Rapture

Shit. Where the hell are my shoes?

The soles of my feet slapped the tile floor, an echo in the barren hallway. I felt it more than heard it, the deep rumble of a predator. I didn't dare look back; I knew that the hallway was trashed like a bunch of drunken teenagers with flamethrowers instead of confetti sprayers.

Great. Just when I had finally started to settle down, something always has to come over and stir the pot.

It roared, a high pitched squeal when you run over a piglets at the same time with a four-wheel drive stick. Except the part of it shattering glass, of course. It tickled and pricked my skin, the tougher pieces getting a good scratch in. I growled, my own pitiful annoyance leaking through, as I searched for another exit.

There. Thank whoever it was that decided to make the Exit signs glow, because I wouldn't have been able to see it in the dark without that little aspect. The thing crashed into the wall when I turned, which made me squeal like a genius.

That exit was my only hope. I sprinted, putting in my last two dollars worth of energy. My hand already half way out to push the door open...

BANG.

The Exit sign flickered with my vision, before reality did its cruel little thing and woke me up with daggers drilling into my head. A couple pieces of glass nagged on my ears when the thing screamed again, so close I had to fling my arm over my eyes to protect myself, because the other was pinned under a smoldering claw the size of a boulder.

When I finally looked up, I finally saw what I had been running for my life from. Its opaque skin was stretched over its skeleton, barely any room for flesh or organs. Its eyes had a dead effect, and the fregging thing was on fire.

Its teeth were shockingly white though, which it then snapped at me. It reared its ugly head up, preparing for the kill.

So this was how I was going to die. I had always wanted to live to an old age, be that kind of grandmother that everyone visits and that helps her grandchildren slide down a slide. But since the moment I was utterly alone, I knew it was nothing more than a dream. Still, I would thought I would at least make it out of college, which was another fantasy in itself.

Just as I started to close my eyes, the thing screeched again. Not the battle cry, but one with complete surprise and fury. The thing's claw was wretched off my shoulder, and I jumped back when I saw it flung like a doll across the hall. Its eyes riveted on a new silhouette.

I still couldn't see much besides the fact that it was male, and that everything inside of me was suddenly aware of the fact that he both seemed familiar and a threat. Familiar, like meeting the same species, and a threat like seeing if this stranger bites or not.

The thing growled, low in it's bony throat, the flames reacting to it's discomfort. Whatever this dude was, he wasn't just mac-and-cheese. He was The Mac-And-Cheese.

His hand reached out, slightly, the thing backing up against the lockers in reaction. Which began to melt in big gooey globes. I was beginning to feel a little glad that I wouldn't be coming back to this school anymore.

In one startlingly quick movement, his hand snapped out, golden light dancing through the air to collide into the beast's chest. I stared as the skin rotted away to its heart, where it puttered and died out. It cried out in agony, crumpling to the floor into a heap of ash as the gold consumed it.

Just like that, it was nothing but burning paper drifting down the hallway. I discovered that I had folded in on myself like a cockroach into a fetal position. But I couldn't stop staring. All I could think was, that dude just shot gold out of his arm.

I thought only I could do that.

With one last look at the flickering ashes, he turned and looked at me. I still couldn't see him right enough to get put any identity check yet, but the glowering Exit sign hinted at a jaw that was used to setting itself. He studied me for a while just like the ashes, enough for me to wonder if he hadn't noticed me until now. Then, just like someone would see an animal approach a possible rattlesnake, he stealthily walked over to me.

He crouched, a healthy three feet away. Then out of nowhere, "Who are you?"

Something in me didn't want to answer; that something that always sees if a stranger is safe enough to be around, always whispering conspiracies in your head. I trusted that part of me more than I knew, and stayed silent.

He sighed, slightly. Then, "I can smell the blood on you. You're alone, too; you need to be fixed up before you can go back to wherever you came from."

Normally, I would have hated the tone in his voice that expected you to immediately follow. But, on him, it seemed to fit his whole mystery-in-the-box theme he was going with.

I just nodded. He did save my life, right? Even if he hadn't known he had he still did. He can't be that messed up, right?

He held out his hand, and I took it. It felt impossibly reassuring and warm, despite the roughness of his palms. He helped me up, and I became aware that I was hurt more than my brain had let on. My arm, from being pinned to the floor, was keeping its own campfire, trailing all the way to my shoulder. A fine leak of blood smeared my vision, trailing down to my neck like a little trail of ants. Yeah, I was pretty beat up.

He led me outside to the night, and to my new life.

♦♦♦♦♦♦

The girl was definitely not what he was expecting.

She sat quietly, every now and then hissing a breath as Matilda stitched her up. Silvery dark strands stuck to her skin, sometimes falling delicately into her face until she tucked it back with agile fingers. She was wearing regular clothing, soaked head to toe in soot, sweat, and blood. Matilda had long ago scrubbed the fine line that had flowed down from her hairline, but the stains still remained.

He didn't know how he couldn't notice her eyes when he was in the darkened school. They were so green, practically glowing once he could see them. And gladly, not ignorant, either. Her eyes never stayed on one place too long, always darting when someone in the crowded van moved. They were smart, calculating eyes that never trusted something immediately. He liked that about them.

Now they were on him, and for some strange reason he felt nervous. He was shockingly aware of his wrinkled clothing, of the dirt smudged on his face, of the slight awkward movements he was suddenly making. So instead he looked over through the front windshield, where the van was eating up the dirt road, wishing for those piercing eyes to avert off him. When he snuck a look back, he found that they had rested on the folds on her twined fingers.

Without looking up, she said, "Where are you taking me?"

Her voice had made the silence more noticeable, and he realized that it had probably had been giving her paranoia. Matilda looked up, her short red hair bobbing, before returning to rub balm on her scorched arm. She said, in her both friendly and business voice, "To get you fixed up. You can't go back to wherever you came from all messed up. It would make us look bad."

She chewed on that, then said, "Who's us?"

It was a perfectly reasonable question. But not one they could answer until we knew who she was. Something inside of him was queerly eager for those answers.