Killing One Beast
JP with Jaxx, Redsword, Trustno1 and Cindy
Alyssa Wilson stood frozen, a marionette with severed strings, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and the air that filled the cavernous basement. The Blade of Prudence and Remembrance still gleamed in her trembling hand, its surface slick with viscous, dark ichor that seemed to hiss and writhe as though alive. The creature—this Beast-Clad Juggernaut—was a twisted cathedral of sinew and fur, its patchwork musculature gleaming wetly under the wavering light. It had collapsed to its knees, emerald eyes dulling yet somehow still burning with a feral hatred. Max fired his shotgun. Hitting it.
But it was not dead.
The beast’s massive hands twitched, claws raking shallow furrows into the bloodied concrete floor. Its breath rattled, a wet, guttural sound that spoke of stubborn defiance. Barbed wire whiskers curled and uncurled spasmodically, their sharp glint a cruel promise of violence yet to come. From its ruined mouth came a growl—low, rumbling, and filled with a primal refusal to succumb. It vibrated in Alyssa’s chest, rattling her ribs, a sound both feral and deeply human, like the dying cry of something that knew it was meant to suffer eternally.
“Alyssa, move!” Peter Sartre’s voice cracked through her paralysis, but she didn’t—couldn’t—respond. Her wide eyes remained fixed on the abomination, on the hideous way its spiked fur rippled, struggling to knit itself together. It shouldn’t have been possible. She had seen what the blade could do, had felt its supernatural power tear through this nightmare. And yet…
The sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the silence. The sound ricocheted off the stone walls, deafening in the tight space. Sartre’s 9mm pistol bucked in his hand, a precise and practiced motion, each shot aimed with grim determination. The first bullet tore into the beast’s chest, its impact marked by an explosion of dark, viscous fluid that splattered the walls like black ink. The second struck its malformed shoulder, jerking its towering frame sideways. The third hit its jaw, shattering what remained of its grotesque, feline visage.
Still, the beast did not fall.
Sartre’s face was a mask of focused terror, his teeth bared in a snarl as he emptied the magazine into the creature. Each shot landed with brutal precision, reducing flesh and bone to ragged pulp. The monster convulsed violently, its body spasming as though electrified, claws scraping uselessly against the ground in a grotesque parody of life.
A final shot rang out, and at last, the beast’s emerald eyes dimmed completely. It collapsed forward, its massive form slamming into the floor with a resounding thud that shook the foundations of the basement. The silence that followed was a living thing, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the faint hiss of blood pooling around the corpse.
Alyssa finally moved, her knees giving out beneath her as she crumpled to the floor, the blade slipping from her fingers. Her chest heaved, drawing in ragged breaths as though she’d forgotten how to breathe. She stared at the unmoving body of the creature, her mind refusing to process what had just occurred.
Sartre approached cautiously, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The pistol trembled slightly in his hand, his knuckles white from the grip. He nudged the beast with the toe of his boot, his body coiled like a spring, ready to strike if it moved again. But it didn’t. It couldn’t.
“It’s dead,” Sartre muttered, more to himself than to Alyssa. His voice was tight, strained, the words dragged from somewhere deep within him.
The room reeked of death—coppery blood, singed fur, and something darker, more primal. Alyssa’s gaze drifted to the blade lying beside her, its once-gleaming surface dulled and stained. She could still feel the echo of Prue Halliwell’s voice in her mind, a haunting whisper that left her both comforted and unnerved.
“I want to be remembered for something bigger than me.” Prue had said, her words laced with bittersweet wisdom. And then there had been the smile, that knowing, almost mischievous smile that followed her teasing remark about Alyssa’s relationship with Sartre. The memory of it made Alyssa’s cheeks flush even now, despite the horror surrounding them.
But the visions—those were something else entirely. Alyssa closed her eyes, the fragmented images rushing back with cruel clarity. The stars, impossibly vast and cold, swirling in a cosmic dance that mocked the insignificance of humanity. Crowds running and screaming as gunfire erupted, the chaos spreading like wildfire. A trucker’s anguished face, his mind unraveling as an insidious corruption took hold. The voice, disembodied yet omnipresent, whispering cryptic warnings about a wolf that was not yet here.
And then there was Dallas, its streets cloaked in shadow, its skyline jagged against a blood-red horizon. Something was coming, something inevitable and terrible, and Alyssa felt its weight pressing down on her, a silent harbinger of doom.
Prue’s words lingered, intertwining with the horror of what Alyssa had seen in her visions—the stars, the cosmos, the chaos of a fractured future. She closed her eyes against the onslaught of images that flashed behind her eyelids: the screaming crowds, the infected trucker, the boy who cried wolf, and the foreboding shadow of Dallas.
Sartre crouched beside her, his gun now holstered, his hand trembling as he reached out. “Alyssa, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice softened by concern. He leaned in closer and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace that was tentative yet firm, as if willing her to absorb some of his strength.
Alyssa stiffened at first, her mind still adrift in the fog of terror and fragmented premonitions. But gradually, the warmth of Sartre’s hug began to pierce through the icy numbness that gripped her. She exhaled shakily, her body sagging slightly against him, though the unease in her chest remained.
The stillness in the room grew heavier, an unnatural quiet settling over them like a shroud. Somewhere in the shadows, a faint movement stirred—a sound that could have been a whisper or the hiss of something unseen.
Sartre tightened his hold on her, his own fear hidden behind a mask of resolve. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “Together.”
The faint drip of water echoed again, and somewhere in the shadows, a subtle shift in the air hinted at something unseen watching them. Whatever horrors lay ahead, Alyssa knew they were far from over.
Alyssa didn't think she could handle anymore premonitions, they had all been awful and this last batch might have been the worst.
But Prue's words lingered among the images - not just the banter but that she, Alyssa, was tough but she herself needed to do things to prove it - not to anyone but to herself. The hacker ran her hand over her face and stood up. "I need to clean off my knife."
It was the first time Alyssa had referred to it as "her" knife not "the" knife. She felt ever connected to the steeled blade. A connection that would only be severed upon a final and complete death. "I will be okay. We need to finish this tonight.”