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Peter awoke from his nightmare and felt like he had just stepped out of a spinning centrifuge. He fell on the tile several times on the way to the bathroom and vomited before reaching the toilet. His migraine medication had run out a few months ago and every night since, his parent's death invaded his dreams.

Peter was a well-built man of 190 pounds. His light brown skin was shaved irritatingly smooth everywhere on his body: a job requirement, and one that he abhorred. A small patch of hair could make his half-breed combat armaments dysfunctional and leave him defenseless on the field, but at times Peter considered death preferable over manscaping his entire body for the sake of full synchronization.

His night terrors had become progressively vivid. He was always a spectator, a part of everything but incapable of action. He had meant to call his doctor to get a refill on his prescription, but the last six months had been hectic. New half-breed gangs tried to prove themselves every week, and they always left death and property damage in their wake. Constant investigation made Peter feel purposeful, but he admitted that between half-breeds and combat armor testing, the past six months had been more than he could handle. He stood over the toilet and waited to vomit again but could not.

"I hate this shit," he muttered as he went through his cabinet for aspirin. After a hot shower he felt a little better. He threw his towel on the puddle of vomit and went into his bedroom to get dressed. He checked his phone first. It was dead. He plugged it in, turned it on and let it load while he found his uniform.

He put on some boxers. His phone vibrated and did not cease, so he assumed he had a call. He picked it up. It continued to vibrate against his ear.

"18 text messages? 19? 20?" He tried to open them but once his phone counted his texts, it moved on to his voice mails. He grunted, tossed the phone on his bed and let it finish while he dressed. Afterward he opened his inbox.

"They're all from Mary," he said and called her.

"Sir! Finally. Did you get my texts?"

"No. What's so urgent?"

"It's Gerald," she said. "There was a report on the news about him."

"There's always a petty theft or something he's involved in. He hasn't committed any serious crime for ten years. At least not that I know of. Why are you bothering me with this?"

"Sir," she said. "He could be dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes, I sent you the news report. It should be in your e-mail."

"Alright, I'll look at my files and get back to you."

"You sound skeptical, sir. He could finally be out of your hair."

"It's because I am. I'll get back to you." He hung up and went into his office.

A map of the city was on one wall of his office. Different colored flags that marked half-breed activity and specific sightings of wanted half-breeds covered it. Paper clippings of accidents were strewn across the other walls.

He stared at the picture of his parents on his desk, at their smiles: his mother's playful crooked grin, the shining optimism she always wore despite their family's financial struggles, and his father's half-smile.

Peter's father, Peter Ian Herrero the third, was an engineer and had always been away from home for extended periods of time. Intermittent affection did not satisfy Peter's mother. When she was out with her girlfriend's one evening, she met an incubus by the name of Tam, short for Tamick. When she caught his hazel eyes, she could not look away from him. Tamick could not remember if he had used any demonic means to seduce her that night, but the love they felt for each other was real. The affair continued until the evening she and Peter's father were murdered.

Peter and his parents had lived in a small townhouse, in a gated complex known for vandalism. It was all they could afford. Peter's father thought he heard a knock on the door in the middle of the night. He ignored it. A few minutes later, he heard banging followed by yelling. He recognized the voice as eight-year-old Peter's. He woke his wife and told her that he thought Peter was locked outside. She tried to assure him that he was upstairs asleep. He went to the door anyway.

He looked through the peephole and saw his son at the door. His wife opened the door to Peter's bedroom and found him fast asleep cuddling a brown stuffed horse. She opened her mouth to call out to her husband when she heard an explosion downstairs.

She ran to the top of the stairs to see a living, screaming flame: Peter's father. He died seconds later. His fire did not. It fed on the carpet, the wood floor and the walls.

A young exous with dark skin and smoldering spiky hair came into the home, followed by a boy with long green hair and young Peter. She glanced at Peter's room and gasped when she saw him upstairs with her. She looked back downstairs and saw the half-breeds smiling at her confusion.

The skia in the guise of her son became black ooze. The ooze grew taller and formed into an Asian skia. Primary and secondary colors flashed intermittently within her wings and lit the foyer with their glow.

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"Mommy? Why is it smoky?" Peter asked in a sleepy daze. When he saw the flames he cried.

"Douse my flames, Chek," the exous child said. His eyes flared as he looked at Peter's frightened mother.

"Why, Riki? Let it burn!" Chek, the green haired boy yelled.

"I want to have some fun with them first," he said.

Chek snuffed the fire out with his will.

"What are you going to do?" the skia asked.

"I'm going to see what's beneath the wife's clothes," he said. "I want to see why my father decided to sleep with a human."

Peter's mom yelled for help and tried her best to escape the grasp of Riki and Chek, but they easily pulled her into Peter's room and onto his bed.

"Peter, call for help! Call 911!"

Peter tried to run downstairs. The skia grabbed him and held him up by the neck of his cowboy pajamas. He flailed about and hit her on the cheek. She held him as far away as her arms could reach. He squirmed out of her hold and ran downstairs.

"He's going to call the cops!" she yelled as she ran after him.

"Get him in here," Riki said to Chek, who chuckled and walked out of the room to retrieve Peter. As he walked downstairs his laughter grew higher and wild, like a hyena's.

"Why are you doing this?!" his mother had asked Riki.

"You are Trina Herrero, right? Wife of Peter Herrero the third? The half-breed hunter?" Riki asked.

"Half-breed hunter?"

"The name Tamick ring any bells?"

"I don't know who you're..."

Riki silenced her with a slap.

"He's my father. You know him. Your body knows him well."

"We have jewelry and money!" Trina said, avoiding the subject.

"Jewelry?" the skia asked.

"Take whatever you want! Take everything! Just leave us in peace! It's down the hall in my closet," Peter's mother answered.

"Julie, you can have the jewelry," Riki said. "And the cash." He smiled down at Peter's mother, and his eyes glowed. "I have what I want."

He heard Peter bawl behind him and knew Chek had him in the room.

"Bring him over here," Riki said to Chek. He ripped Trina's nightgown off and looked over her dark nakedness. He licked his lips.

"I want him to watch."

* * *

Photos of happy children and adults of all ages and nationalities filled one wall of Peter's office and spilled over to the others. They were all photos of half-breeds.

Three large photos were at the center of the photo wall: pictures of the children involved with his parent's death. When he had captured them, he tortured them mentally first.

Peter captured their family members and closest friends. He threatened to kill them in front of them if they did not show contrition for their sins against him and his family. It did not take long to break their pride. All he had to do was render their powers inert. Without them, they were on his level. At that point of desperation they felt fear, despair and guilt just like humans.

He killed the half-breed's loved ones one at a time despite that.

Then, he moved on to physical abuse. Without sedatives or anesthetics, his associates harvested their innards to research them for his armor prototypes. When they were too desensitized to react to mental or physical abuse, he killed them.

Their pictures reminded Peter of how he had taken their lives from them: everything they were, everything that made them happy. That truly satisfied Peter. Silencing their heartbeat was just a consolation. He longed to add Julie's photo to the trophy wall.

He opened Gerald's file. At least one vendetta could be settled this evening.

Gerald's known crimes included several counts of rape, murder, theft and property damage that dated back over fifty years. He had been one of Peter's first assignments, and it had been nearly impossible to apprehend him. Gerald had no real pattern or reason for his crimes. He would rob a bank, murder someone or break into a mall and steal clothing: he would never hit the same place twice.

Peter had decided to try a "Wanted" poster to see if anyone would call in a sighting. It took only a week before a woman in an apartment complex downtown called and said he had been staying with one of her neighbors.

Peter was amazed that Gerald had been so careless as to stay stationary long enough for someone to notice. Peter talked with the building's owner and organized a stakeout.

His associates fitted him with a prototype body armor that utilized synthetic Inner. Once the synthinner was injected into his body it would obey his will.

Its uses were limited only to physical changes: camouflage, exponential speed and strength increases and sensory intensification. Safety mechanisms to regulate synthinner and prevent Inner deprivation were installed on the suits. Inner deprivation felt like heroin withdrawal to half-breeds. Minor cases could be cured with rest. The human body's reaction to Inner deprivation would cause death if not given medical attention.

Peter had uninstalled his regulators immediately.

They set remote traps on the window, the front door and the bed. When triggered, long metal spikes would spring from the traps and hooks would extend from the spikes to catch Gerald's wings.

Peter and five men waited for the fallen angel to arrive. Around 3 a.m. they heard drunken slurs, stumbling footsteps and a woman's voice in the hall. They cloaked and checked their hook guns one more time before Gerald entered. He and the woman shared messy kisses before they fell onto the bed.

The civilian will complicate things, Peter thought.

Peter looked at his men. They were ready.

He pumped synthinner into him and willed a speed increase. He dove at the woman, tried to pull her out of Gerald's grasp but accidentally pulled them both from the bed. One of his men triggered the bed's trap.

Spikes burst from the mattress, and four hooks popped out of each of them. Gerald saw Peter's men for the first time. He put one arm around the woman's throat and the other around her waist to hold her still.

"Make a move on me and I'll kill her. Uncloak so I can see your faces better."

Peter uncloaked himself, and his men did the same. Gerald's eyes fell on Peter.

"I could see your men but not you. Did you think I would be so stupid as to let myself be seen with all of those posters up? I wanted you to find me."

Gerald pushed the woman away and assaulted Peter's squad. His first punch killed one of Peter's men, and it took two to kill the one behind him. The woman scooted around them all and ran out into the hall.

The remaining humans fired their guns.

One spike-hook went into a wall. Gerald blocked two with an arm. Peter and his solider sprung the hooks. Gerald whipped his arm and the humans around and tore the large hooks from his arm.

Peter increased the amount of synthinner in his blood and felt it burn inside him. He ran to meet Gerald, landed a kick to his stomach and knocked him on his back.

"Get up and shoot his wings!" Peter yelled at his men.

He turned into Gerald's punch, felt little pain but heard his jaw crack. He saw surprise on Gerald's face, attacked him in his daze and left him on the ground, coughing for air. Peter retrieved his gun. He smiled at Gerald writhing like a wounded serpent and reloaded his spike. When he looked up from the gun, Gerald was gone.

He cursed, heard the window break and pushed the button on his gun to trigger the trap. He heard it clang. Gerald howled and raged as he tried to free his fettered wings.

He brought him to Mayor Saffron alive as he had requested. After a week of study, Gerald had escaped.

Peter would not let that happen a second time.