Oh, the things that a person will do for love; sometimes they seem like madness, a derangement, an act of cruelty, or even simply random chaos " if such is every really simple, and unless you're one of those who believes that chaos is not as random as some would like.

Humanity, the great unwashed, seething, mass of egocentric narcissism " which some might call redundant, save for it's unfortunate accuracy. Who could blame them for seeing themselves so' Not the woman standing in some poor family's home within arguably the greatest city in all of the known Nexus. No, she'd been watching them for some time now, Humans, and was less than impressed. It seemed like every god and goddess sought to curry their favor, even while the gods became absentee fathers, and the goddesses dwelled so much upon them it was as if they sought to make up the negligence of their male counterparts. To compound the issue were the monotheists who painted themselves as the focus of a singular divine entity, of whom they were the 'favored' creation. Not to be outdone, even the secular masses she found offensive " often painting themselves as being alone in the universe, while at the same time failing to comprehend the vast multitude of realities that composed not the universe, but the multiverse.

She found their existence a paradox, as they were simultaneously a font of both glamour and creativity, and entropy and banality. Once the curiosity of that paradox was a thing of interest, but it had quickly soured, and turned to revulsion. It had decided for her, which side of the fence she must come down on. She had been made to use them, to hunt them, to hurt them; although she had been primarily designed to 'deal' with other meta-humans, humanity had pushed that directive aside and risen to prominence in her mind. And goody for them. They tasted as good as the 'powered', and there were so many more of them.

It was with that in mind that she had set about her task tonight, and it was autumn after all.

A more fitting time for harvest could not be found.

She had made all these opinions known in writing, the red ink turning brown as it dried on the parchments of human skin which decorated the modest home just outside the Market District. What were humans to her, then, other than cattle, or some other resource" She used the blood for ink, the skin to write her manifesto on, and so as not to waste, the meat from the family was wrapped and tied neatly underneath their hanging skin. Except for a few bites. Hard work does increase the appetite.

Not that the work was terribly hard, per se. She had arrived at the home quite intentionally after dark, something about the darkness made her more comfortable in what she was doing; she was a nocturnal predator. It had been a simple thing when the man had answered the door to press herself into him, kissing him by surprise, and sending her tendril of a tongue shooting into his mouth, liquefying into a thick plasma and cutting off his ability to say anything or even breath " unless she chose to allow it.

She did allow it briefly, as she shushed him and stroked his hair, speaking silently to ease his panic and telling him he only had to do one thing in order for the night to end happily " go kiss his wife. Just that one thing, then, he would know peace. And so he sought out his wife, catching her from behind and turning her head just enough to plant his lips against hers....allowing the plasma to shoot into her mouth and stifle her in the same fashion. Neither one breathed again. It made it easier to skin them and hang them from the ceiling.

She had never said who it would end happy or peacefully for, after all.

The children were much easier. Teenagers were too much trouble, and the two of those in the household received the same treatment as their parents " though they were easier to accost, sitting as they were in front of whatever electronic devices humans used now, waves of banality rolling off them thick enough that it almost caused her harm. Almost. She did retch before she killed the girl; the adolescents emotions she could scent, and they were putrid. Some insipid fantasy of being on a show, finding just the right man to settle down with, to take her away from all....this. In Charnel's mind, she figured the girl would be happier now - she was very much away, now.

The baby....was a different matter. She let it sleep. It was, so far, innocent in her eyes.

It had growing to do, before she would return....and likely harvest it, too.

After she finished inscribing the crimes she'd found humanity guilty of on the skin of those she harvested, crimes which were basically the inhumane treatment of anything not a mundane human, the irony of which was certainly not lost on her, she notified the watch herself. Let them come. She would be gone, and none would figure that it was a person who had committed the crime " even the finger prints left behind were entirely inhuman. Monstrous, even.

The only oddity " or given the scene, incongruity, rather " was something written directly on the wall, and not on the tableau of human flesh stretched and pinned out across it. It was written in blood like the rest, but instead of addressing Humanity First, and the Humanist movement in general, it addressed someone more personal.

"Can you see what I've done, Mother" Have I finally made you proud" This is only the first, Mother. Of many. Soon they will be stacked high, like cord wood, and I'll build a bonfire to draw your eye. I will have your attention, Mother."