Richard Wilder strode down 85th street, in Upper East Side New York, his boots clicking on the pavement, every step accompanied by the faintest creaking of leather from his chaps and jacket. A pair of red, wraparound racing goggles hung by their strap from his neck, tapping up and down in time to Richards’s steps. There were quite a few people on the street, most of them dodging puddles as they walked, despite it being nearly 6:30 pm. Richard ploughed onwards; feigning disinterest in the people around him, while all the while staying alert for the slightest sigh of danger. One of the hazards of being a mutant was that humans, who made up the vast majority of people in this city, had a tendency to react violently when they found out. Being a mutant that hunted humans who had attacked other mutants made Richard even more paranoid. I really need to get that bike. Couple of months more of dragging myself through this job, and I’ll have it. Then I can look into that school, the one that people say is run by mutants…Richard ducked into a side ally, taking one of the many routes he routinely used to throw off anyone who might be following him. Tonight that would prove to be a bad idea. At the end of the ally, a trio of skin-headed punks dressed in ripped jeans and leathers with lots of chains hanging from them lounged against the graffiti covered brick. At the sight of Richard, all three pushed themselves up, an evil look in their eyes.
“Look a’ what we got here boys…a mutie.” As the leader spoke Richard tensed. To help himself keep track of them, he labelled the leader blue. His head was stained blue along the center, as if he had once had a blue dyed mohawk.
“I hates them freaks, what with their sup…super…uppity attitude. Just ‘cause they gots special powers don’t mean theys any better than us.” The second one became stumpy in Richards mind, and even as his body tensed in an automatic fight-or-flight response, his mind raced, locking onto an attempt to diffuse the situation.
“I’m no mutant, just an honest man on the way home from work.” Richard tried to be polite, while trying not to come across as too superior sounding.
“Nah, you is a mutie. You can tell by the eyes man, he got freak eyes.” The third man started circling Richard, followed by the other two. Richard doubted they could see his mutation in his deep brown eyes, but more likely than not it was just an excuse. Richard decided to scare them off if the couldn’t calm them down. Just in case, he began backing towards the wall of the ally, so he wouldn’t get a knife in the back. The three men followed along slowly.
“Ok, you caught me. I’m a mutant. See, the thing is, you know all those dangerous mutants you hear about on the news? Well, I’m the worst one.” Stumpy and the third man hesitated slightly, but blue wasn’t even slightly phased.
“You know what we do to muties? We cut ‘em up and sell the parts. Lotsa scientists want mutie parts to study.” Blue pulled out a small switchblade and flicked it open. The sight of the blade encouraged the other two to pull their blades. Richard sighed, and slipped his hands into a special pair of pockets on his chaps. He concentrated on the cool metal he felt within, focusing on becoming part of the cool steel. Richard looked at the three men and tried on last time.
“Last chance to run. I don’t want to hurt you.” Richard looked at each of the three in turn. Not one flinched. “No? Too bad.” Richard pulled his hands from the pockets, fingers and hands gleaming coolly. Within the pockets on his chaps, Richard kept a total of ten, 7” K-Bar combat knife blades in sheaths sewn into the leather. When he came into contact with the metal, and focused on it, Richard used his power to merge his fingers with the blades, and change his hands into the metal of the blades. At the sight of his sharp, metal fingers and hands, the three men hesitated, before blue, again the bold one, lunged, his switchblade pointed for Richard’s chest. Richard automatically dropped into a fighting stance, feet spread, while bringing up his right hand across in a smooth flowing block. Blue’s arm, and the switchblade with it, was pushed aside by Richards’s knife-fingers, which left deep bloody gashes in the arm of the man. The switchblade snapped on the brick behind Richard, bouncing away as blue dropped the handle and yelled in pain. No-one on either street glanced their way. Richard brought up a knee into blue’s chest, driving the air out of his lungs, and pushing him back a few steps, which was just enough space for Richard to snap out a foot almost straight up into blue’s face, connecting with the blade of his foot, at the edge of the sole of his heavy leather boot. Blue staggered back a step and dropped, falling onto his back. Richard dropped back into his wide stance, ready for the other two men. Both looked at him for a moment, then took off running, down the ally and out onto the street. Richard watched them leave, then slipped his hands back into his pockets, and concentrated on releasing the blades. After a few seconds, Richard felt the weight of the blades in their sheaths as they were released from his fingers. Richard stifled an urge to check on blue, not wanting to leave any DNA at the scene. Richard jogged out onto the street, slowing to a quick walk once he got there. He made his way several blocks down, to the door of his apartment. Richard pulled a chain out from under his jacket, where it had been hanging on his neck, and unlocked the door. He walked into the main hall and into the main room. He pulled open the fridge, and pulled a full bottle of whiskey out. Richard stumped across the linoleum of the “kitchen” and onto the rug of the “living room/bedroom”. Dropping into a work computer chair, Richard fired up the old computer. He double-clicked on the internet icon, and while waiting for the dial-up to load, pooped the stopper out of the whiskey bottle and took a swig. Richard checked his e-mail, all work related, and then the bogus site he had set up to run the search bots that swept the World Wide Web constantly for any reference to mutants or superheroes in New York. There were three links. Richard dismissed the first almost as soon as he had clicked on it. The second was the usual conspiracy-type website, focusing on the school, and on the Sanctuary. Richard dismissed this one too. The third was unusual. It was a grainy YouTube video, obviously shot from a camera phone from a distance, but it seemed to be showing a person running down the street. Richard leaned in close to the screen. He couldn’t make out any details, but when the slanting sun dropped behind the person, Richard caught his breath. It defiantly wasn’t a human profile. All of the sudden a car revved around the corner, and hit the person, who was obviously a mutant. Richard watched the camera shake as the person holding it ran towards the downed mutant. Richard was furious and disgusted, but waited, a glimpse. Just a glimpse. That what he needed. A man got out of the car with a baseball bat, and proceeded to beat the helpless mutant on the ground. The quality was so low on the phone that Richard never got a clear look at the mutant, but when the phone swung around, and the person holding it began to proclaim his status as ‘the great Michael Roberts’, Richard had what he needed. It took a quick search across Facebook and Myspace to come up with a match. Michael Steven Roberts, age twenty-seven, self proclaimed freak hunter. Just kill yourself now and save me the trouble, why don’t you? You even listed you address on a public site…Richard knew he’d be getting little sleep, so he downed a quarter of the bottle of whiskey before headed out. Michael didn’t live to far away. By the time he got there, Richard was more or less stone-dead drunk. Michael answered the door on the first knock, opening it only as far as the chain would allow. Before he could speak, Richard kicked the door, ripping the chain-mount out of the wood of the frame. Michael staggered back, face bleeding from impact on the door, while Richard pushed his way into the room. Richard slipped his left hand into his pocket, and focused on the knife blades. “You murdering scum. How does it feel now that the mutant is the one doing the hunting?” Richard kicked Michael in the chest, knocking him on his back. Although Michael was nine years older than Richard, and Richard barely even an adult, Richard still easily massed several dozen kilos more. Richard dropped to one knee, planting it on Michael’s chest. “I want to see your fear” Richard spoke low as he raised his left hand, metal, with gleaming, razor sharp fingers. Richard enjoyed the look of silent fear for just a moment, before slashing down with his hand, ripping open Michael’s throat. Richard stood, and walked to the wall. Once there, he slowly, carefully carved letters into the wall, spelling out ONE MORE KILLER DIES BY THE HAND OF DEMIFOX. Richard walked out of the building, returning the blades to his pocket. Once he had again returned home, Richard tossed his clothes and blades in a gentle solvent filling the bathtub, which was designed to remove blood from butcher’s aprons. Richard stumbled to the toilet and threw up, started to stand, and threw up again. After washing out his mouth, Richard stumbled to his bed and collapsed onto the covers. His last conscious thought was: I killed…I killed again. Even if he had killed mutants, I still shouldn’t have killed him.

Richard was woken up by someone knocking heavily on the door. He pulled himself to his feet and looked down at himself. He raised his voice, and called through the door. “Just a minute. I need to throw on some clothes.” Richard walked over to his closet and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, then walked over and opened the door. A pair of men in suits stood there. One stepped forward.
“Richard Wilder?”
“That’s me.”
Both men pulled out badges and the first one identified the two. “I’m Detective Cooke of the New York State Police, and this is my partner, Detective Mathews. Can we come in?”
“Of course.” Richard stepped back and let in the Detectives into the apartment. “What’s this about?”
“We’re here investigating several murders in the local area. Do you recognize any of these men?” The Detective held out several pictures. Richard looked at them, and almost fainted. He had killed all of them. On the outside, he held it together, and after a few seconds, spoke, voice even.
“No, I can’t say I do.” Richard headed for the fridge. “Either of you want a drink, or are you not allowed while on duty?”
“No, thank you, were ok. Mr. Wilder, where were you last night at around six o’clock?” One of the Detectives followed Richard around the corner, and into the hallway to keep an eye on him, while the other Detective stayed where he was. Richard took a bottle from the fridge, and then opened the double doors on the overhead cabinets to look for a glass.
“Six O’clock? I would have just been getting home.” Richard reached into the cabinet, and hesitated for a second. They know. I know they know. But should I? I’ve killed too much already. But I have too. Coming to a decision, Richard grabbed the jet black Browning Citori Hunter 10 gauge shotgun off the hooks in the cabinet, and dropped it to his shoulder, turning as he did so. He pulled the trigger, blasting the Detective, who was standing at the end of the short hallway, will a full load of triple-ought buckshot. The Detective was knocked over backwards onto the ground, bleeding profusely. Richard grabbed a handful of buckshot and Brenneke slug shells out of the cabinet, and proceeded down the hallway. He stopped just shy of the corner, and carefully peered around the corner. The other Detective had his Smith and Wesson Model 39 pistol out, and was moving carefully towards the corner. As soon as he saw Richard, he raised his pistol. Richard pulled his head back as the Detective fired two shots, and backed up slightly down the hallway. Richard raised his shotgun, aiming the second barrel at the wall, and the Detective beyond it, and fired through the wall with the preloaded Brenneke slug. Richard broke open the shotgun breach as he moved to one side in the hall, then loaded two more Brenneke slugs. He locked the shotgun closed again as the Detective fired four shots back. Richard fired both Brenneke slugs at where he thought the Detective was, then broke open the breach as he moved back to the end of the hall, and loaded two triple-ought buckshot shells as the Detective fired two more shots. He’s out. Model 39’s have eight shots, and that was eight. GO! Richard closed the breach and stepped around the corner, aiming the shotgun at the Detective’s head. The startled Detective froze, his gun empty, and a new clip ready to be loaded.
“Ok, take it easy. Just put down the gun. You don’t want to hurt anybody. We can help you.” The Detective set down his gun, knowing that he could never get it loaded in time, and stood slowly, his hands in the air. Richard took aim, pointing the gun squarely at his head. “Easy. Easy.” The Detective spoke in slow, reassuring tones as he moved slowly towards Richard. “We can help you.”
“No one can help a mutant.” Richard pulled the trigger twice as fast as he could, firing both loads of buckshot into the Detective. The man dropped, knocked over backwards by the force of the blast. Richard chambered two more rounds, and fired one at point blank range into both of the Detectives heads. Moving quickly, Richard pulled off his clothes, and went into the bathroom. He took his leathers out of the cleaning solution, and hung them to dry. He went into the main room and put on some clean clothes, then proceeded through his carefully planned escape routine. He plugged several flash drives into his computer and began downloading the entire contents of the hard drive onto them. He pulled two huge travel bags out from under his bed, one a quarter full of small bills, over $2500 worth, this months rent, and the last several weeks’ savings. Richard proceeded to fill this bag with all his clothes, and six one litre jugs of hard cider. In the other one he placed his Browning Citori Hunter 10 gauge, Remington Spartan 310 12 gauge, Stoeger Condor 12 gauge, and all the boxes of ammunition. I have eighty shells for the Citori, split forty-forty, and 160 for the Condor and Spartan, split eighty-eighty. I also have three hundred cartridges for the Mateba. Richard got dressed in his leathers, and pulled on his goggles, then slipped the K-Bar knives into their special sheaths. He took his Mateba Autorevolver and set it on top of his clothes. Richard set his bags by the door, then went and took the flash drives from the computer. He put them in his bag, and went into the kitchen. Richard took three cans of gasoline from the cupboard under the sink, and began to soak everything in the apartment. It didn’t take long. Richard then set up a bottle of Vodka and a fuse. He set the bottle on the edge of the counter, sitting on the thick fuse, and lit the top of the Vodka and the fuse with a cigarette lighter. Richard walked over to the door, took his bags, and walked out of the building. Richard was almost two blocks down the street when the windows of his apartment blew out, indicating that the fuse had burned far enough to topple the burning Vodka bottle off the counter and onto the gasoline soaked floor. People began to shout and run around, but Richard continued on, headed for a motorcycle shop on the far side of Central Park. As Richard walked towards the shop, he was passed by several Police Cruisers and a Fire Truck, all headed for the fire he had started. It took Richard almost a quarter hour to reach the motorcycle shop. As he walked, Richard pulled out a cell phone and called ahead to deal with all the sales data he could. Shortly thereafter, he walked into the shop, and waited for a sales representative to join him. As he waited, Richard looked at the Honda Goldwing he was buying.