::The War of Revelations::

[Deamonbane]

His passport had been returned to him at the American Embassy in Caracas, simple enough procedure. He had, during his time in Paraguay, found an expert in forgery. He even had a hacker that could break into the Social Security database and make sure that his name was compatible with their lists, when and if it was checked out. It would be a little difficult explaining to any of the agencies that he had been alive during the war of Revolution. Not to mention that he had been fighting on the losing side. So he had gotten forgers all around the world to make him American passports when he needed them. Why American? He didn't rightly know. He was born there, before it was the US of A, but he didn't want to broadcast that. He didn't like that sort of attention. When he had been incarcerated, he had been told to turn in his passport until he was released. Usually, he would have been deported back to the States, but American-Venezuelan relations had been more than a little shaky lately, and deporting a murderer against the wishes of the government would have been disastrous. Plus, the US didn't want a murderer turned back to them. As it turned out, the Venezuelans didn't want him much either. He called and the official gave him back his passport just before sunrise, and he got the airport and into a plane before the sun peeked over the top of the horizon.

Shutting his window against the rising sun, the flight would take the rest of the day. He made sure to avoid the sun until it was set, and he set foot on US soil for the first time in almost 2 decades. 15 years had been spent in Venezuela, 13 in jail, the rest all over Asia and Europe. His had been an interesting life, at least to the eyes of a mortal. To him, it had been dreadfully boring, and he sighed despondently at the sight of the darkness beginning fall over Houston. He didn't have any money, but he didn't have to pay anything to enter the US, as he went in the short line of American citizens. He moved carefully. He was dressed invisibly: a worn pair of jeans, with a rope belt, a brown pair of a boots, also worn but well preserved. The shirt was checkered, blue and white. He had no hat, but even then, with the bristle on his jaw and chin, he looked like just another redneck. He disappeared easily into the crowds outside. He couldn't afford a taxi, so he had no choice but to walk. Walking at a regular pace, for a man like him, able to run faster than Usain Bolt, for hours and hours on end, without even breaking a sweat. Getting places wasn't too difficult. But just walking, pretending to be what he once was, longer than he cared to remember ago. It was an interesting concept.

Hunger arrived for vampires differently than it did for humans. It wasn't a rumbling of the stomach, a tightening of the same. It was when his mouth watered at the scent of the gorgeous blond that passed him by, giving him a look of interest before she turned back, trying to get her loins back in order as she took his scent in as well. He knew, from previous experience, that he would be on her thoughts on her date that night, or when her boyfriend took her to their bedroom and took her in a manly fashion. He would be on her thoughts for a long, long while, even though their interaction had only spanned a half second. Her imagination was the vampires bait, and she would recognize him the moment she saw him, if she ever saw him again. His mouth watered, not from the smell of her tastefully expensive perfume, but the smell of her blood, pumping so near the surface, the sound of her heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. And from then on, it was torture. Every human that he passed by had his heart racing, his mind imagining how their blood would taste, so delicately and vulnerably wrapped as it was. He could almost...

He spun around when a hand gripped his shoulder, spinning around, hands ready for a fight. But the hand was soft, feminine, the nails immaculately manicured. The scent bombarded him again, he looked over her body, mouth watering.

"Hey," Came the low husky voice," What's your name?"

He inhaled, taking in the scent of her blood, mixed with the scent of her arousal, growing in her loins," Mi... Micheal."

"Hey Micheal. Can I call you Mike?" She had an annoying voice, for all of her pleasant attributed. He nodded," I am in town for a couple days, for a party. Are you," She gave him a doubtful look, as if doubting that he was here alone," Otherwise engaged? I could use a date. I don't usually pick up guys at the airport, but you and I.. we just connected, right?"

He smiled, and nodded," You felt it too?" He was a good actor. Desperately romantic, he thought, rich and pampered, believing in love at first sight. She was rich, and had enough money to keep him running for a while, not to mention enough blood to do the same. Win-win, he thought, for all except for her," I am not engaged. I am in town for vacation," He had an odd accent, and she liked accents.

"Great," She exclaimed," There's a car waiting for me. You want to join, or do you have a car too?"

"I do," He played along," But I would love to go with you."

[msisko]

YAHTO AMAYA:

A silent curse stalking on lets of dominant shadow. Darkness seemed to cling to him as young children to an aged brother, seeming to hang as though a fabric of garment, something tangible as silk. The club was filled with darkness, in the hearts of patrons, enthralled in the gifts given humanity by the master, gifts designed to darken souls, and in turn forever bolster the ranks of war. Existence was nothing more than a cog in the war machine at this point, the world churning out darkened souls, tormented by a toil filled, sinful life. Few escaped. To fall was inevitable.

A woman clung to him, dancing against him in a hypnotic show of carnal expectancy, and Yahto simply gazed beyond, to a pair of women, one with the stink of Vampirism upon her, the other an unwitting accomplice, and a foolish man-child onto whom Yahto had no doubt their eyes had settled. Their ambitions were so very clear, the way the one woman hung upon the man, throwing into context the other woman, as though barely a concern, igniting the man’s curiosity, whispering poison into his ear to draw the mind to glimpse the nirvana they offered: the three of them writing together amongst sheets and a thick cloud of sweat dampened heat. Yahto watched in eager anticipation, lingering his gaze on the woman, this Rae... a pawn in game, as sure as the fool they’ve ensnared into their trap.

As they started to leave, Yahto made a move, stepping away from the woman, pressing through the crowd of the busy club, sliding through a mass of convulsive, pulsating bodies like a flame through a pile of wax. Around him, as though inexplicably forced apart, the waters of sin parted, bodies moving aside to allow him to pass through, only to converge behind him, a self healing wound to the organism of sin from which he emerged. From behind, his steps were silent, quick. A steady, firm right hand reached out grabbing the wrist of the woman, Rae. Finger close tightly around her wrist, his arm pulling her to a sudden and very firm stop, undoubtedly invoking a response, and as she turned around to face him, Yahto smirked as his left hand suddenly found itself warmed by the thick, sticky trickle of the woman’s life blood.

His fingers had made short work of passing through her skin. The nails on his hand, long, sharp spires extending no more than an inch from each fingertip, tore through flesh and bone with the stiff, ridged thrust delievered. The force, inhuman in its skill and power, in its speed, could not be defended as he shoved his hand through the chest and rib cage, to grab and crush the beating heart in the woman’s chest. As her eyes widened, as the shock settled over those beautiful, still orbs, Yahto’s lips curled in a pleased smile, the woman’s own backward stumble bringing his head from the confines of her flesh as she falters and collapses in the very next second. Blood dripping from Yahto’s clenched fist.

In the instant before the crowd noticed, and alarm and fear gave rise to panicked screaming, Yahto’s eyes bear into Laelette, to feast on the anger that he knew must reside within. A smile, perfectly pleased, stands bold upon his face, tuning the curve of his lips to his ‘Sunday’ best, as he, with open palms, holds up the twitching, crushed organ between his hands before them, in silent offering.

“I’m coming for you,” He whispers, and as though to punctuate his statement, the first scream of an onlooker is given to voice, followed by another, and in the next moment, the club is wild. Bodies rush to the door, sweeping past them as quickly as they could, while others seek out the safety of the darkness, hoping to go unnoticed, hoping to simply disappear and avoid whatever was going on here. Hundreds streak towards the door, a mass of pulsating, quivering fear, pushing over itself to pour from the small exist of the club, to spill onto the streets. A moment Yahto stood before her, holding the dying heart, in the next, the organ falls lifeless and still to the floor, Yahto’s body melding into the crowd as it sweeps by: a message delivered. Nothing more.