I had been waiting for this day for a week. Until then I had completely forgotten it was my birthday. I stood alone where I should have been with family and friends, but that was fine — this was my purpose.
I stood atop a brick building in the rain. It was dark; the only light out was the moon. Below, a semi-truck finished loading as I listened to the murmurs below. My skin tingled with anticipation. I couldn't stop smiling.
"Time to go," someone shouted, slamming his fist on the truck.
I dropped down on top of the trailer and rolled under the garage door as it came down, unsheathing my knives. A guy on my left started to make a sound that didn't finish before my left blade sliced his throat. I ripped it out and moved.
Four more men armed themselves. I dashed to the closest, slit his thigh with one blade, then drove the other through his gut. The adrenaline felt euphoric — the slim odds, five on one, made my night.
One man aimed a pistol. I used the corpse of the man I just killed as a shield, baiting every bullet. He fired every bullet into the body out of fear; I dropped it, lunged left and stabbed his shooting hand. A second later my right blade slid into his temple. The rest scattered.
Another charged with a box cutter. I dropped letting him have my shoulder. I stabbed his thigh, then finished him through the chin with the same blade. The last man threw a wild haymaker. I stepped in, kicked his leg out, and shoved the box cutter through his neck until he stopped moving.
When it was over, the high evaporated — replaced by a burning pain in my shoulder. The rooftop felt so ordinary. I sheathed my knives. I should have hated the pain; instead it proved I was strong.
A figure stepped out of the shadows. "I'm not here to fight you," he said.
"What do you want?" I asked, breath staggered.
"Come to my car. I'll patch you up. Then I'll tell you what I want," he said as if holding a secret.
I thought about lying. With my hand pressed to my shoulder no lie could be told. He descended down the stairs and waited in his car. I shadowed him from rooftop to rooftop; when he didn't drive off, I approached.
He sat me up, cleaned my wound, stapled it closed. I had been stabbed before, but never this deep; the burn throbbed. I chased pain, but I knew I should fear it. I am reckless, yet feel so alive.
"Who are you?" I asked when he'd finished.
"I have reasons," he said. "You have a fighting spirit that's being wasted. Join a team. Stop dying out here."
"Cut the bullshit," I told him. "I don't want to save anyone. I just want to kill. If I join, do I kill more or less?"
"More," he said, quietly.
"Fine," I stood, ready to leave.
"At 4:30 on September 8th — Willowcrest and Stonehaven. Heal up, Chris. We have a city to save." He watched me limp off.