Sir Hector in "Rat Race" (Issue #1)

	A deep breath in, a deep breath out.

	Affirm yourself in the grass, affirm yourself in reality.

	Hector looks down his visor to his... lower arms, long fingers entwined front of him. His misshapen cla

	Hands. His hands. The hands that God gave him, so that he could make the world a better place. Because God does everything for a reason, and this new body he gave him was no exception.

	His vision passes further down, towards the beautiful, clear lake of Kempton park, reflecting his visage back to face him. As a knight, and a servant of the Lord, he had many trials to face, this new form was but one of them. But just as it was a trial, it was also a gift, for if he had not been blessed with this, he wouldn't be able to protect the people of Brocktown as he does now. People who would have died are alive, because God gave him the chance to save them.

	That was the point of this. That was what made this righteous. That was part of what it meant to be a knight.

	He shook the errant musings from his head, thinking of saving people did no good, he had to return to action. His reflection rose in unison, his twisted digits digging into the soil and dragging his bulky frame forward. He did what he could to preserve the parks greenery, but there was only so much to be done if one such as he wished to travel off the premade walkways. One could trace his frequently traveled paths by making note of the bear trails left in his wake, something he worried about, from time to time. He had googled "Sir Hector of Kempton Park" once, only to find himself on a cryptid forum, with several users claiming they had seen him in person, and one swearing he had faced "The Dread Knight of Kempten Park" in battle.

	Hector was almost certain he hadn't, given the disturbingly vivid descriptions of his "horse's" head rearing up and breathing fire. He forced a slight chuckle, it was important to keep a sense of humor about these things. The posts were from a fair time ago anyway, the confusion had almost certainly been cleared up by now. Almost certainly.

	Mentally prepped for his patrol, he takes one last look around his living space as he passes, his park grill still shining after it's fresh cleaning, his bedding was a bit damp from morning dew and littered with... chips, something he would tend to on return. He was still considering better solutions for that little issue, both the cause and disposal had to be dealt with at some point, it would be disturbing for guests. Yet he smiled at the thought, looking towards the large, rounded picnic table a fair distance away. Even like this, he need not fight alone.

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	The sound of bone scraping against pavement didn't bother him much anymore, but he did what he could to keep away from the busier intersections, partly out of mindfulness for the general populace, partly so as not to damage the most dearly needed concrete, but mostly because his eyes weren't needed there. If the wicked flee when no man pursueth, then so too must they hide when no man seeketh, though seeketh now, he did.


	But then, could you still be considered a man?


	A deep breath in, his misshapen ribs trilled and tremored from the weight of it.


	There is no beast so fierce but knows some touch of [][][][][]. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.


	What have you become then, Hector, being of both deprived?


	A deep breath out, fading to a nicker through his fanged jaws.


	When did you stop breathing through your head, Sir Knight?


	A great grinding screech echoes out as Hector abruptly changes course, sprawling into a near alleyway. This wouldn't stop the patrol, he simply needed a moment. It wasn't usually this bad. His shuddering breathing echoed across the alley as his mass blocked off the entrance, and with a start, he realized he was not alone. A  rat's tail crosses the coming corner's threshold, leaving smatterings of blood as it goes, followed seconds latter by a stuttering giggle. The bone plates across his body clattered and clicked as he stiffened and straightened himself, he couldn't rest yet, not if someone was in danger. Surging forwards, he grasping the wall for leverage, drifting roughly around the alleys edge and relying on the opposing wall to stop his momentum.

	Past the sound of cracking brick and disturbed dust and litter, Hector saw his quarry. The rat wasn't picking on leftovers, it was hunting on it's own. Rearing up in surprise to reach his far elevated hip, the creature stood well above a proper human's own size, it's black fur offset by the red scraps adorning it's filthy  body. It wasn't alone either, accompanied by a number of smaller companions, each doing what was in their meager power to shove the beaten body of a blubbery young man into a nearby sewer grate.

	Realized a real fight had found them, several of the smaller rats began frantically pulling to dislodge the obese frame that filled their escape route back into the sewers, before a violent, hissing screech flew from the larger one's maw, accompanied by flecks of thick phlegm. The creature backed away from Hector, exposing the scrap metal pole-arm it had fashioned, while pointing up to Hectors proper body, "GO-GO, FAST-MOVE! KILL MAN, HORSE RUN!"

	Still processing the sight in front of him, Hector raised his lance, just as the rodents nervously raised their myriad of rusted kitchen knifes and bent pipes, being shoved and pressured forward by their apparent leader, now behind the group and keeping a fair distance, nervous of Hectors apparent advantage in reach. In uneven lurches, Hector advances into the pack, it's a tight fit, but that leaves little room to maneuver around the wide swings of his arms. "Whatever damage they can do, I can endure, whatever damage I can do, they cannot", Hector reasoned.

	It was a hardly an elegant plan, but he hardly had an elegant body.

	A strong right hook plowed through the front line, but rendered him momentarily immobile, three rats surged forward, their counter attack short-lived, as Hector's lance crossed over to his right, leaving only petty wounding, but driving them back. The double edged offense covered him for a moment, but left him overextended, exactly what their bold commander must have been waiting for, charging through his own ranks to deliver a weighty overhead chop, crushing through bravado and bone alike. Perhaps meant to dismount, the blade carved down into Hector's hip, scattering chips of shattered bone across the pavement and breaking his focus as pain seared through his body.

	Deprived of wit for a brief moment Hector lost control of the battle's flow, and vermin rushed up his malformed frame, clawing at exposed flesh and gnawing at gaps in bone plate, only to be met with a swarm of claws and teeth not their own. The center of his mass almost unfurling, as with a series of wet, unhinged cries, like the screams of newborns, hands and teeth pushed out to meet them. The misshapen clones that crowded his front erupting to life with his panic, tearing off the rats with loose grips, and tearing through the more determined of their number.

	Morale broken in shock, the leader frantically pulls at his weapon, desperate to dislodge it and make distance, before giving up on it altogether and simply turning tail. Separating from his horde proved to be a fatal mistake, as Hector's left hand passed into and beyond the rat's chest. Leaving the stragglers unnerved, uncoordinated, and soon unmade.

	Heaving breath, Hector slowly made his way to the incapacitated civilian. Coaxing him from the hole gently, using both of the hands God gave him to turn the man in a corkscrew, his blood and sweat making for an effective, if morbid, lubricant. A brief inspection showed nothing life threatening, which was somewhat disturbing itself, meaning that whatever their intent they wanted him alive. Now calmer, Hector took a moment to think about and inspect what he had killed.

	They were intelligent enough to speak, but the simpleness of their communication implied they lacked any higher education, they could fashion weapons and clothing, but held firm to simple sharpened edges, not a single firearm or even slingshot amongst the crowd. They couldn't be human. They couldn't be Case 53. There were simply to many of them, they didn't think or act like human beings.


	They certainly don't look like humans, do they?


	Knights kill Monsters, such is their role, from my understanding.


	You have fulfilled your purpose, but take care to remember you aren't the only "Knight" in town, Sir Hector.


	Two rings, and his call to the non-emergency line is answered, help is on the way for the unconscious gentleman. His work here is done.

	As he drags himself from the alleyway, his rescue slowly returns to consciousness catching only a glimpse of his savior, a slight gasp escapes his lips as his sight fades back to black. Hours later, after delivering his statement to the authorities, one thought will dominate his mind, as his cryptid hunter badge hangs proudly from his hip, "This'll do numbers back on the forums."

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