'Click!...' went the pistol. Jack pulled back the hammer then pulled the trigger, 'Click!...' it went again, defining the time, 2am. The sound echoed in the old empty warehouse in which he had found himself, sitting on a creaky wooden floor, back against the wall. He repeated the motion again, 'Click!...'

The moonlight shone down through the caved-in ceiling, coldly marking the remains of a man. Flies swarmed it, sucking what little moisture was left on its parched lips. Lips that would never drink. A rat gnawed at its heel, the flesh was tough as leather but wrinkled and shrunk so it ripped easily, and the bone could be seen. Bullet holes and scars had riveted and pierced its torso, with knifes and other blade-like objects run though it's deflated lungs, slashed its stomach and snapped its spine, many times over. It lay coved in old grey rags that had come off the street; a huge hood hid the bodies face from view. It was probably best. To humans, this thing was dead. Dead beyond belief.

'Click!...' the pistol spoke once more, 4am. Jack sighed and placed the empty gun by his side. He sat, staring at the rat, which seemed very persistent that it was going to get its meal. If only the rat could have invited some more of its friends, Jack thought, knowing full well the futility. Picking up the gun, he slowly opened the handle and from the rags removed a new cartridge of ammo. Carefully sliding it in the weapon, he rested his arm on his knee and pointed it at the rat, continuing to watch it's vain attempt to eat him, not realising the danger.

Regeneration was nearly complete. Shame it didn't look as good as it felt. His soulless shell of a body still looked like a corpse despite his re-grown leg, fixed spine and disappearing bullet wounds.

Jack felt down, as he always did. Not like when a child is disappointed when his father fails to show at his birthday. Not even compared to the sadness of losing a best friend in a car accident, knowing you were at the wheel, drunk and speeding. Further down. Further than the lowest pit of that pissing ninth plane of hell, which he had visited once. It came so far down to the simple fact that he wanted to die, and stay dead. The only, tiny teardrop of good he could see in this entire situation was that he had time. Endless, infinite, timeless amounts of time, to get even. But was even, even enough for him anymore.

'BANG!', answered the gun, the weapons name etched into its barrel, Strife.

He could smell the burning rat, he could hear its dying screams. Then silence returned. Back from the torments of his mind and into the now, Jack managed a smile. It had been a good night. He rose from the fading moonlight, willing his undead body to follow whether he liked it or not. A daemon should not be this, daemons maybe dirt in the eyes of God, but undead curses from his own kind ranked much lower.

Jack shuffled, his rags itching his uncomfortable skin, flaking like snow. Clean, white teeth sparkled from underneath the dark hood.

The street's called him 'Ragman'. And it was time to go to work.

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