A great city is dying, its streets filled with an infectious violence, a plague of madness, flames, rage. This is not a natural death, this is an act of warfare. The Company is concerned enough to send their best, their tarnished silver bullet. He stands on one of the city’s many towers, waiting, brooding, hungry. From the city below comes the sound of sirens, of gunfire, of people screaming. The city settles in for another long night of fear. He continues his vigil, ignoring the death below. He is hunting for darker prey tonight. The rain is a cool cloak, a constant friend.

When I was young I was taught that the world was a rational place, predictable, organized. It seemed so, at first glance. I know better, now. I myself am not a creature born of rational action. Few are.

Hours trickle by unheeded. He stands as still as a tombstone, eyes fixed on a building opposite, a gothic tower of black granite in the city’s maze of glass.

I was not an easy child to care for. I was sent to school, for reasons best known to my foster parents. I did not enjoy it.

At last there is movement, a blur of black-on-black. A man walks down the side of the Gothic building, perpendicular to the earth, untouched by gravity, uncaring of the laws of physics. A darkness floats behind the man like some obscene balloon, attached to him by convulsing ropes of shadow. It is unclear which is the puppet, which is the puppeteer. They are a dangerous pair, this man, this darkness, this wild energy unchained. They are the source of the plague below.

I left school young, to travel. I’ve seen many wonderful places, many astounding works of arts that left tears of joy in my eyes. I wanted to add to such glory.

The man opposite him walks to the center of the building, enters through a window, dragging the living darkness behind him. He leaps across the abyss separating the two buildings, lands hard, clings to the stone. He enters the building behind his prey, unnoticed. He enters a cavernous room, a dark, cold, ancient hall that has no place in a modern building, a modern city.

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The process of creation amazes, the ability to pull meaning from an uncaring universe. I would dedicate myself to such a task, if I could.

The walls of the hall are covered in intricate patterns of gears that turn, slowly or quickly, grinding out the seconds on their bloody teeth. He stops to consider the gears. Most are metal, some are stone or wood, several are bone. They are powered by heavy pendulums, each larger than a man. It is no easy feat, to kill a city. Dark forces must be marshaled, sacrifices made, the demon clockwork fed.

I was told I had been chosen to serve, not to create. I can see the need for my service. There is evil, in this world. I accept this. Not all that is necessary is good.

At the center of the room, below the largest pendulum, stands an altar. A woman lies across it, alive. She screams when it sees what it approaches.

What concerns me is the evil found in the minds of the very people who claim to oppose it. I am an agent on behalf of the Company, their servant, their weapon. Will I ever be more?

He reaches out to tap the shadow creature on its shoulder, a warning blow, a greeting of sorts. The shadow laughs, the man screams, the building shakes as if alive. They fight. The building crumbles around them, insubstantial. The shadow-man is strong, desperate, cruel. Stone cracks, shadows flee, regroup, attack. Powers beyond human comprehension are summoned to battle, thrown like confetti, expended. Stone melts, air freezes, the body on the altar dies in black flames. Hours pass without meaning, the struggle continues.

Finally he grabs his enemy by the throat, twisting until he hears a snap. He is not surprised to see a smile on the dead man’s face. He folds his enemy in half, wrapping its shadow around its physical form as a death shroud. He folds until the creature is a ball, compressed, defeated. He bites into it, chews, swallows with disdain. Before long the shadow-beast is gone, leaving behind the ruins of a tower, the mysterious altar it had sought.

I do not know the purpose of this place, why is here, why it exists at all. I am not curious, I am annoyed. The creature tasted familiar. I hate tidying up after my employers.