The Black Directive

I'm no hero, no matter what people say. After all, you can't be a hero if you despise those that you're protecting. The way that I look at it, what I am is a matter of circumstance: I gave up dresses and skirts the day I watched my parents die. I was eight years old, and was mauled and scarred by the creature that killed them. If it hadn't been for the intervention of a half insane blacksmith I would have perished beside them. I survived, but was infected by the Blackness.

My face was tattooed when I was sixteen to hide my scars, and I started training under the brutal tutelage of one of the most skilled killers to ever walk the Outer Rims shortly thereafter. He battered me for years, teaching me how to kill as quickly and efficiently as possible. Not people, mind you. No, we trained to kill Ferals; the white skinned, black eyed monsters that killed my parents and so many others.

There are still a few who object to what my pack and I do. They think that- since Ferals used to be human- we owe them some sort of sympathy. I don't think that deeply into it. I just kill them, and when the Blackness is roaring through me and I have my spear in my hand, I'm really good at it. I know all the old wives tales about princes and princesses; everyone has a "happily ever after."

But this is my story, and there's nothing happy or beautiful about it. You can call me Maqui, and it's an understatement to say that I have staggering anger issues.