Pookamon

All in a Night's Work (Azrael)

Three Years Later

He awoke in darkness, blessed, beautiful darkness. It held no fears for he, it was his friend, his lover. However, tonight was different, tonight he awoke in a cold sweat, his pulse pounding like a steamhammer. She had been in his dreams again. The beautiful, the lost. He had known her, loved her, before the change and now she was gone. Dead. She had died being changed, died becoming one of the Pookamon. And then, one night, he had received a message from Giovanni himself.

He had a task for the Umbreon-morph.

A new job.

And so was born Azrael, the Angel of Death.

He stared at his naked body in the mirror, highlighted by the moonlight. Lithe was he, like a cat. His muscular body was covered in black fur, short and soft as velvet. A shaggy mane of wild hair framed his angular face, with his twilight-violet eyes and long rabbit-like ears. Grooming his fine brush of a tail, he began to dress in his typical black. Tight black shirt, with baggy sleeves, leather pants… Slip a couple of knifes into his knee-high black leather boots, hide another one up his overlarge sleeve. Tuck a few vials of poison into his breast pocket and a blowpipe into his belt… A few more bits and pieces and he was ready for work. He slid on his leather gloves, and wrapped a large black cape about his broad shoulders. Not wanting to disturb his neighbours, he clambered out the window and walked easily along the ledge, until he reached the fire escape. And then, hand over hand, he made his way to the rooftops.

It was so beautiful up here, with moonlight in his hair, and the stars above him, barely visible through the thick city smog. His azure eyes sparkled with the thrill of being one with the sky, in a world many live in but few see.

Across the rooftops he moved, silent as a cat, graceful and stealthful. His large ears twitched as he listened for any sounds out of the ordinary.

It was a straightforward case tonight. The Meowth Pookamon had escaped three months ago, abandoning Team Rocket and thus betraying them. She had been tracked down here, in this rundown part of the city, forced to walk the streets to earn money. And what a job for one such as she. Pookamon were freaks, outcasts and the only ones likely to hire the services of a Meowth-pooka were the desperate or the curious.

Azrael had watched her for a week now, following her movements through the night world. He had stalked her as a hunter stalks its prey. And tonight he was planning to make the kill. This would be almost too easy.

He clambered down the fire escape of a derelict building and stared down into the alleyway below. The sickly sweet aroma of tobacco smoke wafted up to him.

Such a disgusting habit.

And he saw her, surreptiously smoking her cigarette before patrolling the streets in the oldest profession permitted to women. Her large feline ears were motionless, for he is as silent as his friend the darkness. Clambering around the building, he descended before it and walked casually into the alleyway.

She startled as she saw him but quickly regained composure. Probably looking for a quick buck, he thought to himself. If only she knew. He noticed the jewel on her forehead appears tarnished and her whiskers droop. She seemed worn. Death would be a blessing for her.

She smiled at him, a false smile, a pleading smile. “What can I do for you?” She asked, dropping her cigarette and crushing it beneath a stiletto heel.

“I think, more accurately saying, it would be more a case of what I can do for you” he replied, smoothly.

With an easy movement he slid his knife from his sleeve and into his hand, pressing it against her throat.

She gasped, suddenly aware of what was promised to her. She was too slow to react. He was no murderer, but an assassin and he left no scope for error. His blade bit deep into her pale furred throat.

It was over within seconds and he takes no pleasure from her death. She crumpled to the ground, a look of stunned fear upon her feline face.

Kneeling before her, Azrael carefully laid her on her back, crossing her hands on her breast so that they covered the tattered clothing she wore. Revealing, yes, in the same way that spider webs were revealing. He closed her eyes and kissed each of her eyelids. In her clasped, still hands, he placed a single black rose.

“Be at peace, mi’lady,” he said.

She looked at peace, restful, almost as though she were sleeping.

With a shimmy of black satin, he was gone, back to the roof tops.

The Umbreon-assassin returned to his apartment, sliding easily through the window. He stripped off his cloak, hanging it behind the door and removed his black tunic. A close examination revealed bloodstains, almost invisible to the untrained eye. He dabbed it away with a cloth and cleaned his knife, placing it back on the rack in the kitchen. It was not used as cutlery, for Azrael was vegetarian.

His pet Meowth, a long-furred female that he saved from the streets, entwined between his legs, mewing piteously, pleading for food or attention. He stooped down and scratched her head, her chin. She purred. He felt no shame for what he had done, nothing but a brief stirring of remorse. She had been doomed from the moment she had abandoned the Rockets. The cat Pokemon did not hold his occupation against him, she adored him regardless. If only others would be so understanding.

Shirtless, muscles flexing like snakes, he wandered over to tend to his black rose bush. People said it was impossible to grow a black rose, but Azrael knew better. People had not watered their roses with blood and tears. And he began to sob, quietly, so that none would recognise it for what it was.

It truly was a cursed life.

His teardrops fell into the pot, moistening the roots of the unusual plant, giving it life.

And he cried.