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[Prologue] Killer

The first chapter of my first Eerie Indiana fic: The Stray.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12856626/chapters/29361150

Just like the specks of blood buried underneath his fingernails, a boy with no name found himself in a scenario from which he had no hope of escaping. He should have been used to it by now – and he would have been, had he any memories of his earlier life. But as he lay there, half-covered in dust on the rough, painful wooden floor of the Old Mill, his memories were more than just murky; they were totally and utterly inaccessible to his consciousness, assuming they were at all. He had no proof that they did exist though they must have done, as he must have come from somewhere – everybody did – and it became his ambition then to discover them, nothing but the haunted walls of the derelict Old Mill as his witnesses.

He declared his intentions out loud, even while knowing there was nobody around to hear him. His voice surprised even himself, sounding gruffer and slightly more aggressive than he’d meant it to. But then he smirked to himself, realising that if it was such a surprise to him, he could probably cause any other person to suffer a cardiac arrest with just one word if he tried hard enough. Of course, he’d never go through with that, but there was nothing unappealing about having the option.

With no regard whatsoever to hygiene, he nibbled away the dried blood that had somehow gotten trapped beneath his fingernails, gnawing incessantly until there was no proof any blood had ever touched him. It wasn’t his own (he had no wounds as far as he could tell and aside from that, it wouldn’t have wound up where it did if it had been his own). Its metallic taste was oddly enticing and it was only then that he became aware of his own hunger and he had to stifle a growl, determined eyes automatically searching in the dark for anything even remotely edible to satisfy his need.

Wiping dust from his long, almost floor-length black jacket, he skulked towards the tiny sliver of dim light creeping in from under the door and, making sure to keep to the shadows, he headed out into the sunset with hunger on his mind. He wondered when he’d last eaten and, for that matter, how long he’d been unconscious in the Old Mill.

All that stood between himself and his thoughts were the echoes of his footsteps as they resonated against the frosty concrete below, his black boots doing barely anything to shield him from the harsh bitterness of the outside. The tips of his fingers were numb but not yet at the point of turning blue and so he rubbed his hands together, slipping his hands up inside his sleeves in the process in search of warmth.

A puddle of dull, cloudy rainwater soon caught his attention when he accidentally stepped in it, the freezing cold water flooding his left boot immediately, but a quick glance down made him stop for a moment and forget about the cold entirely. The dirty, pale, bleak looking boy staring back at his unrecognisable. Yet it must have been him. This was his reflection, and it looked nothing like he’d expected it to – not that he’d had any idea of what he looked like beforehand.

His most obvious abnormality was his wispy despondent grey hair that seemed, at least to him, to be the perfect image of melancholy. From where he stood, staring down at the water despairingly, the colour of his narrowed, devious-looking eyes remained a mystery but they appeared hollow and dead, holding barely a spark of emotion within them. Then, with his thin lips pulled into a smirk, he glanced down at his hands, each of which had been marked with a symbol – a plus sign on his right and a minus sign on his left… or an X on his right and a dash on his left, depending on his perspective.

Ignoring the cold as it spread up to his ankle, he turned his back on his reflection as he splashed his way through the puddle of rainwater and prowled along, sticking close to the wall beside him as he wandered not so aimlessly down a chain of shady-looking streets and alleyways until – after what could have very well been nearly an hour – the low, defensive growl of a feral... something, a dog or a fox, surely, struck him as intriguing. If nothing else, he could at least catch the animal for food. It was at that moment that he realised he would have killed to survive – maybe not a person, maybe not right then, but an innocent animal wasn’t about to get in his way of finding food.

A stealthy silhouette crossed his path and he stopped dead, eyes locked onto it. It remained sneaky, silent, clandestine. But so did he.

Taking a defensive stance – and in that way mirroring the beast before him – he crouched low to the ground, staring right into the animal’s almost luminous yellowish eyes. He squinted slightly, trying to get a better look at it, and then it became apparent that it was no sort of animal he’d seen before. The size of a fox, but more feline than dog-like in its appearance. The aggressive sounds bubbling from its throat, however, were far more like the carnal snarls of a wolf than the helpless mewls of a lost wandering cat.

Whatever it was, it was either going to lead him to his meal, or become it.

Seeming to sense his hostility, the creature let out another threatening growl, blinked at him, and then sprung out of sight momentarily before reappearing on top of the red-bricked wall beside him, glaring down at him defensively. The boy without a name glared back, straightening his back up and staring up at the strange animal defiantly. A silent demand for food. As if understanding his plea, it trotted along the wall with all the grace and elegance of a tigress but the aura of arrogance of some megalomaniacal dictator. A smirk appeared on the grey-haired boy’s face. This was the kind of creature he could get along with.

Until it dove feet-first into the massive rubbish bin below, dagger-like talons poised for attack and then clinging onto the very first edible thing it could find – in a way, doing the boy’s work for him – and refusing to give it up, insisting that the half-eaten cheeseburger belonged to it and it alone. Driven on by his hunger, he found himself swiping frantically at the feral creature in a heartbeat, very nearly foaming at the mouth with desperation. During a short but feverish fight, he sustained several minor scratches and a larger, deeper gash across his forehead, but he considered it worth it for the bite of the burger he managed to get (though the animal limped away with most of the burger still in its possession, having eaten some of it already).

He watched it sneak away without a sound, still chewing the small bite of the burger he’d managed to get hold of, and contemplated the strange animal as he knelt there in the rubbish bin, surrounded by the filth he was realising was vital for his survival.

Its dark, reddish fur stuck up in tufts and had clearly in some places fallen out in chunks, exposing its scarred pink skin underneath which it wore like a delicate battle wound that, despite its pain and ugliness, held with it pride and achievement. Like it had fought off more grey-haired weirdos than anyone could count. And it probably had. Those yellowed, jagged teeth and razor-sharp claws could have fought off any number of starving strays, human or otherwise.

So, as he watched it slink away he was filled with a feeling of awe, but also ambition – a determination that next time, he wouldn’t lose.

Hunting around for more food, because that single bite wasn’t able to satisfy his starvation, the boy whose name was forgotten found only a minimal number of scraps, the edibility of which was beyond questionable, but wolfed them all down anyway regardless of flavour or hygiene. Survival was more important. And, in the name of survival, he swallowed down the last remaining mouthfuls of cold, contaminated coffee from a plastic cup he found on the cracked concrete of the entrance to the alley, and with the empty cup scooped up as much of the puddle as he could on his way back to the Old Mill – a place which, given that it was the only place he now knew, was swiftly becoming his home.

Home. What an alien concept. Home didn’t exist, really, for anyone, so he disregarded the idea that he must have had one entirely, even if anyone else would have argued otherwise. He didn’t have anyone else. There was only him – and occasionally, an animal that was neither cat nor dog, but was most certainly just as much a stray as he was. He was fine with that. He hadn’t met any since losing his memories, but every instinct in his body told him that humans were nothing more than an inconvenience. He could rely on himself and no-one else.

Kindness of strangers? No such thing.

He shouldn’t have been so tired but – whether it was the dark, the cold, or his relentless hunger – the walk back left him exhausted and he collapsed onto the floor almost the second he crept through the door. And yet sleep was so far out of reach.

Curled up in a corner, cup of water by his side in case the burning ache at the back of his head needed pushing away, he found his gaze fixating itself on his hands again – more specifically, the marks on them. Were they drawn on? He didn’t think so. Was he born with them? That didn’t seem likely either. Pretty strange birthmarks, if that was what they were. A plus and a minus. A dash and an X. Dash X. That’s what he’d call himself, at least until he learned his real name – he must have had one, after all. Besides, it was a much better name than Plus Minus.

Then again, did strays bother with names?

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