The sounds of kricketots chirping and the soft sounds of pokemon shuffling, along with the louder sounds of snores, broke the silence of the night. Zorre had to wonder why other pokemon found it necessary to always be making noise, when he, himself, preferred being the silent hunter, unseen and unheard until the last moment, when he struck the final blow. The scyther didn't stop to think that most pokemon couldn't control the noises they made while sleeping.

He instead stalked the rows of houses silently, the quiet of the night only broken by the occasional scraping sound of his blades grinding together, the scyther sharpening his scythes in a nervous habit that he'd never managed to break. If anyone were to be listening, the sound was ominous, telltale of the intent the scyther had to use the sickles, sooner rather than later.

He wasn't sure which house was his target's; just that he lived here in the slums. With a wife and child, presumably. Zorre would have to be careful, lest the wife tried anything. He'd hate to get attacked while his back was turned. That'd just piss him off, admittingly, but he didn't exactly have the best track record of keeping his head when ticked off. He tended to get extra cruel when angered, actually.

That might not be the worst thing in the world, though. After all, his client was relying on him to get the payment from this guy. Perhaps a little nudge of cruelty was needed to push the target into paying up. Well, he'd see once he actually found the guy and roughed him up a little. Even if his weaker side would protest the entire time. He could feel his other side's quiet disapproval, but it didn't bother the feral scyther. It would take more than disapproval to stop the cruel intentions of the feral.

He enjoyed being cruel, after all. He enjoyed the hunt and enjoyed painting the world red with the blood of his victims. It was how he decorated himself, after all. He'd laid the blood over and over his hide in swirls and curves, so much that the red had finally stained his hide, and it was staying for good. In the feral scyther's opinion, it made him look more badass. It warned others of his fierceness and cruel intentions, causing fear and respect from his potential victims, something the scyther craved.

Dark eyes glinted against a streetlight as he flitted from one shadow to another. He was following his instincts, smelling each open window and around the doors to see if any of them matched the pokemon he was searching for. A raichu, was the pokemon he was seeking. But he kept coming up with rattata, spoink, clefairy, ekans. Not the mouse he was searching for. But he wouldn't stop, not until he found his quarry.

He kept going, sniffing at another open window, but coming up with a zebstrika this time. He wrinkled his nose at the rank scent, grimacing in frustration. Where was this damnable raichu hiding out?

Word Count: 512