A Disappointing Monster

He was the most disappointing monster Tegla could have ever imagined.

“That’s it?” she demanded. “You’re Stray?”

“Expecting someone more impressive?” the runt asked. He leaned against the cell wall, smiling through a face that might have once belonged to a young man. Patches of stubble, signs of a sloppy shave, dotted his cheeks while sunken grey eyes peered out at her from beneath dirty black bangs. “What did you come all this way to see?”

She hesitated, taking in the creature before her. Outside of his armor Stray’s body was pale and emaciated, almost disturbingly so. He didn’t look fit enough to climb a ladder, much less kill a man with his bare hands. Tegla had seen more impressive looking people begging for food within the slums of poor colonial cities. It seemed almost insulting that this weak, pathetic looking young man could be the force that had ruined her life.

“The… the Butcher of Philadelphia.” Her voice shook from barely suppressed anger. Was she being played for a fool? “The Syndicate’s enforcer. Redmond Venter’s attack dog. The Covenant commander. A rogue Spartan. The one who killed my father.”

She’d expected evil charm, a roguish flare, maybe some hint of concealed power. Like one of the Insurrectionist commanders in a propaganda broadcast. Not this hollow shell.

Stray folded his arms, smile fading from his cracked lips. Tegla couldn’t help but stare at his bare arm—one organic, one a skeletal prosthetic—see his body through the gaps in his loose tank top. Scars ran along his arm and torso; some were random, a slash here, a chunk there. Others seemed more deliberate, as if someone had ripped him apart and put him back together. Many different times.

''I’m not looking at a human being. Not a whole one.'' It was as if someone had stitched together a body out of all the bits and pieces no one else wanted.

“I’ve killed lots of people.” He looked away. “We all do. Mine just have a nasty way of coming back. Lucky me. Touch that gun and I’ll break your neck.”

She hadn’t even realized her hand had dipped down towards her pistol. She eased her trembling fingers away from the holster. “You can’t hurt me. You’re barely even alive.”

He shrugged. “I get that a lot these days. But being a walking corpse has its upsides. Mostly downsides, though.”

“I---I just can’t believe that this is you. That you’re Stray.”

The self-deprecating smile returned. “Believe whatever you want, sister. But I am him, as much as either of us wish it weren’t so.”

There was a glint in his eyes. A fire, a determination she hadn’t noticed before. Some hint of a soul dwelling within this ruined husk of a body. ''A walking corpse? Maybe not quite yet.''

“So.” Stray raised an eyebrow. “You came here to kill me.”

Her hand was still near the pistol. “Maybe. Or maybe there’s something left you can do for me.”

“Do tell.”