The time: around 3am.
The place: a toxic waste dump.
A crescent moon glimmered weakly above the evil coloured swamp. Despite the fact that it was January and the surrounding area was in the grip of midwinter, the air over the swampy dump was unusually warm. Warm and... strangely yellow. Warm, yellow and... oddly acidic. Warm, yellow, acidic... well, you get the picture. In some places the ground oozed multicoloured fluids like an undead sweat. Elsewhere scab-like crusts had formed in small humps, dotted about like boils. The place had never been condemned, largely because anyone who ventured too close ended up as just another bump on the festering surface of the swamp. Had anyone been able to look, they might have noticed that some of the humps looked curiously like ex-public health inspectors.

Some way above all this flew a lone pigeon. Now, pigeons don’t normally fly around at night, but this wasn’t just any pigeon; this was a very pissed-off bird, a pigeon with a mission. It’s rage hadn’t abated since it had last attempted to decorate that unnaturally nimble young man. In fact his anger had grown and grown until it became the only thing he lived for.
“Pigeons,” he chanted to himself, “are the one true bird, and mankind is their target.” He had always believed in the ‘Pigeon’s Law of Existence’ and, until that fateful day, he had never missed his mark. But now his pride had been hurt, and he had to have his revenge for both him and all pigeonkind.
As he flew he glanced down and saw some glowing red berry-like dots half hidden in the lee of a crusty, steaming hillock. He arced and fluttered through the warm, yellow, oddly acidic air down to the bump, and cocked his head on one side to get a better look. The fumes around him made his vision blurry for a moment, but with a coo of fury he shook his head, and the poisonous fog seemed to draw back in respect.

Nestling in a peculiar yellow fuzz, the glowing red blobs seemed singularly unpleasant, which was just what he was after. He leaned over, pecked at one, and swallowed. Instantly a burning feeling hit him from inside and his stomach started to twitch. After a moment’s hesitation he threw caution aside and pecked up the rest. The silence in the toxic waste dump seemed to deepen. The pigeon stood there, the only living thing ever to come from the outside world and survive, and did nothing for a few long moments. Then he did something he had never done before in his life; he belched. His face registered surprise, as much as a pigeon’s face could anyway, as a puff of blue-green gas appeared from his beak then mixed with the surrounding yellow air. He had found something very nasty indeed, and he had eaten it. Now he just had to track down that young man and...

The toxic waste dump silently watched the pigeon flap off, the occasional puff of blue-green gas marking it’s route. It had never let any living thing go before, but the feeling of hate in that small feathered body rang a chord deep in the swamp’s conciousness. The glowing red blobs had taken months of concentration to distill from slightly radioactive portions of waste, but the swamp had infinite patience and simply started again.

Later that night the lone pigeon crouched on the top of a central London building. His stomach was anything but comfortable, but he really didn’t care; he was too busy concentrating on a slow-moving form in the alley below.
“Time for a little target practise,” he said to himself. He gave a final quiet belch then dived through the small algae-coloured gas cloud and took aim.

Shortly after dawn a policeman walked slowly along a London street. He returned the occasional “good morning” to the more sociable members of the early rising public as he went, and turned down a side road. He was reflecting on what a peaceful beat he had, when he glanced down an alleyway. He froze. There was what appeared to be a body lying sprawled a little way back from the alley entrance, although the early morning light made it difficult to see the details. It appeared to be... almost melted into the ground, the edges blurred, poorly defined. It was also streaked with green and white. He relaxed.
“Just a pile of mouldy rags,” he murmured, and took a step towards the alley. The smell hit him just as he recognised the shape of bones poking through melted skin, and he doubled over, retching uncontrollably.

Somewhere up in the rooftops the lone pigeon cooed, burped evilly, and flapped off.