Dark and dreary, dank and decrepit, a savage beast overlooked the valley. It howled, and it pierced the very souls of its kin. It was a rogue, yet it led the pride with such power and efficiency that one would think the beasts were robotic in nature, even if one had not yet seen the inner mechanisms of the beasts. What lay beneath the pelt of the lions was a labyrinth of sorts, a conglomerate of tubes transmitting signals and oil throughout the body. A vault-like chamber was deep in the chest cavity of one lion, containing vital data concerning hunts, and also emergency rations to be procured if one would fall. These lions looked normal on the outside, but what worked inside was a completely different matter altogether. Especially the rogue.

"Sir Timothy, "

Timothy Bonham turned away from his window, which granted him a position similar to a vulture, for his eye spread across the entire village of Norwick. He could see everything. And just like a vulture, when a soul left the earth, he swooped down from his perch to collect the fallen. But much more like a human, he sped from his manor in his sedan, and picked up the limp cadavers and threw them in the trunk, to report to the mayor the next day. He would do this four times at most during a year, but during the past few weeks, he had had to do his work thrice.

"Yes, Isaac?"

"There's a body,"

"What?! Again?! Didn't our mayor spend a large sum of the tax money on the police? Like that batch of newfangled laser rifles? ...Whatever happened to bullets?"

Timothy eyed his precious Hechler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. He had obtained it during a firearms convention, which was so long ago he had forgotten the cause of the gathering. He mouthed the word 'bullets' once more as he eyed the stack of ammunition boxes situated behind the MP5 in its display case.

"The body is an officer, actually,"

"Again, what?!"

"That's the third one this week, too, I'm surprised you're not spotting these killings from your 'vulture's perch' , O malevolent Timothy."

Silence.

Timothy took the joke well and gave Isaac a brotherly jab. They then joked around for next five or so minutes, before Isaac bid farewell to Timothy. This would be the last of these meetings.

Isaac left, as did the calm atmosphere in the Bonham Estate. Timothy was getting tense, his thoughts raced to the possibilities, his mind wandered to the causes of these deaths. He paced about his ivory desk dozens of times, he kept his hands dug into his pockets, and he readied his precious MP5. He loaded it with the proper ammunition, and disabled the safety. Sweat dripped from his brow, he was tasting a premonition of ultimate defeat. His heart raced, coinciding his perspiration, something in him knew that this was the end. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, anger swept in from all sides. A sharp, unexplainable anger, with no known source, only a flame burning, with no ashes, nothing burnt, nothing left in its path, it was a fire burning the very air he breathed.

The door swung open.

Timothy Bonham kept his cool, but beneath his lax facade was a bull. He walked sheepishly to his living room, where guests entered and exited. His feet came in contact with his Persian rug, he could feel every single thread on the sole of his foot. And he could feel a subtle vibration, a disturbance.

Then he saw the rogue.

He helplessly desecrated his living room with bullets, painting a portrait of desperation and ultimately, desolation. His aim chased the foul beast, but as he fired the last round, he drew his last breath.

A cold sensation on the back of his neck, and Timothy Bonham was no more.

Isaac reeled in bed the next day, rolling about and making a mess of his finely folded sheets. He sat up and took his daily cocktail of mandatory pills. The contents of these was never disclosed to him, but why bother? Everyone else at the law firm took these, and they were all fine and dandy.

He sat on the edge of his bed and walked to the shower. The cold morning air stung his naked body as he shed his clothes, he sucked the pain up and proceeded to ready his bath. He sat on his toilet in quiet contemplation of the night before. He knew Timothy Bonham's job was not a safe one. He knew of the hazards that faced him each time he did his "extractions". At times, mafia lords from the mainland met here, and the victims Timothy met were often hit targets, so his cleaning up of the scene was often interrupted by a spray of bullets from now-illegal firearms.