Mortals fill this world, their presence controlling it not quite as much as they might believe despite their ignorance of invisible rungs on the food chain set high above theirs. Control it they do, however, the lack of knowledge of murky shapes behind the scenes, puppet masters nudging things in one direction or another not removing this ability. They have the weight of numbers, the weight of belief, and this brings power. Bulky, unrefined, but quite compelling. Without them there would be no Vampires on this Earth. And you know this, realise it always, scoffing, laughing and scorning those who disavow what you know as fact. They are fools, and many have already learned to their eternal detriment that they were in error. Too many, and too few learned too late. When the firestorms came those who didn't survive went to sleep. Centuries of slumber in which mankind could again believe them a myth.
Those who remained found themselves free of the yoke of Elder oppression. Too small to go off into the sleep of ages, too powerful, shrewd or simply lucky to be caught and burned. After five years they began to show themselves again, to those who could see, and before long there would be another storm. Humans do not forget that quickly, no matter the weight of great minds pressing upon them from deep beneath the ground, minds that had been caught out once before and had chosen not to be again. Instead, you and a few others took it upon yourselves to purge them. Idiots in the blood pool were never to your taste. Some were saved from full justice, being put away, kept for study or simply staked and piled away. Death, an easy release is still frowned upon as an answer to questions when it is not a time of war. After all, they're still people to.
Old ways gone, you found yourself less in contact with your old Pack mates. A new order had come, and you always were effective as a single weapon despite your penchant for teamwork. There was too much ground to cover, and Siring was somehow not as permissible now. An edict from the creatures that now ruled the few walkers in the night with an iron fist rather than a gentle caress, perhaps. But the new age was a time you were eminently suited for, bringing down the trouble makers. Those who would remind the teeming hordes rather than let apathy and forgetfulness take its toll. Who would believe in fifty, a hundred years? A disease outbreak of some sort, they would say. One that had been dealt with as surely as smallpox. Aware of the teams moving about destroying the hidden walkers, you could see the hands of the Elders, the Methuselahs, the Antediluvians, perhaps, taking care. Those who could not effectively hide themselves, and who were not too much in the spotlight, were removed. Gehenna's schedule had been altered. The trial run was a failure. Time enough and world remained. Experiment continues.
And so time passes...
A large man walks sedately down the sidewalk, legs covering the distance from stone edifice to stone edifice with a casual ease of speed. There is nothing to distinguish him from the others on the street, except that perhaps his business suit is a little better than the few others about at this time of night. A solidly muscular frame is hidden to a degree in the fine cloth, the height, easily over six feet, is not. Wind whips at his dark, closely cropped hair and plays with the tie at his neck. He doesn't seem to notice much around him, blue eyes settled at the ends of his feet as he puts them down. Enough awareness is in him to avoid large scraps of litter, step over curbs and generally negotiate his way without incident. But he leaves the light as he walks and enters the less populated areas of the city. Less populated by those such as he appears to be, that is.
It is an anniversary. The footsteps he takes are ones he's taken each year at this time for nearly forty years. On nights like this he truly misses the way it was before, before he became a watcher with little effect on the world about him. The bargain.
Here, he thinks as he nears his terminus, it was here that the first shot went off and things started to go bad. A single mistake and a lead on to a great deal of loss. Still shining, its upkeep maintained by a few favourable mentions, the streetlamp beneath which so many were piled stands sentinel. Waiting. Inside the feelings stir stronger against moral fortitude and intellect. A need to act.
Head still down he looks at the pavement where they lay. Some staked, eviscerated, heads a mess of bone and pulp from high caliber rounds and flawless marksmanship. They could be there now. Twitching. Groaning. Dying the Final Death. In charge of his actions, the pain of his own wounds he was fighting their killer. Too late. Gone friends, gone enemies. He was standing right over there...
"He's not paying attention. I hate it when they do that. Aren't we worth fearing?" Young, the voice of a bravo, the words filled with an insouciant certainty of immortality.
"Who cares? See what he's got then leave him. No need to save him for blood." Another, much the same as the first, though less playful.
Two boys in their late teens watch the man beneath the streetlight and move closer, blades shining to match that in the predator's smiles they wear beneath shaven heads. Then the man looks up, eyes cold, but emotive. They stop.
"He sees us now. I don't.. What's he?"
Cold eyes flicker colder. Nostrils flair over a mouth that suddenly smiles as if in joy. It is apparently unsettling to the knife wielders.
"I don't feel so great. Screw this. Let's get back to.."
"Yeah."
They back away, knowing true fear for one of the few times in their short lives. The smile follows them until they run, panicking and slipping in their haste to get away. When the echoes of their echoes fade the man reaches out a hand and strokes the metal of the streetlamp like a lover come home after too long abroad. Ghouls, he thinks to himself, senses having advised him of the scent of recently consumed vampiric blood on their breath. Unannounced. Is it time again already?
Back at the haven rather than the house he sips blood and thinks on actions past and possibilities for the future. Moonlight fades off and on through the window as clouds shift in the skyscape, making objects alternately sharp edged and dull. Pretending to be a man for this long has galled, but he is a creature of great will, and an accepting warrior whose day seemed done. Things were put away, suppressed in the need for survival.
Muted, the noise of the television still comes to him. Reports of gang related violence. Human gangs are not his domain any longer. He was told. But Ghouls are not human. The same colours. This is interference. The barriers raised against sections of himself seem now paper thin. Truly they have not had a challenge before. It is his soul that calls forth now, pushing past mental holds that he is only faintly aware of. Holds that are not his own creation but that of others who recognised his extreme capability and turned it to their own use by both guile and force of mind. It stirs within him, snout pushing forward, claws reaching, testing each line of resistance and then swiping at the bunch with callous disregard. The shell is nothing, the skeins within insufficient, clawed away by bristling animosity and cold will.
"You cannot stop me, or hold me, or keep me away. " Says that within, approaching the surface. Who or what it refers to is unimportant. It moves ever onwards. A shape of shadow and light scuttles from behind a lamp to under a chair. Black and white. Blame it on the...
Frowning, the man rises from his chair. Bloodied beads stand out on his brow. Routine, a part of him says. Ritual will strengthen you. Will strengthen me?, he wonders. He checks the phone messages to be greeted by notations from two old friends.
"Won't be able to have that drink. Off away on business. That kind, yes. Sorry. Shouldn't be a worry. Cheers." No name, but the voice is known, along with the mannerisms. They don't need them.
The second message is quieter, sweeter by far at merely the first words, and he finds that he must delete it as soon as he hears the: "Hello, dear."
The phone falls into its cradle and he walks toward the window, eyes red rimmed now to match the sheen on his forehead. Pulsing spreads through his body as if a mockery of humanity, but the cold and the sounds persist. Now the smell of earth and musk add. Not outside, not near the window, maybe not anywhere physical. Internal or external seems to make little sense just now. Scuttle goes the thing he knows isn't behind the couch as it moves. It moves toward him, eyes set, coat shining in the silver light falling through the glass before him, he knows. His back is turned, but he is aware of it all. Knows it is come to claim him back. As its own.
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