He was stalking through the grass when he heard the sounds of laughter, cruel mocking laughter, familiar laughter. His long Burakki ears twitched and he scented the air, inhaling the familiar blend of human and Pokemon that represented his kin. Flattening his dark belly to the ground, he stalked towards the noise, cautious to stay downwind – not that these humans with their crude sense of smell could help to notice him anyhow. As he neared the commotion he saw what it was all about – a small morphic child was strapped to a tree, her clothing ripped from her delicate form. Before the feline child stood three men. From the bottles strewn around the ground, their behaviour and the rank odour in the air, he quickly came to the conclusion that they were drunk. They were pelting the child with stones, beer cans, even bottles.

Rage boiled in him. Such torture of innocence was more then he could take. Certainly, his previous employment had been full of blood, full of death, but nothing like this.

His killings had been swift, painless, merciful.

This was nothing short of torture.

Cloaking himself in darkness, he shape-shifted so that he stood there in full naked glory, the night surrounding him, caressing his muscles and short dark fur, He smiled grimly as his twilight eyes flared red.

"Hello there," he said, almost casually.

The men turned as one, and one gaped in amazement.

"Who?… What are you?" he asked.

Another man was not so startled. He immediately dove for the ground, his fingers clasping a bottle and in a smooth move he shattered it against a rock and lunged at the assassin.

But they were drunk and Azrael was a professional. Anything they did could be deflected by him with ease. As the man lunged, he smiled again, flashing his white canines.

"I am the Angel of Mercy," he replied, almost easily grasping the onrushing man’s arm, the one that held the bottle upraised. The man stumbled as Azrael twisted his arm, the bottle tumbling from his flaccid fingers. He screamed as his arm was twisted up his spine. Azrael brought his knee up and up between the man’s legs, with such force that he fell forward, dislocating his arm in the process.

With a scream of rage, the other two men charged him, one from each side. They had obviously imbided too much alcohol to realise that what they were up against would not be easily beaten.

Swinging his tail around, Azrael sent one of the men tumbling in the dirt, but the other man, showing surprising dexterity and skill given his state, managed to jump on the assassin’s back. He could feel the sharp jab of broken glass against his neck fur. Bringing one hand up, the Burakki grabbed the attacker by the hair and awoke the darkness in his mind.

Images flashed through his own mind – morphic children staring at him, their faces bleeding, bruised, the man playing with a human child, laughing, having fun. The screams of dying children, but they were not human. They were not human…

Pain seemed to cease at the assassin’s heart. These people had not tortured one Pookamon, but many. Killing them, maiming them. Torturing them.

He had never tortured anyone.

Well, not really…

As the man fell backwards, clasping his head as his evil deeds were brought to the surface, as his own children were tortured, raped and murdered before him, Azrael turned around and kicked him in the groin. He then turned on the last remaining man, who was crawling through the grass, trying to drag himself upright against a stump. With barely any effort, he placed his foot against the man’s upper back, pushing his face into the dirt. The man gagged as Azrael kicked him a couple of times for good measure.

Content that the men were out of action, Azrael investigated the injured child. It was a type of cat Pokemon he had never seen before. She appeared to be staring blankly into space. Her dark furred body was covered in bloody trails. He reached out and untied the ropes, letting her fall into his arms. She made no movement. He placed her on the ground and stared at her. She was staring at the ground. Reaching one black furred hand out, he put his fingers gently under her chin and rose it, to meet her eyes. She stared at him, unblinking. It was fazing.

"How do you feel?" He asked her.

She stared at him, or through him.

"Do you have a name?" Azrael was not one to give up easily.

For the longest moment, she stared at him. Then finally, in a monotone, she intoned; "Mystik."

"Mystik," Azrael replied, "well, that’s a pretty name. I guess." The way she stared was unnerving, to say the least. She never even blinked. Not once. He placed her on the ground and planted his foot into the back of one of the fallen men. Almost causally, he ripped the man’s jacket from his back and wrapped it around Mystik’s shoulders. She made no movement to aid or stop him.

"Well there Mystik, I think we need to get you to somewhere warm," he informed her, lifting her up onto his hip. She looked no more than about eight years old, and was still staring aimlessly at nothing. He carried her to his temporary den, a hovel that had been long ago abandoned. Azrael had returned to his apartment for only two things – his knives and his pet Meowth. He could not bear to take anything more with him. The place held too much pain for him, memories of those who had deceived him, those whom he had served for years.

Cat greeted him by standing on her hindlegs and batting him with her head. He scratched her behind her ears. She purred warmly in gratitude.

The girl showed no recognition of the cat at all. Or of anything. He sat her down against the wall and set the fire. When he turned back to her, he saw that she was staring at a glowing purple ball of light, which she held in her pale furred hands.

Suddenly she spoke, in that same monotone, flat and devoid of emotion.

"They’re all going to die," she said, "burning, screaming, all of them."

Azrael’s attention was immediately grabbed. The girl called Mystik seemed to see something within the purple ball of dark energy.

"Who are?" He asked.

She continued speaking, but he knew not if she was replying to his question or continuing anyway.

"The people with the ears and fur and tails," she said, "the place on the water, fire…"

The assassin felt as though his heart had been gripped in icy talons. Could she be speaking of the Island Haven? Was Brooke in danger?

He sighed as he thought of her, his heart filled with remorse. Once they had been lovers, she who saw magic in everything and he who saw the darkness. So different, but so perfect. Things had been good.

But then she had been taken from him, and the two of them were morphed. He had been told she was dead. Until he was sent to kill her.

He still felt the pain as he remembered pushing her from the tower, the feeling of the knife in his hands. He had been about to kill her.

Until she had shown him the truth.

It had, in honesty, almost slain him as surely as he would have slain her.

"Mystik," he said, not knowing if the child understood him. "I have to find out something out." But he could hardly leave her here alone, those creeps would pick her up again in no time, unless he killed them.

No, they did not deserve death. They deserved pain.

There was only one person he knew in this world who might help him. One person.

And he doubted they would be favourably inclined towards him. But he needed help – someone had to look after the child. Taking Mystik by the hand, he called Cat to his side, and departed. In search of someone who would want him dead.