Day 1 Evening

[Ada Wong]

Dusky shadows crawled along the edges of his vision, pawing at the unstable earth and leaving deep, liquidy depths where they swept methodically across the field. The clouds above seemed fit to burst, the grey wash of color layering their underbellies promising a good bout of rain. A few veiny streaks of vibrant blood-orange crawled like vines across the grassy landscape, stippled with boggy patches of green where the ground was nothing more than unsound mush.

A distinctly human shape, nothing more than a few loosely hanging limbs wrapped in a dark, flapping shirt, carefully picked its way around those unsteady damp spots. The person’s gait was lopsided, but there was a certain precision to their crookedness. This person, Crowley, had the simultaneously wiry and thin-limbed build of a farm boy, and if he hadn’t been dressed in proper city slicker attire one might have easily mistaken him for one.

Crowley had never worked on a farm in his life. Perhaps his vessel had, but he had acquired it quite a long time ago and couldn’t recall the exact date or reasoning behind his choice in appearance. It was frustrating, because he could remember that there was a time perhaps only a few scant weeks before that he had known, and so he frequently squinted peevishly into the gritty cesspools of buzzing insects and gurgling, fat frogs that dotted the land to try and figure out why.

He could easily see the contours of every pebble beneath the wavering surface, the little puffs of clouded dust that arose whenever a slender, silvery minnow or a crawdad chose that exact moment to abscond. The reflection that peered back at him wasn’t particularly infernal or roguish, save for being devilishly good-looking, and he reasoned that he could easily pass for an ordinary human if he so chose.

But why on earth would he ever want to do that?

The ground, while dampened by swamp water that bulged with globules of wet clay, was solid enough underfoot that Crowley’s shoes did not immediately slip out from under him every two paces. That, unfortunately, had been a regular occurrence in the past hour, but the ground henceforth seemed to be firmly hardened and had to all appearances overcome its beef with Crowley and his fine shoes. It was nice.

Now, if only these blasted flies would quit pestering him. It was like the bloody ten biblical plagues all over again, frogs, flies, and hopefully not any storms of hail and fire. Crowley’s upper lip curled up into a primly disgruntled look as he swatted an annoying buzzing insect away from his ear, the tiny insect whistling away in a tangle of wings and scrambled limbs.

It had taken the demon an astonishingly long time to acknowledge the gnawing hunger stirring in his gut. Needless to say, once he remembered that eating was, in fact, a fairly necessary facet of survival that would keep him comfortable for the remainder of this little venture, Crowley began to openly eye the wheat-colored tufts of grass for any rustling movements.

Having vanished over the horizon long since with the disappearance of the trees, there were no longer any faithful specks of feathered purple fluttering in the air that would present a most satisfactory snack. At least, Crowley didn’t believe so, not until he observed a single lonesome bird perched atop a well-dusted grey-stone boulder, several long, swaying trusses of shining grass obscuring his view.

He felt uproariously silly as he promptly dropped to the earth, knees bent and his arms hugging that disproportionate weapon of his close to his chest. Much like a lion on the Discovery Channel, his shoulders made subtle, languid turns as he proceeded to creep forwards through the waving grass, eyes glittering with unblinking, predacious intent.

Wubwub, the gun murmured, a swinging hum reverberating through his ribs.

“Shut up,” Crowley hissed at it, sifting deftly through the lofty grass blades towards the unsuspecting hummingbird. They had become a relatively snippy and argumentative pair over the past few hours, him and his beauty of a gun. He hadn’t any idea of why it had been given to him of all people, especially when they simply couldn’t get along.

His eyes again swiveled to land on the pinkish-colored creature. It was an odd color. Perhaps radiation? He could see it very clearly now, in any case, and observed it with a disturbing amount of interest as its fuzzy breast puffed up and its beady little eyes twinkled, its entire body thrumming with each heartbeat in minute little twitches.

The soles of his shoes padded softly against the mud and clustered stalks, each sound seeming ridiculously loud in his ears. His hands, the joints of his crooked fingers, trembled with the effort to remain positively still.

A tiny bead of sweat prickled upon his brow as Crowley leaned forwards, assuming a diver’s crouch. Yellow eyes shone against a backdrop of rolling gold, slim pupils contracting into a thin sliver of fixated black.

In a fluid pounce of whistling air and a short-lived protest of frantically flapping wings and a single, desperate peep!, Crowley had seized upon the small bird and crammed its entire skull into his mouth. Crrnch.

“Mmmphff,” he hummed gleefully, every bit the cat who had caught the canary. Little pinpricks of ticklish fuzz ran along the underside of his nose, almost as if he had just sunken his fangs into a pillow filled with downy goose feathers. His jaw worked in slight dragging motions, somewhat unhinged as he jealously hunched over his bite-sized prey.

When he had finished with his meal, Crowley straightened up and took an agitatedly fleeting glance at the cloud of scattered, sad little feathers now speckling the ground. With a flick of his wrist he dispassionately brushed a few stray feathers from his svelte tie, then taking a moment to draw his sleeve over his mouth.

He sniffed a little at the coppery smell of old pennies now coiling in the muggy air around him. Well, then. That hadn’t been in particularly good taste, but beggars can’t be choosers, now can they?

The demon’s eyes swept briefly up towards the clouds meandering forbiddingly overhead, a pensive look narrowing his lips into a thin, meditative line, before he sharply drew his jacket collar up about his ears and stalked off into the slushy fields once more.