MADERLIN BIDMEAD

VIOLENCE: If you think people being bludgeoned to death is disturbing, this probably isn't for you.

SEX: Not in the parts I've written so far, but hopefully in the future ;)

FEEDBACK: To little old me, please... maderlin@yahoo.com

NOTES: I know this is a little strange and I'm not sure about whether to continue it or not...I've had it in mind for about 5 years. So please don't be shy about giving me an opinion, any opinion 'cause I really don't know if this works.

The two men walked, shoulder to shoulder, through the sleeping city. Their shadow, observing them from behind could not believe that two such men travelled together. The men were equal in height and build, but that is where the similarities ended, or so the assassin thought. They were garbed as from differing social classes, one man in noble's silks, hair tailed at his nape, the other in faded leathers, his hair short and rumpled. The assassin could not make a full judgement of either man as he had yet to see their faces, if he had he would not have pursued his mission.

'Is he still with us?' thought the first man.

' No. His orders were to follow two men, noble and ruffian, he concluded that meant us. He has come no closer than our heels.' The mental voice was as rough as the appearance of the man who owned it.

The two men nodded to one another and the shadow knew that the time for action was nigh, as they separated. He had his targets right where he wanted them- divided. He advanced on the fop, down a dead-end alley. He couldn't believe his luck! As he advanced, he knew that this was the easy part, it was the ruffian who gave him pause, he had looked as though he was used to violence, as were most of his ilk. He shook his head to focus on his current victim and his earring made a faint click, alerting the man before him to his presence. The noble turned with a look on his face that the assassin knew, one of fear, of shock, he had seen it upon a hundred others. Knife in hand he began to back the man against the wall.

The noble suddenly smirked, momentarily puzzling the assassin, who lost his concentration. The silk clad figure lunged past his attacker, dodging the knife that suddenly flew towards him. The assassin spun, ready to pursue, when he saw the noble simply standing before him. The assassin gave a grim smile and was ready to lash out when a second face appeared over the other man's shoulder. The assassin's fingers were suddenly nerveless, the knife slipping from his grasp, as he stood, transfixed by fear. His heart had leapt into his mouth, he knew, with a sickening clarity, that his life and his mission were over.

They stood before him, their expressions severe, but in a brief flash of understanding the assassin knew that, that very severity came from regret. Perhaps he could persuade them not to kill him? Trying to look sincere, he opened his mouth to plead and felt warmth flow over his chin. He looked down and saw the rapidly growing stain upon his deep blue blouse. His heart fluttered in his breast like a small bird within the confines of a cage. He tried to reach out to the men standing before him, but the effort sent him crashing to the cobbles, into a pool of his own blood.

The assassin's eyes grew heavy as he felt his life draining away. He managed to open his eyes only once before he died to gaze upon his killers. They towered over him, twin harbingers of doom. The moonlight made them look like angels! His vision blurred as tears rolled down his cheeks at the sight of such flawless beauty. For the first time in his life he knew the true value of human life.

"To late." He sighed.

**********

"To late."

"You have failed us all." The voices boomed.

"Master?" The single voice whispered in it's wake.

Rough hands grasped the front of the blood stained blue blouse, gone crisp with the passage of time. He felt detached, he knew what transpired, but he played no part in it. He knew his body was being man-handled into the bed of the cart, but he couldn't feel it. He knew that his body was little more than a corps, and yet he still lived. As the cart lurched the fragile thread of his consciousness failed.

He was dragged back to the living world by the sound of heavy, yet muffled footfalls around his head. He tried in vain to move his body, to move his eyes, but nothing responded to his commands, had he really expected them too? He didn't know and he caught himself trying to shake his head and could have wept. He knew from his last wakeful moment that he still had his voice, small and tremulous as it was. He began to whimper, the only recourse left to him, trapped within a cooling husk.

"Master? ...Master? Free your servant from this bondage! I served you well? I served you best when I would have died for you! Why not let me die? Sever the tie that binds me to this world! Master? ...Master?" His voice trailed off into sobs.

The footsteps grew closer, nagging at the edge of his awareness. He could not see the person who was now so close to him and because of that he knew fear. He began to breath in deep, jagged breaths in an attempt to calm himself. He wanted, desperately, for the steps to be those of his master and yet he could not help remembering the last words he had heard before unconsciousness.

"I failed!" He whispered, suddenly realising that his master would not be well pleased.

"Yes, Sukhail, you have failed me," The voice came from so close his ear that Sukhail squawked in shock. "You should have been more single-minded, my good monk, but you didn't know what was at stake, did you? As I watched, you pondered, you hesitated and then you were duped by a mere twitch of the mouth. If you had taken him when you had the opportunity, even if this had happened at least you would have achieved something. Did you find out anything before you were brought here to bleed over my floor?" The voice held a sneer, yet, though familiar it seemed edged with something else. Was it pity?

"N... Nothing Lord."

"Did you not even hear what they had to say while you were on their tail?"

"They did not speak Lord, I swear it! They simply walked with their heads together." Sukhail felt as though the answers were being torn from his throat. The pain was white hot, yet he dared not yelp in pain.

"Clever boys. It seems that your mission may have been more difficult than I had first thought." He began to chuckle and suddenly his face loomed over Sukhail.

"Master?"

"Fool!" It was shouted right into his face. He felt the spittle fleck over his cheek and could do nothing to wipe it away. "They had mind speech, they were probably aware of you all along. I had not thought of this eventuality and as I had not, how could I expect you to?" He began to move away.

"You have sullied the name of your order. Your punishment will, at least, give you the opportunity to clean your order's name. You and yours have always followed the word of the Rarvis, but now that is coming to an end, Sukhail. I am the only one who is left, I was to stay forever, but now I bless you with that task.

"Our time is over, as is that of the order you served. That was why our God bid us sacrifice ourselves. I stayed as I was ordered, to search out those with weaker faith. I was to find the ones who did not believe in the ascendance after death, to the bosom of our God. You are the only one. You are a dissident and because of you your people will be remembered nevermore! If you had done the task set you, you would have been forgiven as a true follower of God's word, you could have died!" He was becoming irate.

Sukhail wanted to cry, to reach out to this lonely man and beg forgiveness. He tried, but not even the words would come. He had betrayed the order through his fear of death and now he knew that he would never gaze upon the face of God. Strangely, he realised that he didn't care. He had seen the face of God, of life itself, that night and he could hold those faces in his mind. He felt a hand on his cheek, wiping away the spittle, gently and he realised that his master's litany had not ended.

"You may never die Sukhail, that is your punishment for failing your master, your order and your God. From now until eternity you will walk upon this world." He drew a ragged breath and once again looked down upon Sukhail. "You may think this no punishment at all, but it has provisos. You will not be within your own body. You will exist in the body of another, a body repugnant to those around you. You will be shunned, ridiculed and tortured because of this. You will be immortal, yet not omnipotent. You will feel pain and it may never end. I pity you, Sukhail, always remember that. I do this out of faith and loyalty. Remember."

The master walked to the door. He didn't want to leave him in this condition, but there was little he could do. Anything he said would have been a mere platitude after what he had just revealed. He brushed an imagined piece of lint off of his heavy red robe and turned towards the door. As he closed the door, he could not help shaking his head. As he did so he saw a small, deep red patch appear on the fabric covering his outstretched arm.

Sukhail was stunned, he had never known that failure had such a high price. If only he'd known bout the penalty, but there was no point in dwelling on 'if only'. Trapped in his own panic filled mind he still managed to hear the creak of hinges as the door swung closed. The master was gone and his time was up. He had no idea how this worked, but he prayed that it would be over soon.

He stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. He counted every beam and crack, trying to distance himself from what was happening. When he became bored with the ceiling he began to think about his master. He had always respected the man, but he had never felt comfortable with him. He was tall, like the rest of his sect, with white hair falling to below his knees. His thick red velvet robes hung off of his thin shoulders and gave him the look of one much older than his years dictated. Yet even that did not distract him for long and soon he wanted to cry, yet no tears would come. He wanted to cry out the names of those he had loved, Neif and Kithal and Janifl. He could not . Even his voice had deserted him, leaving him utterly alone, now he could do naught but stare.

He felt completely helpless, his last vestiges of strength leached away by the waiting. He almost forgot he couldn't move when he heard the door open. He wanted nothing more than to run and embrace his new visitors. They said nothing, yet he now felt much more relaxed. He began to hear voices coming into the room. It was like a sea of babble, each voice vying for supremacy and suddenly he knew that the ritual was about to begin. His life would continue from a blood soaked alter.

He heard the sound of wheels on the carpeted floor next to him and now it became clear that the ritual would take place here. He would never move from this dais. As he lay with his new body beside him, his mind recoiled into it's deepest recesses. He knew then that he would never be able to gaze upon his new face because of it's horror, yet he would come to know it better than his own over the ages.

His master stood between the two bodies now. Sukhail could see one of his arms, outspread, over his face. He endeavoured to show no fear. To show fear would be to cause his master pain. He could not do that, for his master had also been something more, but what? His friend?

Chanting began all around him, and he could hear his masters voice rising above the others, cool and clear. A faint white light began to coalesce over his body. It tingled on his numbed skin and Sukhail wanted to cry with joy, he could feel, but all too quickly the light began to brighten.

As the light intensified, it became blinding and lanced through his eyes like needles. His body seemed to be on fire, he could feel every nerve and sinew becoming blackened and warped. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. He began to panic, breath coming hard and ragged as he tried to struggle against non-existent bonds. In his panic he began to choke and as he swallowed his tongue he let out a silent scream.

For the second time Sukhail died!

"Tell..."

Each one seemed to ask the same question, over and over. She answered them, as well as she could, but it was not enough. She could not answer the questions! She knew nothing! The more they asked the more agitated she became. The straight-jacket itched! She couldn't breath! She wanted to tell truth, but it would put her progress back years. She would never get out! She had prepared herself, but the barriers in her psyche began to crumble.

It all came back to her, every detail of every attack. It came with a force and a clarity that she had tried to explain, but never could. She had sworn not to tell the truth. Not even Gib knew the whole story. Only now did she know it all, and who she really was. As they battered at her defences, pair by pair, she began to snap!

She lost control, and the words burst forth unchecked...

**********

"Why are you allowing this to happen?"

"What?"

"Listen to me!" She raged. "This is ridiculous. Send somebody else."

"Like who, Thorn? Nobody else wants to be put into the firing line. This is my duty -"

"Your duty my arse, others would gladly go for you."

"Your wrong. You'd take my place, but the others, they have lives of their own. They do not last long, the mission would be failed. Only those of the breeds could do it, you, I and a handful of the others. What would you have me do?"

"Micha, send me."

"NO!"

"Listen to me." She knelt at the side of the other woman. "I have nothing to loose, and everything to gain. If I return it will be a bonus. You and the others will remain. Just tell me what is to be done."

"You would do this for me?" Her eyes opened wide as a child's.

"Yes, because you are incomplete, still too young. You would only loose yourself. When I return, you will be the one to bring me back. You and I will both be all that we are to be." An uneasy silence hung between the two women. She stood, "What do I have to do?"

The sky was blue, where she landed. Yet the blue was not pure, it seemed to be shielded by a barrier of pale, translucent grey. The air smelt of smoke and strange, unfamiliar chemicals which offended her nose.

She had been deposited here hours before, with only the barest of knowledge about where she would end up. She had not wanted to probe Micha too deeply, her job had been hard enough. she had expended all of her available energy crossing the bridge between worlds and pushing Thorn through.

Micha had, had her subordinates create clothes of the sort worn by the native population and Thorn now sported a full set. They were uncomfortable, too tight in the wrong places. They constricted her movement and made her already battered body throb.

The transition from world to world had not been an easy one. As she had not been in control of the shift she had not been able to provide herself with cushioning. Micha had provided a rough ride. It had been one of the most disorientating moments of Thorn's life, the colours, the sounds and the movement had been sickening. Separately they may have been spectacular. Together they were devastating.

She was sitting in the middle of what she presumed to be some form of field. There were not many trees around her and the grass was thick and lush, yet no grazing animals were in sight. However this line of thought was not productive, the sooner she could begin her task, the sooner she would achieve her objective.

She had been sent to track those had deserted her world and had taken up residence here. With her natural ability as a tracer she would be able to locate them over vast distances. Her newly intensified extra sensory perception would give her an advantage when dealing with the natives.

She realised that in an alien society, she would seem suspicion. The deeds which she would perform would be punished, thus she would need to keep to the shadows. She must become one of the people who people took no notice of. Back home those people were the Tannit, backward cave dwellers, but what of here? Would she even find an underclass?

**********

The streets were strewn with men and women begging for money, and the passers by ignored them. Their clothes were tattered and dirty, as were they. She walked past them and began to study how they lived.

When she had left the 'park' she had come across several individuals who were willing to assist her towards the largest living area. They had wanted her money in return and had tried to threaten her with knives. Even thinking about it made her laugh, she had simply hit one of them over the head with the club she had acquired before leaving. Searching into the mind of that man she had discovered that here it would be called a baseball bat. She had learnt a lot since her arrival, in the space of only one day.

She realised that she was conspicuous. She was too tall for a female, her features striking in comparison to most, and to well dressed. She had to become one of these street dwellers, for as long as it took. She tried to catch the eye of several of the vagrants, before one responded.

"Can I speak with you a moment?" The words felt strange in her mouth, stilted.

"What?" The filthy young woman spat at her.

"I want to be you. I'll give you my money, my clothes, everything. All you have to do is give me you clothes, your home and a little information."

"Where am I supposed to live?" She oozed both suspicion and barely suppressed greed.

"A...um...friend, organised accommodation for me. Do we have a deal?"

The vagrant nodded and they made their way to a darkened ally. Thorn stripped out of her clothes and began to gather as much information as she could. She asked few question, and by the time they were both dressed she had everything she needed. She had lifted as much information as the girl had within her mind about this world and her society.

Now Thorn melted into the throngs of the nameless. Living in a cardboard box or doorway. Begging for money and constantly on the move. She never stayed in one place too long. She soon became comfortable with the life of the vagabond. It became her life.

Now the games began.

The city was aglow with a thousand lights. Each light threw it's light into the heavens, yet not one touched the streets. The huddled figures in the gutter, down the alley, in the slum, lived in a world engulfed in shadow. The fires, burning in bins scattered beside the roads, illuminated their faces as they jostled for a place within it's glow. Only one was not cold in the depths of winter. Only one was not blinded in the night. Only one had a purpose which could be served by being nothing.

She had been within the night for months, now, performing the task for which she had been sent. No one knew her name and that is how it would stay. In the harsh light of day, she watched and waited, sleeping only when she reached her goal. Those she encountered, would back away in fear and revulsion. Her words and demeanour sending shivers down the spine of even the most cordial traveller.

As she encountered other travellers, her emotions were in turmoil. Since the day of her birth she had lived in a world of confusion and chaos. She had only found peace in the company of Micha, and now she had lost even that. Some of those that she encountered on her ceaseless journey held out a hand to her. Yet as they held out that hand she cut it off, with word and thought and deed.

The task for which she had been sent was of such great importance that for others to know would spell her destruction. The mission was everything, nothing could stand between her and her goal. She had been on this path for many months and her mission was almost complete. She only had to perform her task twice more and she could go home. Back to the world that she knew and the people that she could trust.

**********

The house was submerged in darkness and she knew that it was time to strike. She advanced with slow deliberation, like a predatory animal, alert to any change in her environment. As she neared the house she gripped the shaft of the bat more tightly in her hands and felt the reassuring pain as it sliced into her palm. with the blood trickling down her forearm she scouted the perimeter of the building, looking for a way in. The night was hot and sticky, an open window should be easy to find.

As she walked around the house, she suddenly felt a sweltering backwash of heat from the ground-floor window. The air conditioner was before her. She laid her bat onto the floor and began to push the unit forward...

...The house was like a fortress. Windows locked. Doors bolted. Alarm systems running through it. There was only one option left open to her, forced entry. She ran her knife around the window pain, within the lines of the alarm. She did not break the circuit of the alarm and propelled herself through the glass. It all happened in relative silence, as it always did.

She stood beside the open door to the master bedroom and stared in. They looked as peaceful as sleeping children, as blissfully unaware as a new-born. She stalked over to the bed and looked down at them. One was of this world and of no consequence to her mission. The other was her target.

The woman looked pale, gaunt and tired. It was as though her energy had been drained from her over the years. She slept on her side, face away from her partner. It was better when she did not have to look at the faces of those who loved her victims. He laid on his back, head angled towards the ceiling. His arms raised above his head and his hands clasped together through the slats of the headboard. His face was smooth, ageless, and his skin was dusky. His bald head reflected what little light came through the curtains. They all looked the same.

She put her bat between the two sleeping figures. She needed both hands free so that she could straddle her prey. She sat over him, above his chest, one leg on either side. None of her weight bore down on him, she didn't want him to wake, just yet. She reached for her weapon and held it before her face, examining it like a tool. The once smooth surface of the bat was worn and pitted with use. The six inch nails that jutted from its rounded surface had begun to rust. It was coated with a layer of dried blood.

Finally she let her full weight rest upon his thin chest. He awoke with a start, his huge, dark eyes staring up at her. She raised the bat above her head and held it there. She looked down into his eyes and read the same acceptance within their depths as she had seen in dozens of others. They all seemed to know that she was from their world, their 'Dark Angel'. It was almost as though they had always known that one day some one would come for them.

Their eyes locked. The bat flew towards his face in a huge, powerful arc. The bat connected with flesh and bone with a sickeningly muffled, whet, thud. The nails in the bat sank into the bone and squealed as the two solid surfaces collided. Shards of bone flew into her face. Blood sprayed over the bed and splattered on the walls. Yet not sound left his lips. He should have been dead, but the breath still rattled into his lungs. It was never easy. She brought the bat down again and again and again, sending more blood and brain matter around the room.

At last, he died. His blood covered her hands and arms, and the spray had coated her chest. The bat had splintered into his face, and his skull had splintered out. His face was nothing more than a slab of raw, red meat, interspersed with bone and grey gore that had once been his brain. She knew that his wife would be horrified to discover her husband in the morning, and she was sorry for that, but everything had a price.

The huntress was always amazed that the sleeping partner was never awakened by the viscous act going on beside them. They should have felt the movement of the bed. The force of the blows. The warm blood on their skin. Yet they slept though it until morning. She could only presume that it was the power of those whom she stalked. Probably some form of hypnotism. She would never be able to find out, they were all gone now.

She moved off of his chest, to stand beside the bed. The baseball bat laid on the floor next to a sheet from the bed. From it's position she guessed that they had thrown it off because f the heat. She looked from the bed to the sheet and back again. She felt an unwanted wave of pity for his wife. In a moment of uncharacteristic compassion she folded the blanket three times and placed it over his face. As the cloth touched his ravaged face it was almost instantly saturated with blood. Shrugging, she turned to perform the next part of her private ritual.

She wore a sheath attached to her belt, beneath her tattered clothes. It was composed of a thick, semi-solid material and would only bend under extreme pressure. It was elegantly shaped, going from a spherical bulb at the top and tapering to a narrow point. She prised off the top half of the sphere and poured the contents out. A single, white rose fell into he hands. She was careful not to touch the petals and held it by the stem. It cast an almost ethereal glow over her bloody hands. She examined it with almost reverential care, examining every petal and thorn for the slightest imperfection. She turned it in her hands once and proceeded to place it on his chest, where she had been. The petals had to be unstained. As pure as the reason behind task which she carried out.

She walked towards the door, but before she left there was one last thing to do. She raised one, gore cover hand to the wall and extended her index finger. She began to trace a phrase upon the wall. That done, she walked out, closing the door behind her and made her way back into the night.

She went into the garden and positioned herself in the branches of a heavily canopied tree. She would wait for the police. It was the last part of her ritual, and gave her the greatest adrenaline rush of all. If the police caught her, she was doomed. Yet now, with the death of her last target, her capture was without consequence. The thrill was no longer quite so great. Nothing would happen until dawn.

They never woke early...

**********

"Noooooooo!"

The agonised cry ripped through the stillness of the night. It sent the birds scattering from the trees in fear. The lights of neighbouring houses flickered to life at the awful noise. Hands flew to dials in more than one house, fingers flying over the unfamiliar digits. 9...9...9.

The police arrived only minutes latter and began to hammer on the door. Mrs Morag Neive was far from composed, and merely managed to get down the stairs without falling. She was still in her blood encrusted night dress, which now bore traces of vomit. She had not been able to control it since she woke.

She ushered the police into the lounge. Some of them were in uniform, but the bulk were plain clothed. They all looked so young and she felt so old an tired that she just wanted to curl up and die beside her husband.

"Mrs Neive, we need you to tell us what's going on. We received a phone call that screams had been heard coming from the house. Now we find you, like this." He waved his hand as her in a circular motion.

Her lips were numb and the words came out in a monotone, without feeling or emotion. All she could do was recount the facts. "My husband's dead. He's upstairs in bed. You should probably go up and see him. It's the second room on the left."

The police began to move. The plain clothes man who had questioned her beckoned a group of both uniformed and plain clothed officers and went up the stairs. Morag was left among four other officer, three of whom were in uniform. All of whom were women.

"Mrs Neive-"

"Morag." She mumbled.

"Okay. Morag, I'm Ruth. I need you to tell me everything that you know about your husbands death."

"He was murdered! Those damn bastards killed him!"

"Did you see your husbands attacker?"

"It wasn't me. I woke up and he was dead!" Morag screamed hysterically at the police woman.

"Morag, I never meant to suggest that. Please try to stay calm. Would you like something to drink?" She nodded dumbly.

One of the uniformed officers went out to the kitchen. They sat together in the lounge in an uncomfortable silence. Morag, desperately trying to pull herself together. When the officer finally returned she held a tray of steaming mugs and a sugar bowl. Morag was ready to continue.

"I can't tell you much."

"That's fine, just tell us what you can remember."

"I always take a glass of water to bed with me, I'm on medication. I have to take a tablet every four hours. I wake up every four hours on the dot and take it. I never turn the lights on because I don't want to disturb him.

"When I reached for my glass I thought it felt a little warm and sticky. I put it down to the heat and my sweaty hands. I put the pill into my mouth and took a sip of..." She began to choke, her detachment started to dissolve and tears ran down her face.

"The water, it...it.. tasted salty. I... I turned on the light. It was red. Then I turned and he was.." The word had come out through choking sobs, barely audible.

Thank you Morag, we won't ask any more questions. Is there somebody we could contact?"

"My son," It was barely a whisper.

"He'll be devastated by the news of his fathers death."

"He wasn't my husband's."

"Oh...

"I think I may be sick!"

"I know what you mean. Whoever did this was out of their mind. Probably a junky."

The room stank of blood. The heat had speeded up the process of decay and already dozens of flies flew around the room. Every wall, even the ceiling, was saturated. The carpet had not been as badly stained, but the attacker had left bloody foot prints from the bed to the door.

Fingers prints were being lifted form all around the room. The pathologists swarmed over the bed, taking sample of blood and bone. They examined the skull to try to fathom what instrument was used to cause such damage. Some even had their fingers in cavities in the skull. The police wee looking for point of entry and trying to distinguish the type of shoe which had left the prints.

The most hideous part of the whole incident was not the pulverised head of the victim. None of the officers could keep their eye's off of the writing on the wall. It seemed to be written in gibberish. Even the linguistic expert who had been called in did not recognise the text. But it was clearly a message.

Strange that it used familiar punctuation to make it's point? Whatever it was, the killer was obviously toying with them. They knew this from the blood swathe that had been cut across the world. The murders, all of the exact same type, were never broadcast in the media. There could be no copy cats. Whoever was behind one murder was behind them all. The profile which had been drawn up on the murderer over the three years since she had arrived was almost as shocking as the murders themselves.

The murderer was a woman, this could be ascertained from the bloody footprints which showed weight and foot size. Obviously disturbed. she only ever killed one member of the family, the husband. All of the men had the same basic appearance. From this it was clear that the perpetrator had probably been abused in some way and was now making others pay. This meant that she was taking revenge on men who resembled her abuser. Why she travelled the world was a mystery. She had never been spotted, or detained. And every murder was exactly the same. The photographs of this one could be used for all of the others. Even down to the white rose. That confused the profilers. Did it mean that she thought her purpose justified?

After each murder an item from the incident, a piece of stained cloth would be found in the house grounds. It was almost as it she was taunting them. Once a police dog had caught her scent. It had got close enough to bite her. Flesh from a human had been found in it's mouth when it died. she had clubbed it to death.

The one difference, here, was the writing on the wall. It was always present, but in English. The phrase she used was constant, and almost child like. She had broken her pattern twice. She never usually covered the victims face either. Looking into the file the officer read the words that should have been emblazoned on the wall.

Perhaps, if her pattern had changed, she had become careless. They knew that she was always waiting in the grounds. The victims were never discovered till morning in all of the other cases. It was still only 3. 12 am perhaps they would catch her unaware...

***********

"They did. I was startled by the scream, but it was too late to run. I would have been spotted. I could see and hear everything that was going on in the house. I even allowed my consciousness to enter theirs. I felt it all. What the police thought, what she thought.

"I never used to do that. But I knew I was trapped. It took them hours to find me in the tree. They had been searching with dogs. I'd managed to distract them, but once one could smell the blood...

"I ended up here after I told them what I just told you." She looked up for the first time since her monologue. When she had lost control a chubby Asian man and soft spoken brunette had been with her. They weren't anymore.

The two new doctors looked from one another to the patient and back. It looked like she had come out of her trance. She had been speaking in the same vain since they entered the room. The doctors whom she had begun this little diatribe with had filled them in on what they had missed before they left. It would make for interesting viewing later, once the digital feed was analysed.

She had obviously recounted this story to the authorities. No wonder they had put her into a psychiatric hospital. How could any body who thought that they were from another world be sane? She should be pitied. She honestly seemed to believe she had been sent on a vendetta by her leader.

The younger of the two doctors cleared her throat, "Ms. Thorn, we have a few questions…"

Bill threw back her head and let loose laughter so hysterical that it echoed through the room and out into the corridor, leaving only silence in it's wake.