A Butcher's Tale

Parva Conflictu: "A small conflict"

The air was warm. It was to be expected, given the time of the year, yet it was alway a pleasure to feel it on his skin. The last days of summer, mixed with the first days of autumn, gave the small rural city he lived in a welcoming atmosphere. He liked it. But today he couldn't really stop to enjoy it. After all, he had a job to do. He continued running, never stopping or slowing down, as the momentum he had built in what could be accounted as half an instant made jumping from rooftop to rooftop almost effortless. Each landing and quaking step left cracks on the tiles and cement. He knew he would probably be noticed, but he did not really care. That, and the silent approach was never his style. He wasn't a wailing bull in a chinese shop like his cousins from the Fenrykae division, his viking-like cousins always having despised such "dishonorable" tactics,  but neither a silent silouette like Korr and his boys. He could sneak past most people unnoticed, but a trained eye would spot him easily. 'Yeah, the Jhärl and the Great Raven never saw eye to eye', he mused to himself as he launched again, aiming for another building. That small distraction cused an error in his calculations, as he missed his landing by almost a foot. The giant found himself plummeting down, yet he gave no paniced response to such event. For a normal man falling from a seven story building would've spealt either crippling injuries or death. The massive being in man skin treated it as nothing more than an annoyance. With a gritted growl he dug his fingers into the brick wall of the apartament complex, completely stopping his bulk after a good 2 feet. Irritated by this rookie mistake he climbed back up, leaving holes where his digits broke through the concrete, and reaching the edge he aimed at before in less than 5 heartbeats. When his feet reached solid ground he rose to his full height, standing a torso taller than the average man. "God fuckin' damn me and my bloody head. That was embarassing". He rolled his unnaturally wide shoulders and cracked his knuckles, thick with callouses thanks to the conditioning he diligentely did every day. Next to pop were his back, his bull-like neck and massive jaw, a bit stiff from having it clenched all the time. He removed his mask, composed by 2 heavy iron plates connected by filed down door hinges, and latched it at his hip. He revealed his face to the darkness: he was a young adult, barely above 20, with black buzzcut hair and deep blue eyes. A small scar reached from his upper lip all the way up to under his nose. Cauliflower ear, common in grapplers or street fighters, sat on each side of his head, thick with cartilage and scar tissue. He breathed in, his multi-lungs working in perfect unison to provide his body all the oxygen it needed. Despite all the running, that would have made an athletic person pass out 3 times over, his 8 chambered heart barely beated any faster, the larger size and strength making it easyer to make his abnormal blood flow. His eye, already adjusted to the dark, scanned his sorrowndings like an hawk, searching for...something. A crime, to be precise. Aye. He was a vigilante. A well known one, in fact. He started this little hobby of his almost 1 and an half years ago, a few month after starting his stay in the small town. It took quite a long time to put together his "battle plate", but thanks to a bit of scavanging in the near scrapyard and, um, "aquiring" some of the rare materials, he was able to build quite the suit: the jumpsuit was made of tough working fabric, reinforced with boiled leather and defended by an half a inch thick iron plate covering the chest and the upper ribs. The arms and shoulders were protected in a similar manner, though the metal plates were only on the forearms and the knuckles. The boots were way more reinforced than regular steel-toed ones, with metal soles replacing the regular rubber ones. His pants were simple working cargos, owever they were outfitted with some kevlar he "found". He inspected his equipment, tightening the vest were it came a bit loose, when a scream pierced the silent night. It was high pitched, almot like a pig's squeal. A woman. The man sniffed the air, taking in deep breaths and finding the scent of fear barely a block away from his position. As expected, someone was already with her. The aggressor smelled of bleach and fire. 'Chem-burns', a sigh escaped his lips 'Just me fuckin' luck, aye?'. Another scream was heard, even more scared and desperate than the last. 

"Alright then. Time for JACK TO LET' ER RIP!"

By the time Jack reached the alley the iron smell of blood filled the area. He positioned himself near the edge of the roof, bent down on all fours like a tiger waiting for the right time to pounce. The scene below was a mess: almost 12 feet of intestines were pulled out of the torn form of a young lass, no older than 19. Blood pooled from her, creating a macabre lake with bones and other meats as small islands. She was ripped in half, almost as if pulled apart by a massive force. Her mouth was carved into a joker like smile. "How original" Jack said, his low voice laced with sarcasm and not little venom. He already knew were the bastard was: exactly 20 feet away from him, near the dumpsters and hidden by the buildings shades. There were many ways in wich he could take them by surprise, like using the fire ecape to shorten his fall and thus lessen the sound of his impact, or slide off from the store near the street and reach behind the killer to drag them into the shadows.

He could. But...

"Nah, I'z want a proppa' scrap".

Jack vaulted off the roof, his mucles relaxed and already prepared to absorb the force of his landing. He hit the ground with an ear splitting crack, over half a ton of titanium-tungsten woven bone and hyperdensified muscle slamming itself at breackneck speed. The concrete cratered, splintering under the un-man bulk. A surprised yelp was the only answer he heard from the killer, frozen in shock by his little introduction. Jack straightened himself, dwarfing the sicko before him by a good 3 feet, and analized hi- no, her reaction and prowess. His mind collected all the details his eagle like eyes could identify: her ,unsurprising, smaller height and weight, the sckyrocketed heartbeat, almost exceeding human limits, the slightly higher testosterone in her body ,meaning more strength and aggressivity than usual, the toned and lean msculature under her white baggy hoodie, not dissimilar to those of an MMA fighter, the twitching eyelids, almost completely burned off, the large pupils caused by the adrenaline he smelled off of her and more. All of those informations were found, analyzed and understood in less than a fraction of a second. He smiled. 

"Quite the work ya did here lass. Should've been a bit more careful though. I could hear her squealing from a block away"

"And who in the 7 fucks are you?!" bit back the murderer, ready to take on the thing before her. 

His somewhat frendly smile turned into an ugly thing of a grin, peeling back his lips and showing her the massive fangs jutting out of his gums. He chuckled. A deep and horrid sound, like the starting of a nuclear submarine, but a chuckle nonetheless. Laced by savagery and cunnin'.

"Moi?" Spoke the being in front of the killer in broken french, unnatural elegance in his display of mock offence.

"I'm just a Butcher Boy"