Daimones

The last thing Killian had been expecting was to be elbow deep in the chest of a particularly large beast's chest when he'd stepped outside today. The creature was a putrid, eldritch mass of writhing mammalian limbs dripping with a rancid ooze. A sour scent wafted from the beast so strongly it was making his eyes water. His hand gripped tightly the monster's still-beating heart, squeezing as the beast trembled and growled.

This was not his plan for the day by any means. In fact, when he'd noticed the rampaging monstrosity making its way through the busy city, he'd had every single mind to shove his hands in his pockets and continue walking—let the hunters get to it when they arrived. That was, until he saw the teenage boy the creature was chasing. He knew very well that no hunter would make it in time.

When he'd finally managed to haul ass and catch up to them, the beast had crashed through the walls of a long-abandoned building in the city's more forgotten areas. The boy it had been chasing either ran this way as an afterthought, or intentionally tried to get the monstrosity away from people.

So, here Killian was, nails digging into the trembling organ in his hand as he gave a strong tug, ripping it from the creature's chest. Blood and sludge sprayed across the once pristine tile and, unfortunately, all over Killian himself. The beast shuddered, giving one last shriek that trembled the walls before it dropped in a large damp, disgusting pile on the ground.

The creature's heart hit the ground with a wet smack when Killian released it, joining the lake of gunk forming at his feet. His arm was covered to the elbow in a dark sludgy liquid that reeked of sewage and rotting death and he had to keep himself from gagging; it had gotten all over his clothes and tangled into his long, blonde hair. Carefully, he pulled off the jacket he'd been wearing, using it to get as much of the creature's. Fluids. Off of him before he really did lose his lunch. There was no getting this mess from his clothes later. He'd probably have to burn it all.

Sunlight filtered into the aged lobby of what was once, probably, a very prestigious building before The Collision. The ceiling had fallen in and cracked the marble tile long ago, if the indication of dust and debris was any indication. Damaged and ornate pillars lined the edges of the open hall, decorated in golden filigree and forgotten; a few crumbled when the west wall had been bulldozed through by the creature. Covered in the same nauseating sludge.

It wasn't hard for Killian to get distracted, momentarily, by the care that had gone into the decoration of a building from the Old World. Most buildings now were basic, barren of anything outside of necessity. A pretty design was useless if it couldn't survive the Earth's trembling.

The Collision had been the rejoining of the continents; the crashing of land against land that resulted in the quaking of the entire planet. Destroying anything not strong enough to withstand the years of shaking that followed. Many of the coastal cities had been raised; the remains of buildings and life now sat abandoned atop new mountain ranges. The sky scrapers that had spotted so many areas bustling with life had become the most lethal means of destruction. The only ones left were the crumbled remains in cities, long deserted.

The following hundred years were devoted to recovering. Most progress in anything other than rebuilding had halted completely. All of the remaining land was now reminiscent of the beginning of the planet; one large continent. Scientists of the Old World had named it long before it had ever come to be: Pangaea Ultima.

As society attempted to begin the recuperation and rebuilding process, they ran into one major obstacle: the opening of the rifts. The Collision shook the planet so violently that the world slowly seeped into another. Holes ripped into the very energy of the planet leaking into each other, like open doors that someone forgot to lock.

Scientifically, it took quite some time before anyone noticed. No one was focused on this bizarre, eldritch energy oozing into their reality while buildings were coming down. But everyone noticed that something was different. After the Collision, stories began to pop up. At first it was one or two: strange, paranoid tales that everyone quickly dismissed. It was only to be expected that ghost stories would begin to manifest after an event such as this.

Slowly, the stories grew in number. Terrifying creatures manifesting and tormenting towns and cities all over. The list of witnesses got ever larger until it wasn't wild imaginations or momentary delirium, something was different.

The rifts opened into a world full of powerful beings as varied as the creatures on Earth, maybe even more so. The weaker beings were beasts, working off of base animalistic instinct with no regard for others. The stronger they became, the more intelligent they were. It wasn't until the first humanoids appeared through the rifts that people had a name to give them. Demons. The name once given to ancient beings by those of a religion who found them monsterous blasphemers.

Reactions to the emergence of demons were as expected: terror, outrage, the urgency to figure out how to slam the doors shut and put it all behind them. No notion that demons could be anything other than horrifying, evil monsters that had to either be shut out, or put down.

And then scientists began to realize that there were no doors left to shut. They had never been left unlocked in the first place. The Collision ripped the doors off the hinges and blasted out the frame--the only thing left was a crumbling wall as the two worlds collided. They realized that there was no putting demons behind them: it was living with them.

The following hundreds years of recovering was also years of learning. Not every creature that came from the rifts was evil, some were just as confused as the humans who called Earth home. The adjustment period was long and arduous, and even now it was still not complete. Demons, still considered monsters.

Attitudes towards demons were stark difference to the ancient beings that had called the Earth their home long before humans; elves. Seen as graceful, all knowing beings that lived in general seclusion in the Deep Woods. Beings connected to the very energy that sustained the planet, respected by humanity.

Even they were hesitant to accept the arrival of demons. Elves viewed them as unclean, tainted from the energy of another planet. This opinion from those that humans viewed as all knowing created a strain on the relation to demons. Regardless, though, with the realization that there was no way to shut the demons out, many became content to find out how to coexist.

It was the ones who were not content that was the problem.

Falling debris brought Killian from his thoughts; the ceiling had been made more unstable after the demon had thrashed about the lobby with abandon.

The boy that had been chased across the city ended up behind what had once been a long, ornate front counter to whatever business had once resided in the building. Now, it was rotted and falling apart; the left side having collapsed under the weight of debris long ago.

Killian crossed the open lobby quickly, hurriedly trying to discover the state of the boy he'd seen earlier. He was slumped against the cracked wall behind the desk, having scrambled for the closest thing to shelter. A large gash crossed the right side of his forehead, extending past his hairline and matting the thick, curly black hair atop his head. The blood seeped from his wounds, covering half of his face and dripping down his neck.

He was young, he couldn't be older than sixteen, not much younger than Killian himself. Tan skin molded into a soft jawline that might become stronger with age, high cheek bones, a nose that curved upwards at the tip. Long eyelashes tickled his cheeks and his brow wrinkled in pain. The boy's chest was rising and falling in a slow tempo, signaling that he was, thankfully, still alive; just unconscious. His knees were pulled up to his chest, jeans ripped at the knees, scraped on his skin peeking out from the fabric. His hands were placed over his abdomen loosely, as if he had been applying pressure before he lost consciousness.

The shirt he was wearing was torn, deep purple and yellow blotches forming on any inch of skin that wasn't actively bleeding. Red liquid seeped from between his fingers, hands blocking Killian's view of the source. He knelt beside the boy slowly, just in case he did regain consciousness; so he didn't startle him. Killian called out to him out of caution, the boy didn't stir, the soft pace of his breathing unchanging.

Sunlight illuminated the boy's face. Even though he knew he should be in a rush, getting the boy to the nearest hospital, he couldn't help but to be distracted by him. Killian found the boy to be utterly beautiful, the way the sun danced on his tan skin reminded him of the sunset, gleaming golden over endless sand.

Gently, Killian lifted the boy in his arms, doing his best not to jostle him too much. The boy fell against him, head resting on his shoulder. His breathing hitched before evening out once more, as if, even while unconscious, the boy was aware of Killian.

From somewhere outside, he heard hurried voices, people arriving to survey the damages. Or the hunters just now arriving.

A sigh left him; he knew that they would take too long.

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