Watch Out

I could feel its eyes on me.

I tried to concentrate on my work, but it just wasn't happening, not with that sensation of being scrutinised...all day, it hadn't taken its eyes off me. Wherever I went, I could look and be sure to find a pair of wide, pale eyes - almost blank - staring deep into me. Often it wouldn't even look up to face me. It glared at my laces, or my fingers.

When I'd first seen it, I'd boggled at its appearance. It was almost laughable; looked almost like a...robot monkey. A humanoid, no taller than two feet, with sleek, steely skin and a ridged tail. It slunk noiselessly, the joints well-oiled. The very idea of a tiny robot coming after me was amusing at first; as always, reality makes things more serious.

My boss chastised me for my apparent laziness. I felt sick just looking at his pudgy face. Nowadays, though, I felt sick just looking at any of the people around me. I wasn't meant to feel like this, but I was glad I did. The humans I surrounded myself with were vile.

I snuck a glance back to the vent. The monkey was still there; what did I expect? It was so...graceful. A smooth example of perfect design. Perfect. Yes. That was the word.

Perfect.

The word echoed in my brain, somehow, for some reason. Perfect. Perfect.

I didn't notice what the monkey did. That everyone else stopped. If I'd looked, I could've seen a drop of water hang perfectly in the air. Perfect. A shining orb of light...perfect, like the monkey, like me.

I am too perfect to be myself. I must let go of time and mind and self. I must become like the monkey. Wash away the dirt.

Perfect.

Perfect.

So...

Ms. Bacon - A dark-minded individual made of smoke and dust. Dresses in brown leather rags. Always carries a cigarette holder. Channels spirits through herself, somewhat as an extension of her being. Very interested in messing around with natural norms, just a little, enough to twist them from their usual state.

Mr. Ach - A Posc with the behaviour of a packbeast but a sharply-honed intellect. Feels a compulsion to mutilate himself. Formed from blood and dust. Doesn't much interact with mortals. A good companion of Ms. Bacon and Sir Chickenshit.

Sir Chickenshit - The most thoughtful and contemplative Posc. Formed from pure air. Also the least human-looking of those we've seen, appearing more like a creature of the deep.

Sargeant Beaky - A rather angry fellow. Formed from two kinds of blood. Dresses in thick woolen robes and always wears a mask of some sort. His presence tends to cause others to swear profusely - though perhaps this is just because he does.

Madame Midden - Made of algae and saliva. A filthy Posc with the mind of a predator and little common sense. Constantly feels the urge to feed on the formative material of other Posc, such  that no-one can discover for sure how intelligent she truly is.

Sargeant Beaky and Madame Midden

"Fucksake."

The man in red wiggled his bare toes. Fuckin' stones, he thought, shifting pebbles out of his way with his feet. Fuckin' stupid stones.

A cold wind blew. The man hugged his robes tighter around himself. Though we was well-dressed and larger than most Posc, out in the wastes he was a tiny pillar of blood in wide open space.

'Blood' meaning both his stained clothes, and the lifeforce which flowed inside his humanoid shell. There were others who would steal such things...

...Such as the woman who was tracking him.

She sniffed close to the ground, following his trail. Even as she did, she left her own - her thick, sticky drool running down from her chin to the pebbles, tracing back into a thin line of frost.

The Sargeant had spent too long hanging around, shuffling the earth. Madame Midden, a hunter most famous, was looming dead behind him now.