he walked down the business district of Fairbanks. He was being followed. He knew it. He also knew that his search would end up fruitless, for he knew that he would not be able to spot his tracker. He knew that it was unlikely that he would live through the night, and while some would hold on to that little chance as hope, the uncertainty only made him more nervous. He had stolen money, and somehow, his shadow had found out. The Midnight Samurai, a man who went by the name ShadowBlade, was tracking him. ShadowBlade was only seen when he didn't care if anyone saw him. He could stand behind you, follow you, bump into you, and when you turned around, there was nothing there. He would have been a real threat to society if he hadn't decided to become vigilante, and because crime was so horrible, cops never seemed to mind the bodies of criminals that turned up every once in a while.

Joe sat down on a bench just outside the gates of a park, beads of cold sweat appearing on his forehead. He had to get out of there. He had to leave... Go where this Ninja guy couldn't get him. But where? He checked the money in his pockets. Man, what a load. Too bad he wouldn't be able to spend it.

Late that night, in Joe's apartment, there was a crash. Someone was in his living room. He got up and went through the door, and flicked up the light switch. There was a broken vase lying on the ground, in pieces- one of the artifacts he had taken from a museum as a souvenir. He scanned the room, and saw nothing but the normal mess, and realized, too late, that this was just a distraction. The police found him with a sword wound in the back, lying in a pool of blood. They knew it was made by the Murasame, the samurai's sword.

ShadowBlade sat on the hardwood floor of the Dojo, polishing his sword. It was the best sword ever made, as far as he could tell: full tanged, with its blade folded over and over, tempered so it would keep its edge, with an eelskin-wrapped handle. He smiled to himself. This city was perfect for his nighttime hunts. Not that he had ever had any trouble finding people to feed off of, but there was always that feeling of guilt afterwards. For a while, he just reassured himself that, "Hey, it's my life, or theirs," for he needed to drink at least once a week when The Hunger came. If he didn't, he would go berserk. And he had been having another problem with the police. Every town he moved to, there was always, after the first couple of feeds, a fear that grew within the people, of a vampire living in their midst. They would call the cops, and then the cops would keep tabs on everyone suspicious, which included newcomers. Then he would move on, for the best blood came from unsuspecting victims. But here, no, no one cared, for criminals ran the city anyway, so the loss of a life was meaningless, as long as it was a murderer or rapist... He chose these as his victims, and the guilt haunted him no more. He was just getting rid of destroyers, not creators, like families. These people didn't deserve to live. And Fairbanks was just the opposite of its name. The grimy Zenrita River was filthy, and the town was just as filthy in its reflection off the river. The town was horrible, crime was the highest anywhere in the country, rats frequented even the best restaurants, and cockroaches scuttled underfoot, always. No one else paid any attention to its inhabitants anyway. And this "vigilante" bit was fun. He still got to see the look of fear and death upon his victim's face, without the self-torture afterwards. The best part, though, was this Dojo of his. Though there were many in the city, his had the best location. Right next to a bank. Many criminals wanted to learn martial arts, to bloody other criminals, and many took courses on weapon use. Their studies with their own enemy let ShadowBlade know their styles, their personalities, and their tendencies. They even often bragged to each other about bank jobs they were going to do. Dead giveaways. And then, they never understood how the "Midnight Samurai" knew about their plans. They were morons, and so life was good.

ShadowBlade slid the Murasame into its carved ash scabbard and stood up. Enough of this. He went into the back room and put his suit on its stand. His suit was not an ordinary suit, according to the man who made it. This suit was the only one of its kind, for the man who held the knowledge of its creation was now dead, killed by ShadowBlade on one of his earlier exploits. As he was leaving this poor man's lab, he had seen this on its stand. When he had put on one of the gloves, his hand had disappeared, as long as he kept it still. When he had moved it, it was just a blur of light, as if he had been looking through a warped plate of glass. Apparently, the suit somehow bent light around it, making its wearer virtually invisible. Deciding that this might come in handy, he had taken both the suit and the stand with him. Now, it was his second most important thing he owned, the first most prized being his sword, made just after he had become one of the Camarilla, a local clan of others like him- vampires. He had overseen the sword's making by one of the masters, and after these hundreds of years, because of his care and pride in the blade, it was as sharp and deadly as when it was first crafted. It was his weapon of choice, his self-defense, his offense, his most important possession, and for this reason he kept it on him at all times. He adjusted the belt and the scabbard ginlets, the loops which held it onto the belt, making it hang vertically beside him, not diagonally, as it normally did, so as not to draw attention to it while he roamed the streets. He then put on his black trenchcoat, and stepped out the door.

The club lights could be seen in the puddles, flashing reds, blues, and yellows into the black of the alley. One neon sign hung above the door. It read, "The Morass," a name fitting for an underground dance club in this town. As ShadowBlade stepped through the door, he could see the many young teens below, twisting and rocking and jumping to the music. He made his way past lounging kids, down the wrought-iron staircase, over to the bartender. He almost called to him, but he noticed a strange tattoo on the man's arm. Then suddenly the bartender left his post, heading toward a side room, and ShadowBlade followed, suddenly realizing that the tattoo was the symbol for the Sabbat, a rival, inherently evil clan of vampires. "Stop!"

The vampire turned to face him, and a circle of interested youths formed about them. ShadowBlade recognized the other's face, and the expression on the bartender's face meant that he recognized ShadowBlade's. "Ho Chin Dahn," the bartender growled.

"I no longer go by that name, but yes. That is who I was," snarled ShadowBlade in reply. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"It does not concern you," the vampire snapped.

"It does, if it involves you, or any other member of the Sabbat. What a perfect place for you to hide, killing these youths, and mankind with them. You don't even have to search them out anymore. They come to you." At these words, the bartender drew a sword, sending teens screaming in all directions. "Not anymore, I guess," ShadowBlade joked, as he drew the Murasame.

"No. Not anymore. But, at least we won't have to worry about you!" The bartender yelled, as he leapt at ShadowBlade, slashing his sword. ShadowBlade dodged as he ducked under the blade, and sliced the bartender in the side as he spun around to face his foe. The bartender put his hand to the wound, but otherwise ignored it.

"Is that the best you can do? Is this how well those Sabbat fools teach their 'children'?" ShadowBlade taunted, pointing his sword at the bartender's side. The bartender shrieked in rage as he closed in on his opponent, swiftly executing well placed slashes, but to no avail. ShadowBlade caught each attempt on his hilt. He then flicked his wrist sharply upward, sending the bartender's sword scattering across the pavement floor. "See what happens to those who choose the wrong path?" he grimly said, as he slashed right through the bartender's middle. The bartender yelled. He screamed. He clawed at the floor, at the stairs, trying to get away from ShadowBlade. But ShadowBlade pulled him back by his neck, knowing that if this vampire got away, he would regenerate and return to cause more trouble. He stood, one foot on each of the man's wrists. "Say goodbye," ShadowBlade whispered, as he drove the sword's ash scabbard through the vampire's chest. Blood exploded out of the hole, but the scabbard stayed. The man's eyes rolled back in their sockets as he screamed. Blood flew everywhere, and then, there was silence, and one could hear the burnt black powder from the body fall to the floor. The blood turned black, and fell from the wall. Everything of the vampire's very being then turned to dust, and blew through the now empty dance club. As sirens filled the air, ShadowBlade sheathed his sword. "Time to move again."

Bryan Clark