Ja-Min felt the rising anger and despair that inevitably followed each kill. It had been over seven centuries of searching; looking for that one human that might hold the key to unlocking his soul from this eternal torture. He had come close once. A couple of decades ago, there had been a young African-American woman. When he had first captured her, there was nothing to set her apart from then hundreds, thousands of others that had become nothing more than food to satisfy his all-consuming need for human blood. But the moment he felt the rush of the adrenaline in her blood, he had sensed that this might actually be it; the one that he might restore him to his former glory.
Until that hot summer night in a run down area of South Los Angeles, Ja-Min had begun to believe it was myth: the blood of the chosen one could restore the once great luster of his race. He had lost so much as a result of the sickness. He was an ancient even before he landed on this horrid little world. He had led men into battle. He had studied under the greatest legal and scientific minds of his people. He had been destined by birth for leadership. When his home planet was destroyed he had lead hundreds to the safety of the waiting ships before finally boarding the last one off the dying world. Then he had been the second in command of the scouting party sent ahead to determine the suitability of the small green and blue planet as a new home for their race.
For years, it had all gone better than hoped for. The primitive humans had thought them gods for their shiny space craft and technology. They had been welcomed and worshipped. In exchange, they had shared a bit of their vastly advanced knowledge. They had taught the measly humans building techniques that allowed them to create pyramids at which to worship them. They had also taught them to build roads and water ways that allowed them to live in once uninhabitable regions. As a result, they had been able to negotiate and command obedience. They had signalled the armada of ships carrying what remained of their race that they had found a suitable new home.
Then it had begun. One by one the scouting party had begun to turn; to go mad with blood lust. They had become killing machines; preying upon peoples they had once called their friends. Not just killing either, but brutal and horrific deaths that mangled their victims and drained them of all blood. The transformation was sudden. Thoughts and dreams of murder and mayhem came quickly upon men, who had once been great scientists and men of peace. Then the physical signs: sharpening of teeth, lengthening claws and an insatiable hunger for blood. Within days, sometimes hours, cool, logical men were transformed into monsters. A rumor circulated that the blood of chosen humans held the power to restore their sanity.
