I feel alive at night. That's what it is. Something about the city after hours sings to my soul.

 

At least, it would if I had one.

 

* * *

 

I watched the people and pitied them a little. Office drones, collars upturned and hats pulled low, hurrying along home. Poor salaried devils with no adventure in their lives. I looked at one, fat and balding, and wondered how he'd react to a strangling cord being pulled across his throat. He might even welcome it, the first honest excitement he'd felt in decades. But no.

 

Over there was a housewife coming home late, scuttling along with her bag of groceries. I could see her eyes darting fearfully from side to side, watching out for that serial killer from the news. She had nothing to fear from the likes of me. She too was not my rightful prey.

 

All sorts of people, from every walk of life. Yet all of them that ever bother to look can sense differences between us and are at least uneasy. It's more than just the confidence in my stride, my fearless gaze. There's something about me that sets them on edge, and they want to flee. Silly perhaps, but it's evolutionary — a survival mechanism left over from long ages ago.

 

These are the Day People. We pass briefly, evenings and mornings, and that's all we'll ever have to do with each other. There's a whole world beyond their ken, just as theirs is foreign to me.

 

Mine are the People of the Night.

 

They were coming out now, a scattered few at a time.

 

Note I do not say "we", for I am not one of them, no more than the shepherd is a part of his flock. Or the wolf either, I suppose. I wonder which I am.

 

I noticed some of their shepherds up ahead, patrol cops questioning a kid out late. He wasn't in any real trouble yet, but he didn't know it, so he started acting tough out of fear. Again, it's instinct, but the cops either didn't know or didn't care — or, worse, knew perfectly well, and hoped to provoke a dumb move. Whichever, he saw sense before committing himself and reverted to a polite mask. No sooner did I pass than they let him go.

 

I nodded to the officers as I came abreast, a gesture of professional courtesy. They didn't acknowledge it, but then they didn't know me. Besides, they too could see the differences that lay between us and were unsettled. They watched me until something else caught their eyes.

 

The working girls were out. They customarily proposition any and all passers-by, whether with come-ons or challenging looks, but it's a rare one that acknowledges me. Some are too stoned to sense it. Others are hardened past fear and caring. Those few, I was polite with, but distant. They too were not my prey.

 

In an odd way, I can relate best to them. Like me, they are predators stalking the night. They use their natural power to extort a living from their customers, though many don't see it like that. They put on a tough act, but inwardly they're doing what they enjoy and getting paid for it. Lucky, I suppose. I'm told it's a lifestyle that corrodes the soul, but I wouldn't know.

 

There was quite a crowd out that night, hustlers of one sort or another and their customers. Some were Day People after a little action. Some would get more than they bargained for. I strode on.

 

Then I heard it, faint against the traffic: the hiss of a drawn knife, a muffled cry of alarm. Music, to my ears. I turned down a narrow alley, hurried silently toward it through the darkness and filth and scattered garbage.

 

I saw them clearly at the far end, silhouetted against the light of the streets. The mugger, young and brash with a sheath knife, and his victim, an elderly man with a small paper bag. My prey at last! I was about to pounce, when—

 

"I'm thinking! I'm thinking!" the old fellow said sharply. The mugger just stared at him. "What, no appreciation for the classics?"

 

Well. This was different.

 

His attacker was first confused, then enraged. "This is a knife, &$@#!"

 

"I can see that." For a man being mugged, he was strangely calm, I noted.

 

"Give me what's in the bag!"

 

"Oh, fine, fine. I'll give it to you."

 

The old man reached into the bag. There was a sharp explosion, deafening in the confined alley. The mugger fell, lifeless.

 

"That's for my daughter, scum."

 

In no hurry, the man dropped both the bag and the gun that had been in it. I noticed only then his gloved hands. He hurried off, back into the lighted world of the streets, where evidently nobody heard a thing. Or cared, perhaps.

 

I couldn't move. Which had been the predator and which my prey? Should I have acted, and if so, on whose behalf?

 

After a moment, my emergency protocols kicked in, and I could act again. I'd need to consult with my creator about this. Programming can take an android just so far before a human has to step in.

 

Just in case, I took the gun and knife, plus a wad of cash the mugger had already stolen tonight. Don't want some kid finding the weapons, and everyone needs cash.

 

Tonight's patrol would have to end early, that's all.