Hungry eyes flare brilliant amber in the yellow streetlight. The sound of his own claws ticking on the wet asphalt is exciting, stimulating; he shakes with the ringing sensation of his own power.
 
It had been a good chase, a close one maybe even. But it's all over now.
 
The blind alley seems to open up and crash closed behind them, a tsunami of trash frozen forever in place. The pursuee had apparently mistaken this trash-piled hole between buildings for somewhere else, some mock-alley which contained a trapdoor or a ladder or somesuch.
 
In fleeing, the prey could have run for any of the businesses on the street and tried to disappear into the crowds of late-night drinkers and partiers. Instead the runner had lunged for the dank darkness, diving down it like it were the gaping mouth of salvation.
 
Of course, what it was turned out to be a trap.
 
So sorry for you.
 
Cornered, the rat begins to scream, desperate enough to hope the sound will bring someone, anyone. His pursuer flattens his ears, teeth bared in deep annoyance. The sound does nothing for his headache.
 
And moreover, he resents the implication of the screaming.
 
"You planning to call blue on me, fucker?"
 
He advances, fur thick with drying rat blood, and the remaining rodent shrinks away, back pressed to the slimy brick wall. Acetyl doesn't really think the little fuck would call for the cops. The blue overseers would likely be far more interested in him than in 'Cet. Still, fear drove some to stupidities they wouldn't otherwise contemplate. He leans down, blowing hot air from his nostrils into the punk's eyes.
 
"Speak when spoken to, bitch."
 
Terror had taken control of the rat's tongue some time ago. His only response is a rasping, chittering litany of obsequious garshit. 'Cet puts an end to that with a thundering, impatient snarl. Squealing, incoherent, the rat flinches away from the white fangs bared so close to his head.
 
The bastard had given 'Cet a good run for his money, but in the end, the Iron Triangle was his territory, his crew's territory. The bigger gangs might not know it, but they didn't need to. They might make the claims, but who protected and fed from the turf? Who actually lived there, patrolled it day and night?
 
This damnfool ratpack had been way out of line just setting foot within the boundaries, much less how they liked to talk ...
 
---
 
"Yeh, we know dis be Horned Serpent ground," the tallest of the three had hissed, his little round eyes glittering in an unpleasant manner in the moonlight. His compatriot exhaled a long plume of tobacco smoke into 'Cet's nostrils.
 
"Thing is, misborn," he'd continued, "dere's one of you, three of us. Even if you weren't a glass-blooded freak," the rat had stated, advancing on the much shorter man so they were barely a foot apart, "we's with Pinskate Twelve. You ain't nothin," the rat's eyes hovered on the ancient, faded rank tattoo visible on Acetyl's left shoulder, "but a miserable crew boss. So why don't you just f -- "
 
Here, the roller's voice twisted into an ugly gurgling squeal, as 'Cet's teeth met and locked together through the rat's neck.
 
Simultaneously, five bared talons at the tips of five strong fingers buried themselves in the chest of the shortest of the three rats. Each claw popped through skin and muscle, quick and clean. Enjoying the feel of flesh giving way, 'Cet had lifted him off the ground effortlessly, talons hooked under the jerking, gasping rodent's ribs.
 
With a practiced left-right jerk of his neck, the raindrake's jaws ripped free of the ex-leader, taking a significant chunk of flesh with them. This he shook again, spraying blood left and right, crushing it with jackhammer jaw-snaps, over and over. Head tossed back, Acetyl swallowed the hunk of meat whole. His throat briefly distended as the warm mass slid past his crop and into his belly.
 
Meanwhile, the rat on the other hand struggled desperately for life. His clawing and kicking so irritated the raindrake that he turned and flung his arm outward with all his strength, snarling.
 
The doomed gangbanger sailed free of the grasping, stabbing talons, but an instant later, he found himself grabbed by the tail again. 'Cet has bigger plans than letting the rat smash to the ground.
 
In one smooth yanking-swinging motion he jerks the rat around midair. Acetyl aims carefully; the torque accomplishes what a simple throw couldn't.
 
A fountain of blood and gray matter erupts from the punk's skull as it shatters against the filthy brownstone wall.
 
Standing in the shower of blood and brains, drooling crimson, 'Cet had allowed himself a good laugh at the third rat's retreating back.
 
For the sake of sport, he had given the last rat a ten-second head start. Then he'd taken off himself, nostrils stretched wide so as not to miss even the smallest thread of prey's scent.
 
To run was rapture.
 
All became pavement, pounding feet and pounding heart, kinetic sensation of hard-driving forward motion, scent of prey, taste of blood ...
 
Then the rat had ducked down the alley, compelling 'Cet to pick up his pace. He was almost afraid he was about to lose the fucker; tracking was such a pain without the pack.
 
He needn't have worried, of course.
 
Which brings us up to now.
 
The rat is sobbing, dragging himself forward on his belly. Knowing he can't escape, his instincts have turned to submission, placation. 'Cet's clawed bloody muzzle curls in a disgusted sneer, batting away outstretched hands holding a wallet, bling, drugs. Instead he grabs the man by the hair and shoulders, planting one taloned hindpaw on the banger's stomach in order to disembowel the rat should he struggle.
 
The pseudodragon stares deep into the rat's eyes.
 
"Now," he says calmly, quietly. "Have we learnt our lesson about tresspassing?"
 
"Yes," the rat replies, black eyes very wide.
 
As 'Cet yanks his head back by the hair, exposing his bare throat, the rat shrieks, perhaps thinking he hadn't said it loud enough:
 
"Yes! YESYESYES!sorrysorrysorry -- "
 
One good claws-out smack across the jaw puts a stop to that, but 'Cet's headache has progressed to a real blinder. It feels as though his own horn has begun stabbing inward rather than outward.
 
Acetyl finds his patience wearing thin.
 
"Shut up. I believe you."
 
Bleeding, whimpering, one eye squeezed shut, the rodent opens his mouth to speak, but snaps it shut when 'Cet raises his hand.
 
"I don't think your gang lord has. So you get to take a message back to him. Deal?"
 
"Oh yes I will, yes, please, lemme right now, I'll go right now, thank you, thank you, tha -- "
 
Here is where 'Cet yanks hard on the rat's hair and lunges forward, sinking his teeth into the bared throat.
 
Silence, blessed silence, descends instantly.
 
Acetyl basks in the renewed quietude. Only by the rustle and clatter of miscellaneous things falling to the filthy ground greets the raindrake's pricked ears as the rat jerks and twitches in his death throes.
 
'Cet grinds his jaws deeper, harder, until they click together and the body falls away with a cloth-like tearing flesh effect.
 
Enjoying the subtle sounds of the Iron Triangle at night, the hunter swallows his hard-won morsel. A content sigh.
 
Why do they always think there's an escape to be found?