The memories of generations burn within me

[prince_stupid]

The Beast is starving. It's made its way to a grocery store, which now less resembles a grocery store than a tidal flow of boxes and cans awash through reefs of broken shelves. Several cops, moving in at the sound of screaming, lay bleeding on the ground. One of them tries to keep her bowels tucked into a rip across her belly. Another grips the

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[cleverblasphemy]

Raziel has been hunting large prey.

The Beast is easy to track - at least, if one is nominally capable of following reports of carnage. Raziel enters the store in a bound, crouching on the ground and surveying the terrain.

Well. No shortage of items. He's worked with less.

He looks at the humans bleeding on the ground - like him, protectors of his City - and clenches one claw. One of them, he is sure, will not survive; she certainly won't mind if he fashions the last ebbing tide of her life-energies into a weapon to defeat this monster. Carefully, so as not to draw it's attention, he moves over to her and tries to shush her redoubled screaming

[prince_stupid]

It's aware, vaguely, of the shifting energy in the room. Steak, however, is closer to its nose and far more interesting. It's not until Raziel speaks that it decides it should probably pay attention. The Beast raises its head with the labored slowness of a wrecking ball and gives Raziel a golden-eyed stare.

Why can no one leave it alone to eat?

[cleverblasphemy]

Oh, well, then. Raziel prefers not to rush into conflicts with things larger than him; he much prefers to draw them out. Preferably into traps like falling gates, or primed blast furnaces. Charging in requires a different set of tactics altogether.

He looks around again. No open fires, so setting things alight and tossing them at the Beast's fur is out. There are machines which he suspects are meant to cut meat behind the counter, but they seem inefficient. (Someone doesn't have much experience with, you know, safety technology.) In fact, the item closest to hand seems to be the case itself.

He reaches down, smashing through one seam and pulling up a sharp shard. Which he proceeds to fling at the Beast's eyes. If he can draw it into a charge and reply on greater maneuverability to get in a swipe at its flank...

Yes, Chicago, your savior has arrived, and he is throwing bits of glass at the tank-sized demon cat. Rejoice.

[prince_stupid]

Really? Really? Some small, civilized part of the Beast is insulted. It crouches and the glass bounces harmlessly off its head. It stares. It waits. There's a difference there--it recognizes a fellow predator, an open challenge to its authority rather than an attack requiring immediate defense.

The Beast's ears swivel, subconscious and instinctual calculations that last less than five seconds before it hooks scythe-long claws into a slab of meat and whips the dripping red mass through the air at Raziel's head. The Beast gathers, rockets over the display case and wrenches itself around as it hits the ground. It skids, slips, weight and momentum almost bringing the Beast down--and then its hind legs contact the shelves and it regroups to blast forward at Raziel's side.