A long time ago, Kariel understood something.
The bandits of Nostramo, despite their outward resemblance, were not human. They simply did not deserve the title.
In Kariel's eyes, they were at best something like distant, completely maddened relatives of man, devoid of any concept of morality.
Their minds were almost destroyed by psychotropic substances and the madness of the surrounding world. They thirsted for blood, violence, others' subservience, and fear.
All these factors, overlapping, led to the fact that they no longer needed a reason for a motiveless murder. But worst of all was that on Nostramo, such was considered the norm.
To Kariel, it seemed absurd—until one fine day, it dawned on him.
They are not humans. Yes, exactly. They are not humans.
Realizing this, Kariel set to his work.
Yes, he called the hunting of bandits in the hives work.
From his point of view, the work was quite tolerable—if one did not count the fact that it was a bit specific, unpaid, and took place in disgusting conditions.
He treated his work with extreme caution, perfectly understanding how dangerous the gangs were.
They had pistols, cannons, they had everything necessary for killing, and most importantly—as a rule, they did not fear death.
To make them fear, special methods were required.
But the young Haunter, obviously, did not understand this. His strength made killing easy, like a game in water, and therefore he did not see what was visible only to such mortals as Kariel.
He did not know what a rare virtue discretion was.
"My time is limited, Haunter, so you had better be worth the minutes spent on you."
With a sigh, Kariel jumped from the gargoyle and plummeted down like a stone. Piercing the icy clouds, he fell; his cloak fluttered in the wind, his black hair danced wildly, and his eyes burned with an almost frightening brightness.
Twenty-five seconds later, he landed without making a single sound. The blue glow in his eyes froze the falling raindrops, turning them into ice. Freezing for a moment, they fell again and shattered into pieces.
But he did not.
Standing still, Kariel took a calm and deep breath. He closed his eyes, and the familiar blackness was lit by an internal light.
Nearby, in an abstract space, a blurred shadow writhed and contorted, full of despair.
He knew who it was. Kariel sighed soundlessly.
"Are you truly capable of carrying this burden, you naive little monster?"
Kariel opened his eyes, and in that same moment, a cold nausea rose to his throat.
Immediately from afar came a muffled voice, as if coming from behind the Veil. It was soft, paternal, and muttered something incomprehensible.
It tried to make Kariel answer, and he almost succumbed.
Kariel suppressed this urge again and smirked coldly.
"No, not today. Do not hope. It will not work, you thing that hides in the dark."
He gripped his blade tighter and ran across the roofs of the ominous spires.
As if by an unspoken agreement, everyone who had the right to build houses on Nostramo chose exactly this gloomy style. Well, at least it was perfectly suited for a phantom.
The tiles trembled under his feet; the curtain of rain tore apart from his speed. With icy cold and rising rage, Kariel approached his goal.
He jumped silently in the darkness of the night, like a soaring spirit.
And then… at the end of this swift run…
The Haunter burst into wild laughter.
...
"Did you hear something?" the man asked.
"I only hear the sound of failure," the woman answered lazily.
She leaned against her motorcycle and lazily poked a bone knife into her left forearm. The arm was already covered in bloody cuts, but the woman seemed to enjoy it and did not intend to stop.
"No-no, Dir, I'm serious," the man said, turning his head. "I really did hear something."
"Do me a favor, Carlo, shut your fart-hole."
Dir still looked lazily at Carlo and snorted contemptuously.
"We missed the convoy, and that means—we blew it. So just shut up, eh?"
"Don't remind me."
Carlo frowned, notes of anger sounding in his voice. His face was divided in half by some kind of paint: the upper half was deathly pale, the lower half—scarlet. This bizarre contrast gave his face a terrifying look.
But Dir was not impressed. She smirked coldly again.
"If you, you bastard with an ass for a face, hadn't said you saw that thing run in this direction, we'd still be cutting people up with everyone else. Maybe after the job, we'd have even snagged a couple of doses. And you still have the nerve to say something?"
"I said, shut up!"
Carlo roared and, grabbing a shotgun from the motorcycle, aimed it at Dir. The weapon was crude, with splinters sticking out of the forend. Breathing heavily, Carlo looked at her and snapped, "I said, I heard something… you stupid bitch!"
He suddenly screamed. The burst of emotion was completely unexpected, without any buildup—it seemed he instantly went from slight irritation to berserk rage.
Carlo abandoned the motorcycle and, staggering, approached Dir. He pressed the barrel to her forehead with such force that she almost fell off the bike.
"I said, I heard something! I heard! Heard! I didn't lie! I heard!"
"Fine, fine, you heard… damn," Dir cursed quietly. "Get that thing away from my head, Carlo. Curse it, you've gone completely mad from that paint."
"I heard! I heard!"
Carlo shrieked and, clutching the shotgun to himself, ran away. Dir frowned, watching him inexplicably disappear into the curtain of rain, and cursed again.
"What a moron, mother have him. Does he have nothing but shit in his head?"
Feeling spat upon, Dir shook her head, started her motorcycle again, and decided to return to the gang's territory to sleep.
And Carlo's bike… let it stay here. Civilians wouldn't dare touch it—the sign of the "Crimson End" was clearly visible. They knew what awaited them. And other gangs…
Ha.
Dir would only be glad if they took it. Then the "Crimson End" would have an excuse for war. And Carlo… honestly, she didn't even think about him. In fact, she wished him dead right now.
But a shrill cry, cutting through the sound of the rain, disrupted her plans.
Dir frowned and looked in that direction. Darkness and rain hid everything from her, and the noise of the downpour hitting the ground drowned out any other sounds.
She got off the motorcycle and carefully took an automatic from the side bag. Looking into the veil of rain, she shouted, "Carlo! Is that you?!"
No one answered. Only the sound of acid raindrops shattering against the ground. Dir felt a chill run down her spine—this feeling arose suddenly, in the very first second, and made her go cold.
"What the hell… that idiot…"
Muttering something to herself, she froze in place with the automatic at the ready, not knowing what to do: go forward or turn around and forget about everything.
While she was reflecting, out of the corner of her eye she noticed that the rainwater flowing at her feet had changed color.
The muddy streams washing her leather boots had turned from a dirty brown to a complete scarlet. The icy cold rose again, but this time not from behind, but from the front.
Trembling, she raised her head.
"Who's there?!" Dir shrieked. "Who?! Come out! Come out!"
"Shh…"
From behind the veil of rain came a quiet voice that unmistakably pierced the noise of the downpour and reached her ears, "Quiet, people are sleeping here."
Dir's face twitched. She wanted to pull the trigger, but her fingers wouldn't obey. A silvery flash preceded her, piercing both the veil of rain and the palm gripping the weapon.
Her automatic fell to the ground with a thud and was immediately carried away by the stream of water into some dark corner, not even leaving her a chance to pick it up.
"No!" she screamed.
Through the pain and fear, Dir heard a quiet laugh. Then the voice spoke again.
"Yes," it said softly. "By the way, do you want to see your companion?"
A head flew out from behind the curtain of rain and hit Dir exactly. She opened her eyes wide and instinctively caught it.
Lifeless eyes looked at the sky. The chin was split, the tongue hung between the two halves of the lower jaw. Bits of meat were stuck in the yellow-brown teeth. The upper half of the face was deathly pale, the lower—completely scarlet.
It was Carlo's face.
No, it was Carlo's head.
In the last moments of her life, Dir sobbed. She fell to the ground, making no attempt to run or resist. She just cried, like all the innocents who had died by her hand. Carlo's head fell nearby and looked at her lifelessly.
Fear crushed her. Completely.
Then a pale hand appeared and lifted her chin.
"Do not cry," Kariel said softly. "Crying is a privilege of humans. And you are not human."
A silvery flash.
The decapitated body slumped to the ground. The limbs still twitched in death throes, but that no longer mattered.
Kariel turned his head slightly, and the blue light in his eyes flowed quietly. Out of the veil of rain floated the blood-covered Haunter. He was unconscious, eyes closed, brows knitted, streams of water flowing down his face.
"In theory, I should thank them for the motorcycles—but I only say 'thank you' to humans."
Kariel smirked, deciding to end this night with his disliked sense of humor. He flicked his fingers, and the Haunter sat on one of the motorcycles, even starting the engine.
"Let's go, Haunter, just be careful," Kariel said with a smile. "It's your first time on a motorcycle, after all. Safety first."
A few seconds later, two motorcycles, tearing through the veil of rain, sped away into the distance.