Codename: Prophet
March 12th, 11:13 PM
They label me a criminal.
But they don’t know what I’ve seen, what happened when I didn’t believe what I saw. I never wanted to be a hero, when I was first cursed with these powers, I swore I’d never actually use them. They’d be better utilized by some BDSM freak than for anything good. Making chains appear from walls and the ground was just the beginning though, then came the visions.
The first time I thought it was a coincidence, a fluke, the second time it happened I felt guilty, the third instance made me angry, made me hate myself for letting it happen.
I had to do something, I couldn’t just let people be so violently brutalized. I had to act, even if they hadn’t committed their crimes yet.
But because I stopped them before they committed their foul crimes, I get labeled as a criminal. I can’t help it, that even as I beat them to a bloody pulp, when I looked into their eyes, I knew they were still going to do it. Rape, murder and torture, so I put an end to it, for good, again and again.
This is my burden to bear.
It’s like stepping into another reality, when I make eye contact with a future offender. The world around me freezes and I see their darkest thoughts unfold, every sickening detail, it’s like I’m there with them, front row at a concert of the worst imaginable corner of humanity. I only see violent offenses, in their entirety before they happen. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t stop it? So they can label me a criminal, put me on a wanted list and ask for the public’s help with identifying me. My conscience is clear, I’m saving lives, even if they’ll never know.
My hunting ground usually consists of crowded areas, big gatherings like festivals or large events. Today I’m walking around the outside of a stadium as it empties from a late baseball game, looking into as many eyes as possible as I pass by. I wish I had been blessed to see the good in people, I was no exuberant ray of sunshine before I got this power, but I fancied myself an optimist, a damn activist on the weekends. Now I see nothing but the rot in this world, everywhere I look.
It hits me like a linebacker breaking the sound barrier, this creep and his uncanny look, clothed in layers of torn clothing. I don’t even need powers to guess that he’s up to no good, but he’s disturbingly different. I get pulled into his nightmare and watch as he corners a woman in her own apartment. She screams as he runs his finger along her throat, it slices open and she gurgles on her blood. With no weapon and no words, he drags his fingers down her body after he strips her bare repeatedly, and each time a line of blood follows his fingertips. Then I blink and see another woman killed by his hands in her apartment. I blink again, another woman, and another, and another, I close my eyes, I can’t do it anymore. This is the worst I’ve ever seen, a serial killer, a fucking serial killer with powers. I’ve heard about him before, he always shatters one of the victims’ mirrors before he leaves for an unknown reason, that’s his signature, that and the cuts and nicks he leaves all over their bodies.
My fists coil into themselves, my nails digging into my palm; I’m so angry. I’ve got to deal with this, now. I keep pace behind him, locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile, I can’t let this piece of shit go. I follow him to a park, perfect, it’s empty enough this late so no one else has to be in danger. There are less lights than you’d think for a park, and plenty of neatly trimmed bushes to duck behind. The only souls around are the homeless trying to sleep on benches designed to ensure the exact opposite of that. He walks a bit more briskly, scurrying into a bathroom. I go in right after him, but I’m no fool, this was too easy. I ready myself as I turn the corner, my guard fully up.
“Why do you follow Homunculi?”
He asks me, standing in the middle of the room, he’s removed a few layers of his clothing, he’s unreasonably pale and his face is unsettling and sharp.
Prophet:
“Homunculi? Is that your name, you sick bastard?”
How pretentious to speak of himself in the third person, fucking loser. It doesn’t matter though, I’ll end this quickly, I don’t know what else a freak like this can do.
Homunculi:
“Homunculi does not like to be followed.”
He takes a step forward and removes a ripped glove that’s on his left hand, his body ducks as if he’s about to sprint.
Prophet:
I summon a chain on both sides of him from the wall and another from the ground, shackling his wrists and throat, binding him in place before he can make his move. I don’t give him the closure of any last words, just a hellish grin as I command my chains to pull, to rip him apart into pieces. And that’s exactly what happens, just not in the way I expected. His body shatters like glass, hundreds of fragments fall to the bathroom floor, at the same time, the mirror above the sink by where he stood does the same.
Did—did I get him? Surely, I had to…right?
Four days go by when I hear the news; Another woman was killed in her apartment, her bathroom mirror was broken and her throat was slit open on March 13th, 2:04 am.
Fuck.