Whatever Comes Next

A long while ago, there wasn't much in the way of religion in this country, neither was their exactly a flourishing culture of it, or many ways for people to express themselves through it or advocate for it. That is, for a long period of history, now fermented between the persimmon tress and buried beneath mulch, people had no use for 'God's Morals', or the ethics of religion. People refused to steal because they understood in their hearts the pain and suffering of being stolen from, and they lurched at the thought of murder, because they understood the importance of life in any form. 
Barely any of that sensibility remains, or any of that history.
Soon after a collapse in social structures, religion began to bloom like a flower whose mouth had been clasped with a thin wire, only now able to burst open into the air. Pesotsky was most likely the first person to start a religion in this area, or at least one that was strong enough to unite the community and humans that resided here under 'God's morals'. Of course, I hadn't read much about this small little prefecture hiding behind the mountains, only a little further from the pulsating concrete heart of the city, and that meant that what I remembered was even less.
In fact, the only reason I can even remember that foreign-sounding name was because of the story that accompanied it, so out of place in a history textbook that it almost felt like a misprint or some kind of prank on the author's part - like a trick question to check if you're paying attention.
Pesotsky had, alongside religion, a great interest in botany and plants in general, which lent itself to his kindly, charismatic disposition, and frequently delivered advice, counselling, sometimes even sermons from a makeshift, old-timey greenhouse - a real Tiberius' cucumbers kind of setup at first -  and met some village lady there, a daughter of country royalty.
I guess, back then, it wasn't exactly a part of the lexicon to call things the boonies, so far-off country royalty was still a respectable bloodline.
But whatever kind of royalty she was, Petotsky struggled to balance his love of botany and knowledge with his love of humans.
I won't get into the details, if only because I can barely remember them, and I'm afraid I'll accidentally mix in some plot elements from the romantic episode of Precure that was airing that morning, but tragedy befall the royal woman and her hand was married off to some other royalty in a neighbouring town.
And so much for 'God's morals', because Petotsky went mad with the knowledge, and slaughtered her and her husband, then wandered out of their mansion, trailing crimson out into the sunset.
"He's coming this way again. We can't let the innocents here come into any danger, we don't know when he'll decide that it's their turn to be slaughtered."
It seems like Sorrow agreed on the most likely identity of this dreg of human regrets all bunched up into neat little vengeful soul.
"Right. You take Char and the doll-girl into the carriage behind us, find out what she knows, then tell me how to execute this thing."
"Of course. But really, having the sense to lure that thing back into this carriage, that is, stop it from entering a whole new area, and relying on our own intuition to align with hers, and to keep it constrained to the upwards baggage area where people are least likely to come into danger... She's quite a dangerous person, isn't she?"
With a nod and a strange grin that almost made it seem I was proud of that dangerous person I had brought with me into the world, I darted forwards before that monk could trudge any further down the aisle.
My arm stretched forward towards its shoulder, but with a swift fall onto its back foot, the monk's body tilted downwards towards the seats on the right, and my fingers clawing at the air.
But my own body weight landed against my foot, firmly placed ahead of me, and that left foot not yet planted gave me the freedom to whirl around to the monk, relying on its weight to support my half-fall, and gripped the velvety robes on its shoulders.
Meanwhile, a glance backwards showed Char and the doll-girl huddled together, making their way through the glass doors partitioning the carriages, while Char hurriedly exclaimed something to Sorrow.
I would just have to trust that they knew what they were doing.
No, I would have to trust that all our intuitions, no matter how varied each on was on understanding and knowledge of the situation, were aligned.
Without allowing a second for retaliation, I began to drag the monk over to the small rectangle of free space at the head of the carriage, next to shelves lined with all sorts of baggage, but either reading my intentions incredibly well or simply retaining some overly cautious nature, I felt a spike of pain behind my knee, and involuntarily tottered forward, grabbing a large cream suitcase and almost sending it tumbling to the carpet with me. As soon as I sprang up and took a step backwards in anticipation, a streak of black rushed past my ear, grazing my head and sending the bangs flying from my face.
Well, if that's how it is, then I guess I'll just have to return the favour.
My eyes latched on to the movements of the monk's muscles, just visible underneath his robes, moving the fabric ever so slightly in different directions as it strained beneath his skin, and after another punch which was more like a rocket-punch than anything, beaming straight and swift towards my head, I curved towards the right, pushing my weight into a fist that shattered something beneath that dark hood of his, sending a splatter of dark liquid against the suitcases surrounding us to the left.
But, not even a stagger later, that is, after only wobbling for a split second on one leg, the monk regained its balance like a bobble-head, and ducked down, not to avoid another hit, but to send one straight at my gut.
Damn!
Wheezing between the shocks of pain and the saliva crawling between my teeth, I didn't have time to avoid the follow up, and felt a shock slam like a concrete brick into my ribs.
But with its newfound momentum, the monk wasn't going to just let up out of mercy.
Another fist cloaked in black filled my vision, and I gritted my teeth out of desperation.
But no new hit of pain every came, only the same waves of a dull throb from my torso.
Up above, broad shouldered and with a serious expression on his face, like always, was Sorrow, knuckles white from gripping that dark fist of the monk's.
But with a lurch backwards, the monk tore his hand free, and without hesitation sent another barreling straight for Sorrow's head, and in a display that only made me realise just how much he outclassed not just me, but almost everybody else I've met, he slipped to the side, without so much as grazing his curls, and sent a flurry of blows aimed along the spine of the monk, who was pushed forwards from the sheer force if not the pain. Taking advantage of that momentum, the monk let itself fall forward against the small, curved bit of plastic windowsill, then lifted its legs into the air, grabbing Sorrow's head between them like a pro-wrestler. But Sorrow already had his hands between the two robed legs, pulling them apart, and dipping his head out from under them, continued to grip the monk with both hands spinning him round towards the baggage shelves, and letting it come crashing down against the suitcases. 
Either out of a lack of senses, including pain, or an incorrigible obstinacy in its disposition, there wasn't even a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, before Sorrow had to rush his arms upwards to block a series of blows aimed at his face, each one getting quicker and quicker like they were feeding off each other's momentum. The only way for Sorrow to stop this relentless attack was by lowering his guard and letting a set of fists crash into his face, sending crimson splatters backwards over his head, but in turn letting him use this perceived freedom on the monk's part to fall to the ground in a crouching position, and launch himself at its torso, straddling the heavy body in its baggy robes, then push all his own weight down into a relentless orchestra of blows against the hooded monk's face - or at least, where its face would probably be.
I guess, even for a monster, the most likely place for a brain to be is the head, especially when its a humanoid, so even without any sense of pain, repeated blows against the centre of the monstrous nervous system should still be immensely effective.
Between splashes of dark black liquid and his own scarlet trails of blood mixed in with saliva and sweat, Sorrow growled between tightly clenched teeth, "Get Char over here now!"
At this point, something completely useless and impertinent sprung up in my thoughts.
Was it a good quality to always be going along without knowing a thing?
How does Char know the execution method for this monk?
Why does Sorrow seem to agree with Char's intuition?
How come I'm always the one left a page behind in whatever encyclopedia of the universe that they're reading?
But underlying all that is the understanding that this kind of thinking is severely juvenile.
No, more like, if I let myself get caught up in these things in the heat of the moment, what good was I as a friend to these people (and vampires)?
But it wasn't as if I was recklessly entrusting my life without thinking for myself.
Something like a gut feeling, but on that was inextricably connected to my brain, was pushing me forward.
Well, the gut-brain axis is a real thing anyway.
So, without any more that this split-second of hesitation, I rushed down the hallway, the ocean of concerned eyeballs peering into me with mixtures of fear, astonishment, annoyance, and probably even resentment, doing little more than itching at my ear, and pulled the adjoining glass doors to the adjacent carriage, without anything more than a glance needed to alert Char and sent her sprinting over, causing her own ocean of stares to follow her like a wave of human interest.
"Sorrow has it pinned down"
"Then let us get to it, my slave"