[IC] Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

[Kingfisher]

Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock. So long Holly.

Sebastian McLaine took the hard stone steps up to Drekmishrev’s in a manner that was slow and heavy, his joints aching with the strain. He’d been in the wetworks business for a fair few decades now, and his features were haggard and leathery.

Drekmishrev’s was a ritzy clothes shop in the middle of Dawn Peak Heights; Santa Somabra’s upmarket central business district. It wasn’t beyond the gangs per-se (there was less than little in Santa Somabra that hadn’t been ensnared in crime’s talons) but most thugs were smart enough to keep well away from the Dökkálfar’s establishment.

Sebastian waded inside, and was greeted by one of the most stunning blondes he had ever laid eyes upon. She took his breath away, as he inhaled her perfectly sculpted figure. The tits, the waist, the face, the eyes, the curves. She had it all, as she stood, leant over her desk, showing just enough cleavage to still be considered artsy and tasteful, her golden curls tumbling over her shoulders.

“Afternoon, sir.” she cooed in a nonchalant tone, regarding him with a faint smile.

“Afternoon…” He managed, grunting slightly.

“What can I do for you?”

A whole lot of things, that it ain’t right for young ladies to do for old men he thought to himself.

“I’ve got an appointment with Drekmishrev.” He said plainly.

“Can I have a name, please?”

“McLaine.”

He shamelessly stole a few glances at her skirt-clad behind as she led him into the shop beyond; a castle of polished wood woven together with glass and fancy ornaments. Long, winding staircases swept up up its sides, and sprawling rows of shelves and displays, awash with designer clothes, stretched across the walls.

As Sebastian passed through the doorway, the blonde’s captivating features were almost instantly forgotten.

Men and women, like sculpted greek statues, strode elegantly through the shop, each step a seduction in itself. Redheads, Brunettes, and Blondes, all dotted about the place. Some were slender, some had curves. Some were skinny, some were full-figured, but they were all undeniably beautiful.

Watch your blood-pressure, old man…

“Mr McLaine for you, Sir.”

Sebastian was forced back into reality, as Drekmishrev’s gorgeous form strode down the staircase towards him.

Today, Drekmishrev was male. He had finely-combed sliver-grey hair, which swept across his darkish black elven features. A hand tailored grey suit hugged his muscular body, and a warm smile creased his dark lips.

“Sebastian!” He greeted him heartily, his arms outstretched in a welcoming ark “I told you you should come visit me in my place of work.”

“Dreky.” McLaine game him a warm little nod. “Nice place you got here.”

“Enjoying the view?” the Dark elf shot him a little wink.

“Pretty much all I got left at my age.” He smirked, creasing his worn face.

“We’ll see about that,” Drekmishrev grinned “If you’ll accompany me?”

It was only a short elevator ride down to the basement. The room they stepped into was a cavernous expanse of gleaming metal panels and glaring white lights, with a leathery surgical chair at its center.

“Take a seat, my friend.” Drekmishrev said calmly.

“No tools?” McLaine raised one greying eyebrow, as he slumped down into the chair.

“None other than these.” Drekmishrev declared proudly, extending his hands out into the air in front of him.

“Now, Sir…” the Dark elf ran his fingers gently over the old man’s face “What can I do for you, today?”

*

McLaine awoke some time later, considerably younger and more female. Neon blue hair tumbled over her plump shoulders , and her firm figure curved outwards.

“I should’ve come to you sooner.” She called over to Drekmishrev, as she admired her smooth, heart-shaped face in the handheld mirror he had presented her with.

“Does madam have a name?” He asked in his silken voice.

“Harriet.” McLaine replied “It was my mother’s middle name.”

“Well then,,” Drekmishrev replied “what does Harriet McLaine know of the Somabra Slayer? My mistress, Nyxvira Bloodbloom, wishes to know.”

Harriet grinned, a sharp, knife-like grin, fresh on her full lips “I’ll start at the beginning.”

[Atrophy]

You’re cool. It’s cool. Be cool.

Nicotine stains on her fingers and teeth. A putrid, dark yellow; the color of urine the morning after a dehydrating night of ecstasy and alcohol. Eyes, bloodshot behind a dark pair of sunglasses. Marijuana would be anybody’s guess except hers. She didn’t feel high. She hadn’t smoked any. The sunglasses covered the bags under her eyes as well; dark and heavy, peppered with red marks from a bursted capillary. Last night was one dark mist over her memory, but the headache and the hangover made the case of missing time a rather uninspiring mystery. She sniffed and tasted copper. A cold? A prelude to a bloody nose? Excessive uses of cocaine broke down mucus membranes, but unlikely. She was too poor to afford any, and she had woken up in her own bed this morning. Hands, shaking, unsteady. Withdrawals? No; she felt bad, not great, but not sick. Too much caffeine, then? Sure. Reasonable.

Be cool. You’re cool. It’s cool.

Valorie prided herself as somebody who managed to avoid addictions. That happened to other people, she’d say, as she lit one cigarette with the burning end of another one. A cigarette. That sounded good right now. The sign on the glass door had said that out of respect to the other patrons and staff that there was absolutely no smoking on the patio. What a crock of shit. If people were worried about their health they didn’t go outside in Santa Somabra; they didn’t even go within fifty miles of Santa Somabra. The air pollution was already enough to doom anyone’s lungs, and that was assuming they somehow miraculously avoided all of the nasty things that went bump in the night. Five years ago, Valorie was the girl who faked an obnoxious cough whenever somebody a cigarette. Five days ago, Valorie had threatened to make some rave chick eat her glow stick when she had bitched at her about smoking in a bathroom. With the dangerous cocktail coursing through her veins that night, she would have done it too. Valorie smirked at the memory, unsure of if she was laughing with or at herself.

She popped a smoke into her mouth and kissed the flame of her lighter against the tip, breathing in heavily. The sickening sweet flavor of smoke and mint flowed over her dying taste buds, down through her neck, and into her blackening lungs. She sighed with relaxation, the smoking billowing out of her mouth like a dragon. Her hand folded around the crumpled up piece of plastic in her pocket. If anything was going to happen, it would have happened long ago.

It’s cool. Be cool. You’re cool.

She started to believe her mantra now. Her eyes wandered around the cafe patio. Flowery vines climbed the waist-high fence that separated the patio from the street, and some hip, likely stoned artist had drawn a mural on the tan adobe brick walls between the large, cathedral like windows that revealed the inside of the cafe that was now currently swamped by yuppies talking about their latest startup for their new killer app. Cute waiters and waitresses busily ran between tiny, vintage-style tables while the dreams of becoming musicians, artists, and actors slowly died in their heads. She could see the cooks in the back working hard, sweat beading on their forehead as they cracked eggs and flipped bacon over a steaming grill. She wondered if any of them would like to deal with a Rat; they looked like they needed an escape. Quinn, her new best friend and fellow Rat, had given her a bit of wisdom: give a free hit to a cook, and you’ll find yourself helped to one of the best meals of your whole life. Well worth the smaller profit.

Of course, she had no appetite today. The brunch in front of her, some amalgamation of gluten-free, meat-free, and flavor-free bullshit that cost more than she spent in groceries was hardly touched. The coffee was good, however, and it would help suppress the hunger pangs that she should have been having if they decided to ever come back. She twisted slightly in her metal chair, another puff of smoke escaping from her mouth as she tried as hard as she could to casually look over her shoulder at the man who had brought her to the cafe. He was tall, Asian man with a neatly styled haircut, a well-pressed suit, and a mustache and goatee combo that Valorie thought made him look like a stereotypical villain. In comparison to him and the other customers, she felt inappropriately underdressed in her thin hoodie underneath a heavy flannel jacket, jean shorts, leggings, and boots.

He was pacing back and forth and talking softly into his phone; Valorie quickly turned around when he caught her gaze and stiffened up. She had always reacted that way around cops, even undercover ones, and it had always made her seem suspicious. She did not fully understand it, seeing as how when she was up to no good she could lie without breaking a sweat, even if that lie was to try and convince somebody that she was a three hundred pound, six foot seven man from South Africa. Besides, she had been meeting this man weekly for more than two months now. It was the usual check up to make sure she hadn’t blown her cover or gone too deep into it, to get her weekly allowance via a big ol’ wad of cash, and to talk about things that neither of them wanted the rest of the force or his higher ups to know. She had no real reason to be nervous, but she was.

Am I? Why? I feel better now, actually. Yup, I’m cool.

“Sorry about that,” he said, returning to his seat and pocketing his phone. “Business.”

“Still rude,” said Valorie with a smile, blowly smoke at his face. He wrinkled his nose. “Talking to other girls while on a date; and here I thought you were a gentleman, Dick.”

“You have a terrible judge of character, then,” he said. “And I told you to call me Rich.”

“Sorry. I thought you were a gentleman, lowercased dick,” she said, correcting herself and speaking quickly, her voice like that of a cartoon mouse. “So who’s the bitch trying to steal my man from me?”

“Will you please stop calling me your man?” he said.

Valorie giggled. He had been the one to insist they used a cover when out in public. In his mind, his idea was innocent enough: a student and her teacher. She was of appropriate college age, he said, and it made sense. She had been the one to call it out on how creepy it seemed, yet Valorie had also gone out of her way to embellish it. He was a callous and cold art teacher; she was a young, doe-eyed philosophy major who just been dumped by her high school sweetheart. He had helped settle her emotions while she helped him realize he could still have them. It was a sweet, forbidden romance that their society frowned upon. Rich frowned upon it, too, until Valorie started brainstorming new ideas: “Did you see Hard Candy? Have you ever read Lolita?” She commented to him once that his bashfulness about their fake relationship when they were in public was what truly made it seem real.

“Of course, professor. Anything for you,” she said, the effect of her batting her eyelashes cancelled by her sunglasses. He still glanced around uncomfortably anyway. “So, what saucy little co-ed is trying to earn some extra credit? Do I know her? Is it a her?” She dropped her mouth open, catching her cigarette between her fingers. “Is it a boy? Oh, it is, isn’t it? My, my, what a surprise.”

“Okay, I’m sorry for doing my job,” said Rich. “Will you stop?”

“You’re no fun,” said Valorie, folding her arms across her chest and slumping in her seat. Her voice dropped. “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me about my week?”

“Go ahead,” said Rich casually, popping a syrupy bite of a waffle into his mouth.

“It was more of the same,” she said.

Monday, woke up, petted Sammy, smoked weed with Quinn, did a few simple drug deals, got drunk. Tuesday, woke up, petted Sammy, smoked weed with Quinn, did a few simple drug deals, got drunk. Wednesday, woke up, petted Sammy, pretended to be sick, read half of a book on mediums, tripped on mushrooms. Thursday, woke up, petted Sammy, got lunch with Quinn, joined some Rats in picking up a shipment of guns, smoked weed with Quinn, finished the final half of her book, got drunk. Friday, woke up, petted Sammy, got a call about a party, tried to bring a corpse back to life for more than a handful of minutes, did some molly with Quinn, went to a rave. Saturday, woke up drunk, couldn’t pet Sammy, stumbled home after an arduous walk of shame, petted Sammy, helped the Rats sell some of the guns, threw up between deals, went home early, cried with Sammy, started a book on the history of voodoo. Sunday, woke up, petted Sammy, refused to answer phone, refused to answer door, refused to eat, day of rest. Good day, had some Fairy Dust.

She excluded the details about her necromancy self-studies, her sexscapade, and her ravenous appetite for drugs as she told Rich further details about what the Rats were doing using a ridiculous and unnecessary codewords that he had insisted on and that she had, once again, embellished. He nodded along to her words, pushing for details here and asking for her to repeat names there. She obliged, puffing on her cigarette as she quietly fed the man information. He slid her a small envelope: her payment for the week. She forced a smile as she pocketed it. Valorie didn’t feel good about what she did, but she needed the cash. Besides, if it hadn’t been for the cops she wouldn’t have met such wonderful people like her friends in the Rats. Rich had finished with his waffle; Valorie had drained another cup of coffee, but that was about it.

“Excuse me, miss,” said a quiet, pretty waitress with a pixie haircut and a blouse that was intentionally missing a button, putting her hand on Valorie’s shoulder. The smoking girl rose any eyebrow, her neutral scowl pressing her lips thin across her face. “Some of our customers told us about someone smoking on the patio.”

“Oh,” said Valorie, grabbing the cigarette out of her mouth and animatedly looking around the empty patio. “They must’ve left. I’ll let you know if that person comes back.” She put the cigarette back between her mouth as Rich let out a sigh, shaking his head. “Come the fuck on, dude,” she said, the waitress still standing there within earshot. “What a bitch.”

“Seriously, Valorie?” asked Rich as the waitress stormed back inside. “It’s just a cigarette.”

“Just a cigarette? She was trying to power trip me, Rich. Nobody’s out here. Nobody cares. She’s just trying to make up for the fact that she’s the bottom bitch on the totem pole by pushing someone else around. It’s bullying basics. One-oh-one,” said Valorie. “She’s trying to assert her dominance because I threaten her by betraying her preconceived notions about how customers should adhere to some stupid sign they put up. Just a cigarette. Fuck me.”

“They put the sign up because it’s not legal to smoke in restaurants,” said Rich.

“I know that, do you think I’m that dumb? In restaurants. In. I am outside,” said Valorie.

“That’s not how it works,” said Rich. “Look, you can get a fine.”

“Oh golly gosh, not a piece of paper. I’m too pretty to be handed a piece of paper,” said Valorie, rocking back and forth in her chair. “What if I lose it? Do I go to jail? What are you in for: I murdered my husband for cheating on me. You?” She leaned to one side, tilted her head back, and laughed, “Hah, you think that’s tough? I smoked a cigarette.” She jumped to her feet and slammed her hands against the table. “Oh yeah, well I made a dress out of his skin and went door to door around my apartment block knifing any slut I saw.” She crossed her hand and turned up her nose. “Is that all? Did I mention I was outside?” She recoiled in horror. “You monster!”

“Her,” said the waitress, pointing.

“Ma’am, we have other customers who want to use the patio and this is a respectable workplace. I’m going to have to ask you politely to leave,” said the manager.

“I’m sorry,” said Rich, “She’s having a bad day. I’m sorry. I’ll tip extra. I’m sorry.”

“Ask me to leave politely? Screw that. Screw you. I’d say screw that bitch,” she pointed at the waitress, “but I’m sure you already do ‘cause I can’t figure out how she has a job here. Screw this vegan shit.” She flipped her plate onto the ground. “Screw this piss drink.” The coffee cup shattered against the mural. “Screw those--”

“Terribly sorry,” said Rich, throwing down two wrinkled Benjamins and grabbing Valorie’s arm, dragging her out through the tiny gate. “What the hell was that?” he hissed as they rounded a corner.

“Nothing, man, nothing, bad day,” she said, looking at a watch on her wrist that wasn’t there. “Look at the time. I gotta go. Police business, hah. Okay?” She stood up on her tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek and smacked him on the butt. It worked. In his confusion/shock Rich let her go and she took off down the street in a pace that was not quite a jog and not quite a walk.

You are so not cool. Holy shit, it’s so not cool. Jesus tap-dancing Christ, why can’t everything just be cool?

It had been a new drug Quinn had given her. Something designed in a lab with a name that sounded like one for a robot in a sci-fi movie, one with a bunch of letters, numbers, and hyphens. She thought she had been told it was a minor psychedelic; but what had happened at the cafe was anything but minor. It had started out as nice, pleasant trip. The shade of her sunglasses had slowly let the colors seep through. Nothing too extreme, nothing to distract, but it made things prettier. When the flowers started dancing it was a little neat, but when the rest of the world joined in she had started to feel a little sea sick, but she could manage. She could keep it up. It was when the waitress began to melt that she knew she had to get the hell out of there before she went to space in front of a cop. She had thrown the whole fit just to get out of there.

Man, she felt stupid. There was Rat hole maybe a block away. If she hurried, she could make it there in time to seek refuge on a couch or a bean bag chair or a bathroom floor, anything was better than being out in the open as the world collapsed around her. She felt as if she was running on a treadmill; exhausted, sweating, but going nowhere. The small trees lining the sidewalk reached out to her, cope a feel or ask her for some change as she pressed forward. She thought of how this would be the time in a movie where a bunch of black and white photos of atrocities were shown on screen while Pink Floyd jammed in the background, and loudly cursed herself as she began to picture black and white atrocities of the gore and sleaze she had seen in her life. Great idea, at least the passing cars and ambient city noises didn’t sound like....nope, there it is. She almost recognized the chord progression to Astronomy Domine, but the squealing pigs for vocals and slowed down bass made it all seem wrong even for a cover.

She threw the door open and bounced off of a very handsome, very large, and a very wide man-light-thing. It disturbed her that she found him handsome, because the bouncer who usually sat at the door at this hour was a large ogre named Sullivan who was, even by ogre stands, real damn ugly. She stood up, brushed herself off, and tried to appear casual. She smiled, said something that to her sounded like a backwards song at half-speed revealing satanic messages, and un-smiled by folding her lips back into her mouth and grimacing. The light-thing, to its credit, understood her fantasy language quite well. It took the three twenties she had gripped between her hands, scooped her into its impossible hands, gently set her on a couch in one of the private rooms, and locked the door and slid the key underneath for her. She would proceed to have the most heated and thought provoking argument of her life with a mannequin:

“No, you listen here, I will one day be able to make us all one, I just have to find the proper means to loosen the shackles on a human soul without either destroying them completely or binding them to something else. Oh, eff you, I’m not doing it to create an army of the undead. Okay, yes, I said I would have one, but that’s just because I’m being realistic here. God, you must be more high than I am right now if you think you can fix the world without a little bit of force.”

The argument would proceed for what Valorie felt like was the rest of her life--or about one hundred and forty minutes, give or take time for tangents.

[Flagg]

Please allow me to introduce myself...

-Rolling Stones, Sympathy for the Devil

Last Night

Quickly, far too quickly, the roof under his feet was running out. The edge loomed closer.

Haggerty's heightened senses could smell the man- no, whatever he was, he wasn't a man- chasing him. Flowery cologne, just barely masking the reek of spoiled meat.

The roof ran out. Haggerty leapt.

Streets and alleys yawned out below him like dimly lit canyons, and for a delirious moment Haggerty spun and took in the city around him. High rises with windows blazing. Cars like ants crawling along Delerth Avenue. The Y train clattering down elevated tracks. The moon full and orange, glaring down at Santa Somabra like the eye of an angry titan or god.

Then he crashed through the skylight of the building opposite. He landed hard on a wooden floor, planks crunching beneath him.

A woman screamed, there were gasps and murmurs.

Haggerty looked around. Apparently he had interrupted a dinner party. Seven of them, well dressed. Nice apartment, richly appointed. There was a woman next to him struggling to her feet, covered in glass from the shattered skylight, covered in blood.

The Urge hit Haggerty hard. A gusher, so close. How could he not? A man rushed over to help the woman up. Haggerty paused. He knew he needed to run. He knew what was chasing him. But...

Haggerty lunged at the woman, shoving aside the man who had come to her aid. The rest of the humans ran, some shrieking, some dialing frantically on their phones.

Haggerty paid no attention. He licked the woman's glass-and-blood covered arm for one long, lascivious second before sinking his teeth into her jugular and draining her in four quick gulps.

Life surged through his limbs. Let the bastard try to take him now...

On cue, there was a heavy thud and crunch of broken glass next to where Haggerty knelt over his now bloodless prey.

Haggerty dropped the corpse and stood, facing his former pursuer. They were still for a moment as they assessed each other.

Haggerty was tall, lanky and thin, pale in complexion and baring long fangs. His face, framed by long black hair, was covered in the tattoos of the Nyte Kings, his eyes were crimson-and-black pits.

The other man was short, thickset, shaved bald. He wore an expensive three piece suit, and his royal blue tie matched his pocket square. He was smirking, as though the scene around him was very mildly entertaining.

"Hello William," he said, "I believe you have something that belongs to my employers."

Haggerty laughed, a low gurgling sound as blood sputtered down his chin. "You're fucked, Kurtz. No one can on take a full fed King, not even a... whatever you are."

The other man shrugged and stepped forward, "Give me the pendant, William."

Haggerty swung at Kurtz, who batted the fist away with an almost lazy slap. The vampire snarled and dove at him.

The fight lasted three minutes, two and a half minutes longer than it would have had William Haggerty, Nyte King, not been freshly fed. It ended with the vampire splayed across the half-collapsed dinning room table, a finely wrought dagger protruding from under his ribs. Kurtz was leaning over him, clutching the vampire's head.

"Foolish to steal from us, William," said Kurtz, grabbing the necklace that lay around the vampire's neck and pulling it off with a snap. Kurtz let go of the Nyte King, tucking the pendant into his jacket. Haggerty twitched and gasped.

"Even more foolish to stand and fight. There are leeches in this city I would think twice about crossing..." said Kurtz, pulling his knife from the vampire's side, "...but you are not one of them. Goodnight, William."

Kurtz picked up a leg from the broken table, studied it a moment, then smiled faintly as he plunged it through the wounded Nyte King's chest.

William Haggerty shrieked and writhed as he melted into ash.

"...all a misunderstanding. Haggerty acted alone. They want you to know that," said the thrall. She was a gorgeous twentysomething, well dressed and well spoken. Just out of college, probably working in advertising or finance. Out of character for the Nyte Kings- but perhaps they were getting smart.

Kurtz smiled, revealing a row of perfect teeth. "Well, that's very reassuring. You can tell your friends that I understand, as does the rest of the Firm, which is always happy to do business where mutual profit can be found."

He cut into his steak. Blood poured onto the rest of his plate, staining the whites of his eggs. Around him, the brunch crowd tittered and giggled and gossiped and stared at their phones. His companion sipped her mimosa, looking relieved.

"I should mention," said Kurtz, bright eyes glittering in the morning light, "That my forgiveness has its limits. Should something like this happen again..."

"It won't" said the thrall, quickly, "They won't let-"

Kurtz held up a hand. He was still smiling. "They say that. Still, you tell your friends that if it happens again, I'll remind them of how the food chain works in this city."

He stabbed a hunk of steak and slid the bleeding flesh into his mouth.

"I- I'll tell them," said the thrall. Tears welled in her eyes. "They don't like me talking like that to them. They get angry and-"

Kurtz sighed and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, catching a drop of steak juice before it dripped onto his suit, "A shame, them getting their claws on such a...on someone like you. What's your name?"

"My name?" asked the thrall, suddenly confused. She looked for a moment like a person half-waking from a dream, "Diana."

"Beautiful," said Kurtz, "How did they get you?"

"I...it's hard to remember," she said.

"Try," he said, gently.

"A club, I think, I dunno when. I met one at the bar and his eyes..."

Kurtz nodded, "Well, Diana, when you go back to them, you tell them to release you, as a sign of courtesy to me and the Firm. I don't like seeing young women of such promise in the service of lowborn leeches."

"Thank you," whispered Diana, grasping Kurtz's hand. She jerked back in revulsion as soon as her skin touched his.

Across the restaurant patio, a girl began shrieking at the maitre d' about the smoking policy. Kurtz turned to look, head cocked to one side, like a curious predator.

"Such rudeness," he said, eyes narrowing.

[RedDusk]

(Collab with Atrophy)

Mornings like these were a novelty for him. Sander didn’t often get a good night sleep, but days when he woke up on the right side of the bed were even rarer. He wanted to savor it, he truly did. So there he was, lying face down on the queen sized bed, limbs sprawled and eyes half-closed. The nagging beeps of a clock from the nearby stand were all but forgotten, just like his agenda for the day. He just didn’t feel like coming to the office on time today. The dead of Santa Somabra could stand to wait for a few more hours. After all, he only dealt with the ones who had the decency to stop moving.

The dead could wait. His bodily functions though, could not. With a loud groan, muffed somewhat by the pillow pressed against his face, he picked himself up, before shuffling toward the bathroom. A quick glance at the nearby mirror told him that he was having a severe case of bedhead and his stubble had got out of control. That wouldn’t do. So about ten minutes and a shower later, Sander emerged from the bathroom, refreshed and ready to deal with what this cursed city could throw at him. Which were usually bodies. Lots of them.

As if on cue, his pager peeped softly from its place on the nightstand, demanded his immediate attention. Sander quickly picked up a black shirt, long-sleeved of course, gave it a sniff to determine its remaining uses before grabbing the pager. John Doe, down stairs it read in blocky black letters. He rolled his eyes. Someone was being productive while he was busy sleeping in like a spoiled kid. No doubt his assistant would give him an earful later. But for now, he had work to do.

Usually, unidentified bodies just meant thankless hours of extra work and wasted fuel on the incinerator. The police sometimes passed those onto him, once they had been fiddled around with and started to clutter up the morgue. On good days, he would get a small cash bonus and a pat on the back, but more often than not, they would just give him a leaky body so full of holes it was a struggle to find their eye sockets. He didn’t often pick random bodies off the street though, unless commissioned. As far as he knew, he wasn’t paid to pick this guy up.

“What is this, Raglok?”-He placed the white cover back on, before turning over to one of his employees. Raglok was an orc, so he looked exactly like what you would expect: green, burly, prominent tusks, mangy hair pulled back in a weird knot. He also had the temperance of a brick though, which was the only reason why Macro gave him a long term contract. The old man was a little bit racist. Just a little.

“Erm… Found ‘im in a puddle out back.”-The orc shrugged, leaning against the doorframe as he spoke –“We were waiting for you to come down, but erh… he stinks.”- He wrinkled his nose, as if to empathize.

Sander sighed, before lifting the cover again for a second inspection. The man was in his mid-thirties, perhaps, it was rather hard to tell with all the gaping gashes maiming his features. Whoever killed him did a number on his torso as well, as the muscled chest was decorated with various stab wounds, some were still leaking. Sander absent-mindedly poked at the body with a gloved hand, while contemplating his options. Calling the cops on this would be a very poor decision, at least, for him. The last thing he wanted was for them to come poking around in the alley behind his business. It would scare of potential customers, and gods knew what those uniformed thugs would come up with to extort a few bucks out of him. He should just quietly disposing this guy and be done with it. The acid down in the basement should be enough; there was no point firing up the incinerator.

“Think it’s ‘im?”- Raglok asked suddenly, the orc’s booming voice shook him out of his thoughts.

“Huh?”- He blinked owlishly, blood sticky between his latex fingers.

“The Slayer, ya know?”- Raglok continued, a hint of fear and something akin to admiration in his grating voice-“He messed with all sorts, shanking their guys up and down. Yer gotta watch the news, boss. It’s a blood fes out these days.”

Oh, that he knew. Sander wasn’t that far out of the loop. He might not consider the occasional blood wars between Santa Somabra various crime lords his business, but he did keep a tab on them. There was always a scene or two needed cleaning up, and the underworld paid well, as long as he watched his footings. He kept his nose clean, and they would forget that he existed, until the next bloody mess. Which was usually never too far away, in his experience.

“Well? What’d ya say boss? Think it ‘im?”- Green, meaty fingers poked his shoulder lightly, once again demanded his answer.

Sander merely shrugged, before pulling the cover back up. While they couldn’t be sure whether or not this was the work of the infamous Slayer, it was quite likely. Their John Doe didn’t have the look of a wayward tourist, rare as they were in this city, neither did he seem to be a down on his luck gambler. Sander knew scars from gunshot wounds when he saw them, and John Doe’s meaty frame suggested he was no stranger to violence. He could belong to one of the crime organizations around here, and it would definitely be problematic if their guys came sniffing around. He might as well turn this corpse over to the respective family and get it out of his hair as soon as possible. But of course, first, he would have to know who was on the receiving end on this package first. Obviously, the fastest way was to straight up ask the guy. But seeing as he was a little bit dead, Sander would have to call in backup.

“Drain the body, Raglok, clean him up a little. Then you can take the day off.”-He said, tossing the pair of stained gloves into the nearby trash can.

A couple of minutes later, when Sander had retreated into the relative safety of his bedroom, he whipped out his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart, but never added to his contact list.

“Val? You’re free?”

The phone rang once, twice, three times before she answered it. There was no hello, just a muffled squeak of a yelp and the sound of a distant, yet clearly painful, thud. "Offa me you plastic bitch," she said in an angry and barely hushed tone. "Hey, prick, I told you, I'm not selli--oh, uh, oh." There was a momentary pause, followed by a short, nervous laugh. When she spoke again her voice was different, more casual, with a clear drowsiness to it. "Hey, Sander. Why are...why are you calling so late? Early? What day is...never mind. What's up?"

The questionable noises from the other side of the line made Sander cocked an eyebrow, but he digressed. Whatever Valorie was up to, he sure didn’t want to know. It didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned though–“Weekday. Early, around noon. Anyway, have something you might want to take a look at. As soon as possible.”-He added the last bit, hoping it might catch her interest. Or not. She sounded, well, not very sober at the moment.

"Noon?" she asked, almost talking to herself. "It was 1 PM last time I...oh, Jesus." Sounds of her scrambling about as she put down the phone echoed over the receiver, as did the myriad of various hushed curses. A terrible scrapping noise popped through the speaker as she picked the phone back up. "Sorry, wrestling my clothes away from a dummy. No, wait, like a mannequin. Oh, Christ, that sounds weirder. Um," there was a long pause, followed by an unbelievably loud noise, "Okay! I'll be there in a hot minute."

[Kingfisher]

The Bronze Rail was an exclusive restaurant, nestled within the rusted expanse of the Chaerina Somabra railway station, which had been decommissioned after the Great Fire of 1985 engulfed it, along with the rest of what was now known as the “Burned Block”.

Nyxvira Bloodbloom sat in her favorite leather chair, spilling over its sides, as she sucked down a forkful of creamy spaghetti carbonara. Dressed in a frilly white top which rode up over her huge stomach, and pin-striped blue and red shorts which were tightly stretched over her thick thighs , Nyxie was thoroughly enjoy one of her favorite meals in one of her favorite restaurants, whilst a hook-nosed goblin pressed a Samsung Galaxy to her left ear.

“Miss Bloodbloom, please..!” the voice at the other end crackled.

“What else is there to discuss, Mister Carson?” Nyxvira’s voice was sweet, yet icy. It rose from the back of her throat, soft and smooth, before washing out into the world around her.

“I beg of you, miss,” the voice pleaded “just indulge me.”

“I’m a busy woman, Mister Carson.” Nyxvira stated bluntly, whilst trying to throw a complimentary mint into her empty glass “You have one more minute of my time.”

“I understand that you have a reputation to maintain, I really do!” the voice babbled frantically “but we can’t afford to cut any more corners here! These are people’s homes that we’re talking about! If I’m to make this payment, I won’t be able to guarantee my customers safe homes!”

“You -WILL- guarantee your customers safe homes,” the Faerie snapped “and you -WILL- make this payment, in full. The quality of the houses is of no consequence to me. You’re a businessman; so -LIE-.”

Nyxie stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork, savouring the taste as she gently chewed it.

“Fail to supply me with the money I’m owed and things will start going very wrong for you, very quickly.”

*BEEP* the goblin hung up for her.

“Grezbill,” she addressed him in a voice which held causal authority “tell the Wyrmblood to get her half-cast arse down here. I have a job for her. I don’t trust the corpse boys, anymore. They were a means to an end, and our business is concluded. I’ll tie up -THAT- loose end later, but for now….”

Nyxvira reached into her shorts pocket, pulling out a smart-looking business card.

“Arrange a meeting with this Cain fellow.”

[Drinky]

The smell of gunpowder and cigar smoke filled the air of a small apartment in Chinatown. Scraps of metal and rusted firearm parts lined the kitchen counter top and filled the sink. Bottles of varying color, size, and fullness lay sprinkled atop any other flat surface. Lights flickered and flies danced around a trash bin long forgotten and festering. Black burns dotted the vinyl kitchen floors, likely due to lit powder and accidental discharges of homemade ammunition.

At the center of it all, a large makeshift workbench sat. The vinyl floor of the kitchen had begun to buckle and bend from the mass of the workbench shifting around during use. Atop it sat a vice, an ammunition punch, and various hammers and screwdrivers. The table itself looked as though various pieces of scrap planks were simply placed atop one another, then bolted and banded together.

Gish sat atop a stool at the workbench, lightly hammering the sights of an old pistol back into place.

"How much longer man?"

A thuggish looking human paced back and forth in the already cramped kitchen. Black toque, black hoodie, and jeans. He looked the part of your typical thug ready to rob his next liquor store.

"Listen son, I don't show up at your job and knock the dicks out of your mouth while you're working, so pipe down eh?"

He had just about enough of the brat. Kid would probably be dead within a week, so no need for pleasantries on the hope for repeat business. Thinks he's tough enough to go toe to toe with anyone on the block, won't get him far.

Gish gave the sidearm a last look over and checked the sights.

'Good enough' he thought. He placed the gun down on the workbench.

"Alright son, she's good to put down any git what gets in your way eh? New firing pin, some thorough cleaning, and a little sight adjustment. She's as good as she'll ever get given the age of the piece."

The thug stepped forward and grabbed the gun. He looked it over but only briefly, it wouldn't surprise Gish if the kid even knew what a firing pin was.

"That'll be 80 for all that." Gish cracked a small grin.

The thug reached into his hoodie pocket and lay 4 syringes filled with red liquid on the workbench.

Gish's golden eyes narrowed and his grin quickly faded.

"Whuh the 'ell is dat there mate?!" Gish stood up with his hands raised and knife like teeth bearing as he spoke.

"It's Demon's Blood. 100$ worth. That's a good deal for you man." The thug looked confused.

"Me knows dats Demon's Blood ya git! Me work gets paid for in dosh, and dat there ain't dosh!"

Gish had become irate and his inner cockney began to shine through. His decaying heart raced at the thought of this nobody trying to pass off drugs to him as payment when he had previously asked for cash.

"If I was being in da drug business I wouldn't be fixing burnahs son!".

The thug took a step back and furrowed his brow. He took his free hand and pointed towards his own chest.

"I work for The Bloodbloom Syndicate man, you should take my offer before I make a call."

Gish let out a loud laugh, bending his back and projecting his voice towards the ceiling. As he reeled back and sat upright he let one arm rest on the workbench and the other slid into his coat.

"Ooh's yah boss den son?"

The thug's expression went blank for a moment, Gish knew he had already caught him in a lie.

"Malcolm" he blurted.

Gish grinned again.

"Listen son, put da dosh on da coun'er now before I call dat fit looking Nyxvira bird and 'ave 'er mates open yah up like a tin of beans!"

The thug paused for a moment and looked at Gish. His eyes drawn to his teeth and hypnotic eyes. Gish wasn't sure if the kid had believed his bluff about Nyxvira or simply knew his own bluff and 'Malcolm' had been called. The thug came forward and swapped the drugs for a few bills then stormed out the front door of the apartment.

Gish quickly grabbed the money from the workbench and counted it. 80$ in all. He stuffed the money underneath his hat and grabbed a bottle of bleach that had been sitting on the workbench. He poured some into his mouth and swashed it around for a bit, before spitting it onto the stained floor.

Had to keep his teeth nice and white.

[Atrophy]

Valorie@Atrophy and Sander@RedDusk

“...in a hot minute!”

She threw her phone onto the couch and finished pulling her jacket on. The confusion of waking up in a strange room was becoming an unfortunately usual feeling, although she could say that this was the first time she had awoken in her underwear while pinned by a mannequin wearing her own clothing. Perhaps it was for the best that she had, somehow, completely struck the previous day off of her calendar. She had the lingering memories of running away from Rich swirl with some flashes of her, desperately, trying to get an asexual, ambivalent, and inanimate object to return her sweet, caring affections. God, she probably tried to convince the thing that they were all infinite beams of bending light and that the very chance that their two particles happened to cross each others path during their individual life journeys was clearly a miraculous intervention from a higher, wiser, and impossible divine being of pure energy. The thought that potentially the deepest, most romantic and caring emotions she had in her short young life was with an nonspeaking, nonthinking chunk of plastic and fiberglass was, well, crushing.

And rad! I gotta tell Quinn to get me more of that shit.

The thought of her friend prompted her to check her phone. A few missed calls and angry texts from Rich. Ignore. A number she didn’t know. A sales call. A text from somebody that she had, apparently, named “dont-reply-when-sober” during one of her tears; Drunk Val knew best. A handful from Quinn: “yo, got work”, “where are you?”, “going out tonight”, and one picture message of her friend drinking alone in a nightclub while flipping off the camera. Valorie knew her friend well enough to know that while standing her up was a mistake, waking her up after a night out could be potentially fatal for her health. She’d text later. Getting into a screaming match so early in the...morning? Afternoon? Afternoon. It was afternoon. Getting into a screaming match so early in the afternoon led to guaranteed bad vibes for the rest of the day, and she needed to all the good mojo she could muster if she was going to experiment at Sander’s.

But first, she needed to make sure she didn’t look like a woman who had just spent ages tripping her figurative balls off. She exited the safe room into the dive bar known, unfortunately, as the Dirty Bath. Setting the key down on the counter, she tried to will the tingling sensation out of her feet while stumbling towards the restroom. The bar was excruciatingly large for how empty it always was, which made it an excellent safe house for the Rats (aka a Rat Hole. Valorie remembered being significantly disappointed when her fellow Rats did not react the way she had anticipated towards the name). She stepped around chairs, stools, and tables, walked across a giant dance floor that nobody had ever used (and a stage where nobody ever performed), and struggled pushing the heavy bathroom door before realizing that the word "Pull" was, in fact, not an option that was up for debate.

For the months that she had occasionally stumbled into the bar after a night of partying or on the rare nights where she wanted a place to drink without flooding her system with other toxins, the Dirty Bath had been a sort of go to haunt. The early, Pre-Depression era art, attire, and atmosphere, as well as the bar’s famous moonshine that they only served to the most respectable of customers (read: assholes they never wanted to come back, due to it tasting like pure ogre piss mixed with gasoline) had given Valorie the impression that it was named after the lost art of making your own hooch during the Prohibition years. Walking into the woman’s restroom more sober than usual, however, caused the light bulb in her head to click on. It wasn’t a clever or cute name, but a literal, apt description of the state of the bathrooms. To describe it in words would not do it justice, but let it be known that the morning afternoon Valorie gave herself a quick bath using the sink in the basement bathroom of a dive bar was, hands down, the most shameful moment of her life, excluding her first and final homecoming dance. Okay, most shameful moment this year. Month. Definitely breaks the top five in the past week.

All right, so it was just sort of gross.

At first glance in the mirror she actually thought she was, impossibly, still tripping. The idea that a drug trip lasted nearly twenty-four hours was insane and extremely exciting. She tried to even convince herself that, perhaps, she was tripping so hard that she actually had imagined time as a concept in all of itself before she realized that such thoughts were stupid, pointless, and dumb--confirming that she was, in fact, sober for the moment. What she had thought to be her face melting was actually just her makeup running together in a way that sort of bred a Salvador Dali masterpiece with the finger painting of a toddler. She scrubbed at her face heavily with soap, hot water, and paper towels. When she examined herself she didn’t see the bad ass, super cool and confident future lich queen of Santa Somabra. She didn’t even see an intimidating Rat. She saw a meek, ugly child with bloodshot eyes, greasy hair, and blemished skin wasting away in a world of metaphorical and literal shit. She saw that fucking idiot who had killed the only friend she ever had, and now took advantage of the fact that she had gotten lucky. A goddamn waste. She fled the bathroom, bitterness and anger churning in her throat.

I am trying, she thought, trying to convince herself as she walked out of the bar and up the street. That’s why I’m going to Sander’s. I’m trying.

How they met was a little hazy. Everything she did with the Rats was always a little hazy. But there had been an incident during one of the drug deals she had tagged along with a bunch of Rats she barely knew. They had tried to get cute and fancy with the wrong people during the deal and ended up sticking three people full of bullet holes instead of needle holes. Valorie had been, well, she didn’t know. She had wanted to freak out, but she forced herself not to, not when she was that close to death. So much to observe, so much to learn. Luckily for the Rats, one of them knew a guy who knew a girl who knew a guy, and they had called upon Sander to help clean up the mess. The guy dealt with corpses each day; to say she was jealous would have been an understatement. A little bit of innocent stalking, a quick fast talk to avoid getting beaned by that big sweetie of an Orc, and an ungodly amount of pestering with her sweetest, most innocent puppy dog eyes later and they had struck up an accord: Sander gives her practice, Valorie gives him information.

Her feet hurt by the time she made it to Sander’s. She tried the door. Locked, of course, why wouldn’t it be? She knocked, an impatient rat-tat-tat followed by two hard pounds before she shifted into a steady, arrhythmic pound that could only be her sad attempt at producing the beat to a familiar song. “San-deeeeeeeer,” she bellowed. “You’re really going to let a young, innocent, naive girl wait outside your doorstep in a spooky, scary alley?” Her hands thudded against the door. “Sander!”

---

Sander glanced at the phone in his hand, pondering whether or not Valorie would be able to make it to his place before nightfall. She sounded even worse than usual, and that was saying something. While he didn’t actually know the exact details, the girl’s harmful habits were rather disconcerting, to say the least. Most of the Rats he knew were like that, all riding the high of their chosen substances toward self-destruction. He wondered how long Valorie got left. The thought of her expiring was not one he would like to entertain, not when their little deal was going so well.

Seeing as it was a fairly quiet day, Sander decided to close the office early and retreated to his desk where a couple of documents still awaited his attention. He was going through his mail when someone finally knocked on the back door. It was, of course, Valorie the necromancer. He’d recognized that overly dramatic speech anywhere. A few seconds later, he was already at the door, holding it open for her.

“It’s still bright out.”-He stated, taking in her current appearance with quick glances. But like usual, he made no comment, instead just waved her in and closed the door. –“Come on in. It’s already in the basement.”

Without further ado, he turned to walk toward his destination, trusting her to follow.

“Nice to see you too, Sandy,” she said, snubbing out her cigarette before stepping in after him. He was never the kind for talking, but that didn’t dissuade her one bit from playing around with him. “No handshake, no hug where our asses are both stuck way out, no weird peck on the cheek. Truly, this place reminds me of home.”

“It is good to know that my guest is comfortable.”-Despite the flat tone, the twitching corner of his lips betrayed his amusement. He wasn’t immune to her brand of humor, after all.

They made their way toward a white, rusty metal door that looked strangely out of place in the prim and proper hall of Abbey funeral home. With a rustle of keys, he unlocked the door, ignoring the screeching protest of metal as he pushed it open and made his way down the stairs. The lights were already on when they arrived. The basement looked exactly like your average parking lot, albeit much smaller and instead of cars, it was populated with several metal operating tables, all of which were empty save for the one in the middle of the room. There were a row of cabinets and rusty barrels lining up on the nearby wall, where Sander headed over and took his place on top of a black barrel.

She shivered as she followed Sander down into the basement; the sickening smell of formaldehyde hit her hard. Her heart rate quickened, a wolfish smile appeared on her face, and her stained teeth escaping through her chapped lips as she saw it. Walking up to the fellow dressed like a last minute Halloween costume, Valorie unceremoniously pulled the white blanket off of his body. A noise escaped her throat as her brown eyes wavered over his filleted face and chest. To anyone unfamiliar with Valorie it would sound like she was aghast with horror; for people who had dealt with necromancer’s before they would suddenly feel much less sympathetic towards the girl. It was a sound of glee, of pleasant surprise, as if instead of pulling back a sheet and discovering a corpse she had found a pile of presents.

Valorie forced a neutral expression onto her face--she had read plenty about the conduct of necromancers in the field: The reason our kind are so reviled is not necessarily for our deeds, but the way we conduct ourselves. Only in the last several centuries have the gentiles grown weary of our kind; before the advent of many modern religions we were important spiritual leaders in the community. She shuddered at the thought of that tome. It was thick, a dull, and in a different language that had required a nightmarish amount of translation tools, coffee, and some cocaine to keep her alert through the night. To summarize the point it was trying to make, necromancers are only viewed poorly because they get a hard-on for the dead and then, like an abusive father, pay the undead little mind and walk out of their lives. Valorie prided herself on being one of the allegedly few necromancers who gave two fucks about the living dead, now if only she could stop cooing at the sight of a fresh hot corpse.

But it’s just too goddamn cool, she thought, grabbing a pair of small gloves from her purse. She wasn’t concerned about getting any diseases from the dead; the fevers brought upon by an infliction of the nonliving were supposed to open new avenues in young necromancers minds, according to a shaman she had read, although some of the comments suggested that it was bullshit. Still, she donned the gloves to avoid getting any weird stares or comments from Sander. Her latex fingers traced over the wounds, dipped into the cuts. Liberally, she coated her hand with the mire and muck from his body that had yet to be cleaned off. As she worked, she talked:

“It’s easiest on both bodies if the medium uses sources from both beings,” said Valorie, chuckling a little. Mediums. It was just what necromancers called themselves when they didn’t want to be burned at the stake. Stupid inside joke. “Not as powerful as using just the energy from the summoner solely, and not as pure as using the energy from the entity solely, but in theory it should provide a simple binding. Not a complete puppet, not a complete individual. I’m going to have to borrow your floor again,” she said, sitting on her haunches as smeared the filth in a small circle, perhaps a foot wide. “Smaller circles are actually more preferred to larger ones, but larger ones are easier to draw.” She didn’t mention how crossing two runes together could potentially open a portal to hell or create a powerful, violent spell where their insides became their outsides and their outsides became their insides.

“The upside-down pentagram; don’t let those choir boys tell you it's anything satanic, the five points symbolize blah blah blah, good witch bullshit. It just helps people focus energy. For what it’s worth, I could also draw a dick and use it to focus energy. In middle school a certain necromancer turned her entire math class into a monster mash after a sharpie spree,” she turned and gave Sander a smile. “Jokes. That...that wouldn’t work.” She pulled off her gloves, tossed them in a bin, and grabbed a marker out of her purse. She began writing symbols around the points. “This one here means life. Reverse it and it means death. Invert it and it means something completely different and irrelevant.” Add an extra line and it meant the bloom of life, and would allegedly cause the caster to explode. Again, she saved that information for herself. “This one’s piece or peace,” she said. “The stuff I read differs. This one’s cattle. Or slave. Runes are a little archaic.” She capped the pen. “And now, to mutter the magic words…”

The magic words weren't your typical nonsense utterances of hocus pocus or sim-sala-bim. She moved her mouth and began speaking in the foreign, ancient tongue: Akkadian, the language of Babylonian necromancers. Her words came out slowly as she tried to pronounce them with perfect precision. One incorrect utterance and the man could come back violent, infantile, or not at all. As she spoke she felt a second chill run through her spine, a sense of numbness, and then she disconnected from her body with a gush of euphoria as if she had just put a spike into her veins.

Sander had seen her in action before. He had seen the whole process; this was just the first time she took the time to explain details to him. But yet, this was the first time he saw it. One minute he was sitting on a barrel behind Valorie, contented to just watch, then the next he was on his feet, neck craned to a side as he chased down smoky tendrils with his gaze. It was here again. The black smoke coiled and whirled as it wrapped itself around his right arm, and suddenly, he turned back to Valorie. No, he did not turn; his neck did that all on its all. Then his feet moved. It took him a full second to realize what was happening.

Valorie was glowing a bright purple, and like a moth to the flame, he moved. He wanted that light. He needed it. Except, it wasn't him. He knew that much.

He reached out, his right hand moved on its own, the shadow twirled violently as it neared Valorie’s bright aura. But he wouldn’t let it. He wrestled for control, first forcing his traitorous limb to stop. To his surprise, it relented easily, almost playful, as if they were children playing tug-of-war. The shadow released its grip on him, the smoky tendrils dispersed easily. His body was his own again.

Looking down from above, Valorie only saw her meat continue speaking quietly and frantically, a second, guttural voice joining her squeaks in harmony. Her body was rocking back and forth, almost fetal like, as if she was having a bad drug experience. This was the moment; the most dangerous part in any necromancer’s work. She forced her husk to push up her sleeve, showing her scarred, bony arm. Then, with one swift motion of no hesitation, it grabbed the knife from her purse and sliced a shallow cut across her forearm. Valorie felt an inexplicable pain for such a small wound as she rushed back into her body. She was sweating, burning alive, breathing heavy. Holding the knife over the summoning circle, she let the drops of her blood fall upon it. The circle hummed to life, a deep purple glow highlighting its edge.

She barked a command in a shaky voice. The dead body stirred. She repeated the command two more times. It began to try and sit up. Satisfied, she applied pressure to her wound with her leg while digging around in her bag for some first aid and turned towards Sander. She jolted. Like a horror movie that relied on cheap scares, the man had seemingly just materialized right behind her. The contents from her purse scattered loosely to her side. Sidling on her hands and knees like a crab, Valorie quickly shoved her personal goods back into her bag: the gum, the phone,the cigarettes, the "jazz" cigarette, the bottle of ether she was saving for tonight's sweet dreams, the gun. Fuck, had he seen the goddamn gun?

"Jesus, Sander, I wasn't going to hurt myself. Or was all of this just some weird plan to get me on my knees?" she said, zipping her purse shut and giving him a friendly, yet forced, smile. "But really, I know what I'm doing. I don't need another goddamn babysitter," she added, softly, as if she was trying more to convince herself than her cohort. “Listen, You only got a few--oh FUCK MY GAH--minutes,” she said, pouring disinfectant on the cut and wrapping it in gauze. "Please don't waste them." And please don’t scar, she thought, elevating her arm. She gave a satisfied look at her creation as it finally finished pulling itself up and turned to sit on the side of the operating table.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I know he looks unfriendly, but Sander’s here to help you,” said Valorie to John Doe, in a soft voice that was uncommon for the woman and strangely similar to the way a mother would talk to a shy child latched to her leg. “Tell him whatever you can about, uh..." She gestured wildly with her hands at his gouged body. "Quickly, please.”

[Kingfisher]

@Atrophy @RedDusk

“Tell him whatever you can about, uh...Quickly, please.”

The corpse's sunked eyes fluttered slowly open, as though it were just waking from an afternoon nap, and not returning from the beyond the grave.

"Nichole...?" he croaked, a glassy haze still clouding his vision "Nichole, I'm sorry. Please, lets stop fighting. I love you; that's all that matters. I know I don't say it enough, baby, but I really do mean it. You were right abou that stupid tontine-"

His ghostly croaking came to an abrupt halt.

"Wait...you're not Nichole! Who are you people?!" He sqwaked.

His eyes slipped slowly down to the deep gouges and gashes which criss-crossed his body, and a look of sheer dismay washed across his face.

"No...this isn't fair." Tears pearled beneath his eyes, as the realisation set in. "I was going to propose. She's all alone now."

Suddenly,his eyes fluttered back into his skull, and one last withered gasp slipped forth from his lips. Life left him in an instant, and then his corpse slumped back across the floor.

[JulienJaden]

"I hope my work was satisfactory."

Francis Cain sat in an old yet very comfortable red leather chair with more blemishes than him, his hands resting on the almost antique work desk before him. His hat and coat sat on a hat rack next to the entrance to his office, a door that read "Francis Cain - Private Investigator" in bold letters. Absolutely everything about his office looked like one had stumbled onto the set of a 50s noir movie, a circumstance that was quite intentional. It seemed out of place, a room inside the city removed from the 'modern day bullshit', as Cain liked to call it - it was one of the reasons why he dressed like he did. Plus, he liked this kind of style. It suited him. But the main reason was how practical it was: It was his signature feature and he was known for it all over town. People came to expect a suit, trenchcoat and trilby when they expected him. That made it very easy to escape their attention when he changed appearances. Sure, there were magical means to do so but more often than not, all he needed was a different look.

That said, he wouldn't have touched his opponent's wardrobe with a ten-foot pole. The young man was a Rat with a colorful Mohican haircut, more metal pinned to his face than most veterans had in their entire body and rags to cover himself in that showed brand signs here and there to prove that the holes in the jeans and hoody were intentional and 'stylish'. He could have just been nervous, judging by how twitchy he was, but an unfortunately placed tear on his sleeve revealed that the boy liked to shoot up. Even though Cain liked human criminals better than vampire ones, dealing with Rats always went hand in hand with seeing what their drugs did to young people.

This one was only a henchman but an excitable one.
"Hell yeah, it was! That fucker Bennert's not gonna mess with our business no more. Dino said that you can come by and have a taste of our product anytime."

Francis raised an eyebrow at this offer.
"Tell Dino that I am... humbled by this generous offer", his voice oozed of sarcasm but the boy smiled like an idiot and Cain was getting more and more convinced that he was as high as kite, "but I think I'll pass and stick to my usual payment."

Rick Bennert hadn't exactly been a drug kingpin. If anything, he had been the last in a long line of dealers who got uppity and bit the hand that fed them, thinking that they could open their own business with a few runners and brutes to work for them. He cut himself loose from the Rats without seeking protection from a different gang first, which, in Santa Somabra, was the same as painting a bullseye on your back. This was the kind of deal Cain took for the gangs: Taking care of the human, and non-human, refuse that nobody cared about. The gangs were happy and he got to rid the city of the occasional drug dealer, rapist and murderer, no questions asked.

"Right, right..."
The Rat stepped forward, took an envelope from his backpocket and offered it to Cain. Inside were a few small wads of cash which he counted diligently: $1700 in total. Cain furrowed his brows.

"That's 100 bucks less than we agreed upon."

"Well, Dino thought-"

Cain stood up.
"I know Dino and he doesn't pull stupid shit like that. Not with me."

The boy seemed even more nervous than before. Francis knew what was going on; even if he didn't have a few wards and charms in his office to help him sense dishonesty and evil intentions, he could have seen through the deception.
"Don't fuck with me, boy. There's a reason your bosses don't. Give me my money."

Even now, the Rat seemed uncertain, contemplating whether he should run out, fight or give in. Cain was ready to unleash hell on him, to set the junkie ablaze and burn him to ash where he stood, but he knew that that wouldn't be necessary. All he needed was a little push, a little show, another tidbit to add to his mystery and reputation: He let the cigarette in his ashtray flare up - that was all it took to turn his eyes into embers, glowing bright in the twilight of the room and giving him a demonic appearance.

Before he knew it, the guy had not only yelped out in surprise and fear but also presented the missing money to him. It was obvious he wanted to leave but he didn't dare to run. Cain gave him a wolvish grin.
"Good. Now get out of my office and pray that Dino never finds out what you tried to do here."

Within seconds, he was alone again but the silence wasn't meant to last - his cellphone started ringing before he could as much as sit back down again. He didn't recognize the number but that didn't have to mean anything.
"Yes?"

"Am I speaking Francis Cain?", a gravely, servile voice asked.

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm calling on behalf of Mistress Nyxvira Bloodbloom. I assume you are Francis Cain?"

And here I thought today was going to be boring. His past dealings with Bloodbloom had been interesting, a mix of very dangerous and quite questionable work, but the payment was always superb. God only knew how she heard about him and his skills. Yes, there were rumors and he spread some of those himself but only few knew what was true and what wasn't. Yet, the moment he met her, she seemed well informed about everything he was capable of. The problem with her was that she was prone to mood swings and fits of rage - combined with her influence throughout the city, that made saying no to her risky.
It went without saying that some of her workforce were not the brightest tools in the shed.
"Yes", he responded with a soft sigh, "that would be me."

"You are to meet her at her penthouse in Dawnpeek Heights. She expects you to be there by the time she arrives."

Of course she does, he thought to himself. The caller had hung up on him as soon as he delivered his message. That was the Bloodbloom Syndicate for you. Left with little choice but to hear her out, he hid the payment he had just received in the hidden safe, put on the rest of his outfit and a freshly lit cigarette into his mouth, placed the usual wards on the office as he left and made his way to the elevator, wondering what the queenpin had in store for him.

[DJAtomika]

♠ Andy DiMaggio ♠

This was bullshit.

What the hell was I doing here anyway?

Oh right. Work.

Standing here with a man's blood dripping off my hands.

Not like they didn't deserve it, Christ.

We were here on a job. Nyctari business. Didn't matter to us what the motivation was, what mattered was that we were gettin' paid.

They told us that a couple 'a Rats down in Red Lights were causin' some trouble in one of their flesh dens. Bunch a hokey, low down asswipes givin' the workin' girls a hard time. The vamps had heard of how we'd taken down the Hunters almost by ourselves and I guess they wanted a bit of the action. Not long after the two of us set up our little private work agency, calls started comin' from all over. Nyte Kings, Nyctari, anonymous work, hell even Bloodbloom herself wanted us for a job or two. Three years I spent, hirin' guys from all around that were lookin' for work. Kiddo handled the jobs. Put 'em in little folders, organised 'em on a board; who wanted what done, in which part a' town, that sorta thing. Built this little gig up and soon we had guys doin' jobs all around the city. Haulin' freight, writin' obits or some other dirty job.

Today was no different. Hands down 'n dirty 'n bloody.

I pulled my fist from the crumpled face of the Rat in front of me. Young guy, couldn't have been more than twenty five. Poor guy. What did you do to end up on the hit list of the biggest blood suckers in Santa Somabra, hmm? You and your friends went and crashed one of their joints, peddled your shit and harassed the ladies. That earned you a big bullseye on your back. Nothin' personal.

For us tough guys, the "dumb muscle", we didn't care about the specifics. We got paid to solve shit that the aristocrats and rich kids didn't want to get their hands dirty doin'. Didn't give a rat's ass about the who or why or how. Just did what they paid us to do. 'N today, they were paying a lot to get this problem out of their hair. What was strange was how they'd wanted it done. Fists only? Who did that any more? And they also wanted us, like us us. Me 'n Kiddo. I didn't pay it much mind anyway, hadn't gotten my hands dirty in a while.

I wiped my brass knuckles on the corpse's shirt and stood. The skin shop was a mess. Broken glass everywhere. Tables overturned. Corpses all over the place. Resistance had been big at first. These idiots ran guns from one end of the city to the other, no surprise they were packing heat. Handling them according to the contract was...difficult, but we got it done. By the end of it the girls were safe and the Rats were running or dead. Job well done.

Kiddo got out from the back room, wipin' his hands with a cloth.

"All done, Andy. Nothin' left standin'."

"And the girls?"

"Safe 'n sound in the back. Nothin's gonna get 'em."

"Alright. I'll give the client a call, give 'em the good news. See if there's anyone left alive 'n end 'em."

I stepped outside to get some fresh air. Fuckin' A, place smelled like death, and it wasn't 'cause of us neither. Few taps on my phone got me a ringin', and after a while the person on the other end picked up.

"Yo, it's me. Job's done. No Rats gonna mess with your girls again."

[Kingfisher]

“Your breakfast, madam.”

Nyxvira lay back on her sun lounger, beneath the cover of a patio umbrella. Her smoldering red tangles were cast back across the crisp cushions, and rhinestone sunglasses sheltered her golden eyes from the blazing california sun.

“Put it over there.” She gestured limply at a nearby table. Her waiter placed the piping hot full english breakfast down, before bowing his head and retreating back inside the glass-roofed penthouse kitchen.

The rooftop pool which lay before her rippled ever-so-slightly in the cool breeze, which whipped past the distant peaks of skyscrapers and department stores. A sea of steel and glass stretched out all around her, whilst the water of the swimming pool shimmered lightly beneath the sun’s glow.

Dressed in a black and white bikini which barely held in her humongous body, Nyxvira lazily scooped the Santa Somabra Sentinel up off of the bedside table, ruffling its crumpled papers in her chubby hands.

Shop Owner’s Brutal Dismemberment Related to Somabra Slayer

The frontpage headline rushed out to meet her.

Drekmishrev Ebonlance, owner of the up-market clothes store “Drekmishrev’s”, was found mutilated in his apartment in Dawnpeak Heights. An unnamed source within the SSPD told this reporter, on good authority, that the police suspect this to be the next in a long line of dismemberments carried out by the Somabra Slayer. A blue-haired female was also found dead in the apartment, who police have yet to identify.

Nyxvira couldn’t help but smile.

The killing had been related to the Somabra Slayer, but not in the way that one might expect. Nyxie understood the sociopathic mindset. She knew how serial killers thought. The pride, the ego, the narcissism. She had put out the hit on Drekmishrev, and made sure some very particular substances were found inside him. The semen wouldn’t be identified, but the SSPD would be certain that it belonged to the Somabra Slayer; a pathetic homosexual freak, who couldn’t control his most base desires.

He’d be angry. He’d want revenge. He’d lash out, and he’d make a mistake.

Or may he wouldn't.

Nyxvira had been wanting to get rid of Drekmishrev since she’d be turned down in favour of the Dark Elf at Vincent Tűzst’s Christmas party.

Picking up a knife and fork, Nyxie began to tuck into her breakfast, suddenly very cheerful and content.

Today would be a good day, she decided.

[RedDusk]

(Collab with Atrophy)

She didn’t care about the undead man’s confusion. She didn’t care about the questions Sander would ask or the answers he would receive. She didn’t care about finding out who Nichole was, or even who this man was. She only wanted to watch. To see how he moved, how he reacted, how he ticked; if he fell apart, if he burst into flames, if he turned into dust. She needed to consume everything, so she watched and she listened. Her look was one of fascination lined with silver twinges of hope. Perhaps this would be the one. Practice, hard work, and dedication would be her path to success, as it was for the necromancers who had come before her. A smile flickered on to her face as the spirit recognized that he was no longer in the blissful dreams of death, but in the dank morgue of Sander’s abbey. He was of a sound mind, good, good. Panicked, confused, but aware. That was fortunate. She couldn’t help but beam as a wave of giddish fluttered through her body.

I think I finally did it; I think I finally…

The eyes. Her own went wide while his went white. She half-started up to her feet before freezing, a hand clasped across her open mouth. No, no, no, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, she thought as the body rocked forward. Just a flight of dizziness. Not unheard of, he’ll recover, he’ll--Gravity took over what the spirit could no longer control. The body landed face-down on the hard floor with a wet thud; Valorie followed suit. Crumpling to her knees, the woman stared with disbelief at the corpse as a dark cloud of emotions swirled over her. Hands shaking, lips trembling, she folded into herself, her gaze becoming muddled with tears as it fell to the ground at her knees. She was upset. Angry. Embarrassed. With magic there was always room for error, always a chance things wouldn’t go right. Regardless, that sentiment made her feel no better. She wasn’t improving. Hell, she was getting worse. Why? Why was she trying so hard if this was what her efforts got her?

It pissed her off that she was pissed off. Any good occultist would brush this off as an experience, as an exercise, but she could only see it for what it was: a failure. She was a failure, and she did not want to admit that. She certainly did not want others to know it. She also didn’t want others to see her frustrated or upset, but she couldn’t help it and that made her only more distraught. Give up, she thought. Go home. Go back to college. Get a four-year degree. Marry some boy. Be miserable working for forty years. Have a kid or two at some point. Die alone and unloved in Florida.

As if she could go back. As if she could give up. She couldn’t have been getting worse. That’s an impossibility, she thought, trying to She looked for a fault. There had to be a fault: maybe the circle was slightly misshapen. Perhaps the runes were smudged. She hadn’t used enough blood or she had used too much blood. There were chemicals from the embalming throwing everything off or there were chemicals from the drugs in her system throwing everything off. Something. Anything. If not her, something else. Sander had fucked something up. Blinking away salty tears there were no revelations, only further frustrations. She had just failed and that was that. She’d have to accept it.

But she wouldn’t have to do so gracefully.

“God fucking damn it,” she screamed, punching the ground. She heard something pop and felt a pain in her hand. Good, maybe she’d do better next time; she hit the ground again. Dragging herself on her knees over to the body, she punched it while whispering obscenities hotly under her breath. She hit it again. It looked like and was as immature and unfathomable as a child throwing a tantrum over a toy that they themselves had broken. The gauze on her arm darkened with her own blood as she aggravated her cut. The hushed obscenities grew into a guttural roar as Valorie stumbled up to her feet and threw one final hard kick against the back of John Doe’s skull. For her effort, all she got was a throbbing foot. She angry chuckled at her own behavior. She didn’t feel any better, but she did feel exhausted. That was better than nothing.

As Valorie unleashed hell on the now inanimate corpse, Sander decided not to interfere and slunk back to his previous spot on the barrel. She was beyond words now; he knew that look. To be frank, he had no words of comfort to offer her. That, and he didn’t trust himself to be standing close to another human being at this moment. Not after what happened earlier.

Sander had seen glimpses of his unwelcomed passenger before. Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, black smoke and shadow would coil and twist at the corner of his vision. Often, he would solve it by getting shit-faced on a weekday. Marco used to rant about it, but well, he was dead now. He knew something got into his head during the ritual, but seeing as it barely did much than making him hallucinate vividly, he hadn’t paid it much mind then. Then this happened. It was like the thing was getting tired of the backseat so it began riding shotgun and wrestled for the wheel. To think he had come this far, only to get his metaphorical car highjack by some entity that might not even be real. But it didn’t. Sander looked down at his hands, and unclenched his fists, just because he could. He still could. He would be fine. No damage done. It was probably just a slip; his brain finally went haywire after inhaling too much magic residue or whatever. Maybe he shouldn’t stand too close next time Valorie came over to do her dark magic voodoo thing. Maybe he shouldn’t be in the same room. It wouldn’t happen again.

He pushed that particular train of thought in the back of his mind. It wasn’t that hard. He had had practice when it came to running away from things he couldn’t deal with.

Coward, came a thought he barely registered.

He was going to leave then room. Then Valorie was done with the corpse.

Putting on her sunglasses, she turned and gave Sander a half-smile. She couldn’t think of anything to say. No quip, no apology, nothing. She didn’t even bother to wipe away the tear stains that escaped from below the rims of her shades, lick the blood dripping from where she had bitten her lip in rage, or tame the wild mess that had become of her hair. She didn’t care. She was too tired to feel ashamed and too beat to be embarrassed. Sander had already seen her fail to bring the John Doe back for more than minute, there was no point in saving face. Valorie wouldn’t be surprised if he never talked to her again, never called her again, never wanted to see her stupid bitch face again. Hell, she would have been okay with it, too. If all of her practice was going to get her to this point every single time, then fuck it. She could barely handle disappointing herself; she didn’t need others hating her too.

Turning away from Sander she wiped the muck on her hands off on the white sheet and threw it in a ball on top of the dead body. Without looking back she stomped up the stairs, out of the basement, and out through the front door. She called a cab as she collapsed on the stoop, lit two cigarettes, and inhaled one of them with such a force that she nearly swallowed it. As she nursed the second one her face fell into her hand as she massaged her temples. If she couldn’t give up on her path, then she could at least give up on the day. She sent out a text. Ether wouldn’t be strong enough of a medication anymore. Fairy Dust shouldn’t be too hard to find. After her shopping trip, she’d go to her apartment and sleep it off with Sammy. At the very least her dog would never hate her.

Sander sidestepped as she ran pass, and for a moment, he considered returning to his room and took a day off. In the end, he didn’t. Having a Rat owning him favors had been useful; he didn’t intend to lose that edge yet.


He opened the door, just a crack at first. She still hadn’t left yet. So he stepped out, closing the door with a little more force than he would have liked. Then he realized why. His hands were shaking. He dug nails into his palms to make them stop and let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“You have never done that before.”-He said simply, flopping down next to her. The gesture felt casual enough, but he was keeping his distance from her, as much as the stoop allowed. He doubted she would notice. Eyeing the lit cigarette in her hand, he snatched it up with a quick movement and took a long drag before she could protest. It helped. –“Look, it’s…fine. The guy talked. That’s something.”

At first it appeared as if Valorie did not even notice the man. "It's not fine," she said, finally, without raising her head. Her voice was shaky; weary. She held out her tiny hand that was still stained with grime in anticaption of Sander returning her cigarette, a sigh escaping from her lips. "Do you know what happens when you die?"

Sander breathed out. The smoke was still the right color. But then, why wouldn’t it? He sighed and took another drag, quietly ignoring Valorie’s outstretched hand. This one was for the mess down in the basement. Still, the weariness of her voice did bother him somewhat. He had no trouble dealing with the bratty, sarcastic Valorie; the defeated girl next to him was a stranger. At her odd question, Sander simply shrugged, only to then realize that she probably wouldn’t see it.


“Think you can remain dead long enough to find out?”-He half-smiled, a note of humor found its way into his voice.

"It was a serious question," Valorie said as she pulled another cigarette out of her pack with her teeth and lit it. Her hair fell over her face as she studied her feet. "I'm not worried about finding that out, either. I'm worried about finding out what happens when you die again. I just ripped that guy's soul out Heaven, Hades, The Summerland, I don't know what else bullshit, forced him back into his body, and then watched him die again because I can't even raise a proper fucking corpse. It's not just like I can bring him back once I take a breather, I can't. He's gone. All because I..." Her voice broke.

“I know. Sorry.”- He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, the cigarette held in his left hand promptly forgotten. But if she really felt this way about her ‘hobby’, why keep doing it? The reasons escaped him. But he digressed. He needed her necromancy, encouraging her self-doubt would do him no good. –“But if you really can put a soul into a dead body, what about, say, a live body? Can…two souls share the same body?”

"Huh?" It was a question she hadn't been expecting. Of course, she knew the answer. It had come up several times in the PDFs of old necronomicons. "Well, yeah, they can," she said, slowly, as she rose her hand and gave Sander a curious look. "But eventually one wins out over the other, like a twin consuming its other half in utero. Why do you ask?"

“Just curious.”- He said, a little too quickly. His gaze fell to the curb beneath them, and for the longest moment, you would think he was admiring the patterns within the concrete. After a short pause, he began again, turning to Valorie, his expression purposely blank –“ Which one will win? The souls, I mean.”

"The stronger one?" she said, uncertain herself. "I don't know, really. There aren't that many documented cases of two souls in one body. If the original soul wins they very rarely say anything, because who would believe them? Likewise, if the parasitic soul wins they would certainly never say anything, because why woulld they tell others that they had just destroyed a loved one?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "All I know is that most exorcists are frauds. You, er, you aren't planning on branching out your business, are you?" she asked, her face slightly brighter than before. "Because I don't think I can really help you fake possessions. Or create real ones, for that matter."

Sander had nothing more to say to that. So he laughed, though it came out sounding more like he had something unpleasant in his throat. Fortunately, a yellow taxi came into view right then and he took his chance-“Looks like your ride is here.”- Heat bit his knuckles, so he dropped the cigarette and snuffed it out with the sole of his shoe.-“Feel free to give me a call whenever. I will set something up.” –He put on his practiced smile, before giving her a small pat on the back.-“Good bye.”

"You're not very good at this friendly priestly thing," said Valorie, smirking as she got up and hopped in the cab. "Just saying."

[Lexicon]

Home

The Hotel Imperius' staff called it the Inferno Suite.

Three years ago, after the bellhops finished lugging her suitcases up the stairs, Narcissa Veclis had asked one of the concierges where the nickname came from. These opulent rooms were going to be her home for the forseeable future, and she wanted to learn as much about them as possible. Especially since the suite was a gift from her newest employer, the infamous Nyxvira Bloodbloom. Smiling as if it was the greatest joke ever, the well-dressed dokkalfr had told her, his eyes glittering with delight in the subtle lighting of the hotel lobby. The light elf had glared at the hotel employee for a few seconds, and then she'd punched him hard enough to break his nose. Luckily, the luxurious carpet in the lobby was an appropriate shade of red. Narcissa also happened to be Nyxie's favorite enforcer, and the proprietor of the Hotel Imperius knew it, so the injured dark elf decided not to press charges. Over the next few years, the Inferno Suite, the finest rooms available at the Hotel Imperius, became the only place where Narcissa felt safe. Well, mostly safe.

One of the walls in the suite's living room, the one that faced the city proper, was a colossal bay window. It was far too exposed for Narcissa's taste, but she'd paid a local wizard a ridiculous amount of cash to place alarm wards around the window frame. These sorcerous glyphs would emit a deafening wail if the window was ever broken or opened from the outside. Mystical enchantments aside, the bay window also allowed the light elf to see all the way to Dawn Peak Heights, Santa Somabra's wealthiest and northernmost district, whenever the smog cleared. The breathtaking view no longer impressed the she-elf, however. The only part of the cityscape she cared about was less than three blocks north of the Hotel Imperius. It was the region that gave the Inferno Suite its name. It was a wound Narcissa had personally inflicted on Santa Somabra many years ago. It was a memory she didn't deserve to escape.

The Burned Block.

The afternoon sun lit the elf's angular features as she frowned down at the devastation and sipped from her mug of green tea. Every few months another legion of developers, contractors, and construction workers arrived in the Burned Block, hoping against hope they'd be the ones to revitalize the region formerly known as the Silver Expanse. It was prime real-estate despite the feral animal and vagrant populations that had sprung up after the Great Fire of 1985. The only problem was nobody seemed capable of staying in the charred ruins long enough to accomplish anything. At the moment, the Red Diamond Construction Company was attempting to rebuild one of several collapsed tenements in the region. They appeared to be making decent headway. Biting her lower lip, Narcissa shook her head and gulped down another scalding mouthful of tea. It wouldn't last.

The damage caused by the Great Fire of 1985 was devastaing and extensive. It was also magical in nature, which presented a nearly impossible challenge to those trying to bring life back to the devastation. When Narcissa had unleashed the full force of her pyromantic gifts it left behind potent mystical echoes. The entire block had been consumed by a sea of blue flame, and roughly two hundred people lost their lives over the course of one horrific night. These deaths, not to mention the residual arcane energy in the air, made it difficult for anyone to remain in the Burned Block. The sound of people screaming as they were immolated, the stench of burning flesh, and images of the Somabra Clock Tower collapsing assailed the minds of those foolish enough to linger amidst the wreckage. You didn't even need a strong connection to the arcane to incur these horrific side-effects. Most of the beggars and stray animals living in the region were completely insane, driven mad by years of nightmarish visions pouring into their heads. Tugging at her long-sleeved t-shirt to distract herself, the light elf turned away from the window and the Red Diamond workers scurrying around below.

That was enough self-flagellation for one morning.

Taking another sip from her mug, Narcissa faced the opposite wall of her tastefully furnished living room, and the corners of her lips rose slightly. The wall across from the bay window was dotted with iron pegs and various trinkets, ranging from a polished silver watch to a dozen intricately carved human knucklebones, hung from the metal studs. The countless gewgaws and curios were artfully arranged on a large piece of cork board hanging over the ljosalfr's dining area. Whenever Narcissa invited guests over, which almost never happened, they always asked about this bizarre display. The light elf would smile her slight, enigmatic smile and say, "They are nothing more than souvenirs." It wasn't a lie. They were mementos belonging to the one hundred and fifty irredeemable scumbags Naricssa had killed in her quest for redemption. Her quest to wash the blood of the two hundred people killed by the Great Fire of 1985 off her hands.

Her gray sweatpants swishing as she walked, the ljosalfr prowled over to take a closer look at one of her souvenirs, a headband made of onyx with the words "No Gods, Only Monsters" carved into it. Mankar Deslandra hadn't necessarily asked Narcissa to kill the vampiress running the Gilded Cage while rescuing his daughter, but the light elf didn't regret doing it. Cordelia Kincaid had been a cruel, sadistic bitch of a bloodsucker. And she was loyal to the Nyctaria Family. Cordelia had enjoyed keeping the whores at the Gilded Cage terrified, addicted to numerous illicit substances, and isolated from their friends and family. The only thing she'd loved more than tormenting her workers was her headband. Her beautiful onyx headband.

Smirking at the memory of Cordelia's pitiful pleas for mercy, the light elf finished her tea and headed into the suite's kitchenette. She was trying to decide whether to prepare salmon or grilled chicken for lunch when her red Samsung Galaxy began ringing from its place on the counter. Setting her empty cup down and picking up the phone, Narcissa looked at the name and phone number displayed on the large screen. It simply read 'Boss' and the number was unlisted.

"So much for lunch prep," the light elf muttered, and she hit the 'answer' button before pressing the phone to her ear. All she could hear was the panicked breathing of whoever was on the other end. Narcissa immediately knew who it was. Only one person could whimper in such an obnoxiously high register. Frowning, the she-elf said, "Grezbill, can I help you with something or should I wait for you to find your balls, you sniveling dobeck?"

"Do-do-dobeck? Oh, ummm...I mean, hello, Vi-Vig-Vigilance!" the goblin who'd recently become Nyxvira's personal assistant squeaked. "The queenpin wants you t-t-to meet her at the Dawn Peak Heights ap-ap-apartment..."

“Very well,” the ljosalfr said, and she hung up without saying another word. Goblins. What purpose did they serve besides annoying the hell out of everyone? Sighing, the bounty killer fired off two texts. One went to the group of five heavily armed “bodyguards” living in the suite directly below hers. In truth, these men were fiercely loyal to Nyxvira, and they’d been assigned to watch Narcissa’s every move. The Bloodbloom Syndicate's queenpin was incredibly powerful, but she was also incredibly paranoid. The text read: ‘Have a car ready in thirty minutes. We’re due at the Dawn Peak Heights apartment.’ The head of her security detail, a massive orc named Baruch “The Hammer” Varda, sent a terse confirmation back. The light elf sent another text to someone she’d met during her SSPD days, Francis Cain. He was tolerable...for a human. ‘Milady calls. Will be late for drinks at Magog’s tonight. If I make it at all’ the text read. The two former cops had a standing date at a seedy bar just outside the Narrows, though Nyxvira’s orders obviously took priority over socializing with friends. Nyxvira's orders took priority over most things in Narcissa's life nowadays.

Putting the phone in her pocket, the light elf sauntered over to the hallway leading to her bedroom and stopped in front of a large walk-in closet. She opened the white door and grimaced at the veritable wall of cardboard boxes, each one bursting with financial documents, inside. She hated dealing with this, but the daunting sight of all this paperwork would be enough to deter most thieves. And if it didn’t there were other measures in place. Narcissa knew how often break-ins occurred in Santa Somabra, and she had no intention of becoming a victim. She'd spent nearly two thousand dollars on a quality glamour to ensure her most prized possessions remained untouched.

Sighing quietly, the ljosalfr said, “I have stared into the abyss, and the abyss has stared back into me.” Immediately, a bright green glow lit up the closet and the stacks of papers vanished, revealing a blank, white wall. The ljosalfr waited...and waited...and then she doubled over, a string of curses slipping out from between her clenched teeth. Casting spells, even minor ones like a dispelling charm, was incredibly draining for her. Unlike most light elves, her grip on the arcane was tenuous at best. Panting and wiping sweat from her pale brow, the she-elf stepped unsteadily into the closet and pushed against the back wall. It yielded and granted her access to a small, cubicle-sized room containing her armor, weapons, and other valuables. Running her hands along the grips of her twin pure iron blades, Duty and Justice, the bounty huntress began gathering the numerous components of her "work uniform."

Time for Vigilance to clock in.

45 Minutes Later...

Vigilance, with her escort trailing behind her like gun-toting ducklings, stepped onto the roof of Nyxie’s Dawn Peak Heights apartment. There were at least fifteen guards, all wearing expertly tailored gray suits, watching over the bloated faerie as she gorged herself by the kidney-shaped pool. An errant breeze ruffled the ljosalfr's hair as she noted the position and temperament of the thugs surrounding her boss. Every last one of them looked exhausted and miserable. Maybe all this Somabra Slayer talk was finally getting to Nyxvira? If this continued then Narcissa’s opportunity to take down the queenpin would never come. Still, she was willing to be patient. Nyxvira would not escape justice.

Baruch, his muscular form visibly straining his slate gray suit, cleared his throat and said, “We brought the Hound for you, ma’am.” This elicited a few chuckles from the other syndicate members since ‘Nyxvira’s Hound’ was one of the few non-complimentary monikers attached to Narcissa. The light elf knew the truth, though. Their laughter was strained and, as she raked her eyes over the guards, most of Nyxie’s protectors glanced away from the elf's cold, gray gaze. Cowards. They were scared shitless of the leatherclad bounty killer. A fearsome reputation was definitely a valuable asset for someone in Narcissa's line of work. It ensured everyone else knew their place.

After brushing her right hand against the elven death mask dangling from her belt, Vigilance approached Nyxvira and knelt beside her chair. “What can I do for you, milady?” she asked quietly, her low-range soprano voice conveying nothing but the utmost respect and deference. Her relationship with the faerie was relatively new, and the wyrmblood intended to keep things formal between the two of them. If she could put Nyxie at ease by treating her like royalty then she would. It was a small price to pay for ensuring the corrupt queenpin never saw Narcissa's blades coming until they were buried in her heart.

[Kingfisher]

“We brought the Hound for you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Baruch.” Nyxvira said, without even the faintest hint of sincerity as she licked the greasy remains of a hash brown off of her lips. Her voice had a cold, raspy quality to it, as though she were permanently bored or had just woken up. It was cool and calm, given an element of natural authority by the regal quality of her upper-middle-class Surrey accent.

“You’re here.” Nyxie observed dryly, as the bounty hunter strode over to her. The bold confidence with which the light elf carried herself had been earned, as was attested for by the manner in which Nyxvira’s henchmen recoiled nervously backwards from her armoured-presence, even when they outnumbered her nearly twenty-to-one.

Was there anyone in Santa Somabra who was more fitting a bodyguard to its queen than the woman who could inspire such dread and awe from friend and foe alike?

“Too pussy to fuck with the Hound?” The Faerie called over to a particularly shaky-looking Orc, who stood, wide-eyed and jittering, by the edge of her pool.

“M’am..?” He croaked in confusion.

Nyxvira rolled her heavily makeuped eyes “It's -MADAM- ! How many times do I need to tell you wankers? For Baal’raz’s sake, I’m not a yank! Do you want me to have you thrown in the bay, with concrete shoes?!”

“N-no m’a-, I mean; No, madam.”

“Honestly!” Nyxvira crossed her chubby arms as best she could, her enormous , pale boulder of a stomach exploding out into her lap “Such shite service, these days.”

“What can I do for you, milady?” The bounty hunter asked in her soft voice, as she knelt down by Nyxie’s sunlounger.

“Right, down to business then, I suppose.” Nyxvira groaned, as two well-dressed bodyguards moved forwards and adjusted her seat, propping her immense bulk up so that she was now in a sort of lazy, nonchalant sitting position.

“I’ve got a job for you, little one.” Nyxie stared down at Narcissa from behind her rhinestone shades, delicately moving a thread of red hair out of her vision.

“You hunt bounties, and I have a bounty for you to hunt. Its a lovely relationship we’ve got going.” The Faerie made a loose gesture with her hand at one of the waiters, who fled back inside the penthouse, then re-emerged some time later with a generous slice of cheesecake balanced elegantly on a silver tray. The waiter sauntered over to Nyxie, who was quick to scoff down a forkful, before sending him away.

“So, anyway *MUNCH* I’ve *SCOFF* got a job for ya,” she repeated in-between mouthfulls of cheesecake “There’s a Goblin who's been causing some trouble for some of the Rats skittering about *CHEW* in China *MUNCH* town.” Nyxvira let out a little belch as she swallowed her piece of cake “ Goes by the name of Gish. Some of the bottom feeders have taken a disliking to his attitude, and plan to show him who's boss. Unfortunately for them, Nyxvira Bloodbloom is boss, not Erick the uppity rodent-fucker.”

The Faerie shifted in her seat, sending ripples through her gigantic body, which was exposed, expect for the more private bits which were which was covered by her designer bikini.

“My people inside the Rats tell me that a cute little possy of bloodtweakers and dustsmokers are planning to smash up his shop sometime this evening. I want to buy guns from the gobo, and I find this to be inconvenient. I’ll leave the specifics up to you, but make sure they don’t harm a hair on his slimey green body.”

Nyxie waved the bounty hunter away “That’s all. Now piss off and let me enjoy my cake in peace.”

[Atrophy]

The subway train to Chinatown rocked unsteadily against the tracks as it tore around a bend in the underground. The dingy lights of the car flickered and buzzed as the wheels clicked against the rails. Graffiti fought with garbage for turf inside of the subway while rodents and other beasts scurried to get out of the light of the passing train in the dark, dank tunnel that loomed around the train like a coffin. Valorie buried her nose in her phone and bobbed to the beat of the music running through her headphones, pretending to be involved in a ferocious text message exchange despite having no service in the tunnels. She was the one person wearing any color in a gaggle of black hoodie wearing thugs. To an outside observer it would seem like she was being targeted for some brutal boxcar beatdown or for some other form of harassment, the way the hoodlums had closed in a circle around the sitting woman. Their voices were low and hushed; some were visibly carrying pipes and other makeshift weapons. One of them was clutching a brown bag in their hand with god knows what inside and pushed it with a certain amount of force towards the young woman. Drink it or we’ll gut you, Bitch, this outsider would imagine as they pretended that they hadn’t seen anything, knowing it’d be best not to get involved with those thugs.

Of course, Valorie was not actually getting harassed. Although she was nothing like them in appearance (asides from hygiene: she still wore her clothes from yesterday despite the Sun already being down), she was most certainly with them. The man forcing the brown bag and, to our non-existing observer urging her to drink, had forced it to the woman in frustration more than anything else. He had bought the drink for himself, and she had been railing him to share the love since they had gotten on the subway train. Valorie tore the bottled bag from his hand and took a swig of the beverage. She wrinkled her nose and grimaced. Malt liquor, gross. But alcohol was alcohol, and when all of the places around there knew she was using a fake ID it meant she had little choice in what to drink--and a drink was something she certainly needed.

“Any questions?” asked the only other girl in the group and the apparent leader of this branch of Rats.

Valorie hadn’t taken her name to memory yet; she doubted she’d need to. The girl was part of the Fifth Street Rats. If the Bloodblooms and the Nyctaris looked down on the other gangs, and the other gangs looked down on the Rats, then the Rats looked down on the Fifth Street Rats. Even newbies like Valorie knew the Fifth Street Rats were a joke. They dressed tough, they acted tough, and they talked tough, but like a person holding a pair of deuces in a high stake game of poker they folded every time when things got rough. The Fifth Street Rats were the kind of gang who would gladly try to steal candy from a baby and yet still somehow manage to come out with just a shitty diaper and a black eye. They were losers. And since Valorie was tagging along with them, that too meant she was now a loser...if only for the job.

That was the first reason she needed a drink. The second reason she needed a drink was because she had pissed off Quinn--ultimately the reason why she was now on a subway train with the Cleveland Browns of street gangs. Quinn had told her that the Fifth Street Rats might be getting some Fairy Dust. This had come, naturally, after they had a ten minute screaming match over the phone during Valorie’s cab ride (and then she had stiffed the poor bastard on the tip, too). In hindsight, Valorie realized this was a kind of penance. Yes, yes, she would probably score some drugs, but no high was worth dealing with these assholes. Especially when they had such great ideas like the one this chick had just shitted out of her mouth.

Which was the third reason Valorie needed a drink.

“Yeah, I have one,” said Valorie, resting the bagged bottle between her thighs. The odds of the man getting it back during this train ride were exceptionally slim. Putting away her phone, she elbowed the two Rats sitting beside her to slid over so that she could have some room to lounge.

“Didn’t even think you were listening, uh…” It seemed the other girl hadn’t taken her name to memory either. Valorie narrowed her eyes.

“I wish I hadn’t,” said Valorie. “So, my question?”

“Whatever. Go ahead.”

“Okay. Thanks. Great!” Valorie gave a smile that was clearly fake. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

“What?”

“I’m going to pretend you said no. So, are you fucking stupid then?” said Valorie. Some of the other Rats bristled; the girl blinked, confused and caught off guard. She had been surrounded by the Fifth Street Nobodies for so long that she wasn’t used to be challenged by another Rat. Valorie rose her hand. “It’s a rhetorical question. I already knew the answer when I heard your fucking plan.”

“Who do you think--”

“Shut. Up.”

Valorie stood up very quickly, the bottle gripped in her hand, as she stared down the other woman. Despite being larger than Valorie, the other Rat backed up. Perhaps because she thought the woman was going to club her with the bottle of Cobra. Perhaps because she saw the anger still lingering in Valorie’s eyes from today’s earlier failure. Maybe it’s because she knew Valorie had gotten a vial of Demon’s Blood (although Valorie was saving that baby for a rainy day) from one of the other Rats. Valorie took another chug from the bottle, focusing hard to make sure she didn’t wince. She had learned through Quinn that the best way to deal with any Rats she did not know was to establish an early dominance. Like it’s the first day of prison, only it’s generally best to avoid shanking any of your fellow Rats. That kind of bothers them. Truth be told, most Rats were junkie cowards and quickly kowtowed whenever somebody took command.

Although occasionally you’d just get socked. The punch did not come, however, so Valorie continued, talking more to the other Rats than to the girl:

“Look, while I am all for smashing some gobo-bitch’s shop apart because he hurt fuck boy’s feelings,” said Valorie, gesturing towards the man who had tried to buy his piece from Gish with drugs; the same man who had given her a vial of Demon’s Blood in return for a false favor she would never deliver upon. “But if you think running blindly into a gun shop swinging a bat around is good idea then I can just shoot you myself and save you some time. Unlike some of you, I would rather spend tonight getting high from some Fairy Dust instead of through a morphine drip while recuperating in a hospital or dead from a gunshot wound through my,” she jabbed a finger against the woman’s head, “empty.” Jab. “Fucking.” Jab. “Skull.” Shove. The girl fell onto the seat across from.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” said Valorie, looking around at the group. “When we get to Chinatown you guys are going to find some place close to this prick’s shop to hole up in. Don’t all stick together; seriously, a group of six people with bats and bars all wearing black is suspicious as fuck. I’m very surprised you even made it to the subway without getting picked up. But don’t get far enough apart that you can’t see one another neither. I’ll go inside, make sure there isn’t a whole bunch of dudes in there, and distract whatshisname. I’ll send you,” she pointed to the same guy from before. He had given her his number so that they could meet up later for that never-happening favor that she had agreed to, “a text. That’d be the signal for you guys to come in while he’s distracted.”

The subway stopped and the doors slid open with a woosh. Valorie tossed the other woman her bottle. She wanted to get wasted, but she’d have time for that later. A clear mind would be necessary for her part of the plan.

“No time for questions. Let’s go.”

She disappeared through the sliding door, a train of Rats following after her. The station was emptier than usual. It was late enough in the day that the office crowd were already home safe, and too early in the night for drunken degenerates to be out of the bars. The few individuals in the station were still cautious enough of the throng of gangsters spearheaded by a young woman to give them a wide berth. Valorie walked with a cool confidence as she led her troop up the stairs, a lit cigarette already in her mouth as she exited out onto the streets of Santa Somabra’s Chinatown.

Somewhere, a radio came to life: “Spotted seven suspicious looking types coming out of the subway. Five male, two female, all wearing black except for the woman in a red jacket leading them. A few of them are armed. Orders?”

From her vantage point the Ijosalfr could see both the entrance to the goblin’s apartment and the fire exit leading by his window. She had caught flashes of his green skin through her binoculars, working on guns and chatting on the phone, but nobody had yet to enter his apartment. She could have gone and warn him herself; an enforcer for the Bloodbloom carried a certain bit of authority. Yet any movement before the Rats struck could possibly send them scurrying back to their holes, and the she-elf was not going to miss an opportunity to redeem so many corrupt souls.

And she certainly wasn’t going to let any of Nyxie’s men take her marks. She pulled the walkie-talkie up to her lips: “Just follow them for now. We don’t want to chase after the wrong rodents.”

Valorie had never been to Gish’s before, but one of the Rats fed her directions. Closed down markets lined the streets. If the sun was up the markets would have been open and thriving with energy, but the folks in Chinatown were smart enough to head indoors when the moon came out. The sky was a light mixture of purple and orange, and strings of paper lanterns cast an eerie red glow throughout the streets. Darkened doorways led into massage parlors with lovely young girls supplied by the Nyctari and laundromats that stowed away drugs for the Nyte Kings. She passed by a restaurant that she had gone to before with Quinn and the Chinese Theater that they had been thrown out of an hour later for start a fight. When they were a block away she stopped and turned to the gang.

“I’ll keep an eye on the front to make sure that bastard doesn’t leave. You three, head back behind his apartment and keep an eye on the back door. The rest of you, hide out by the fire escape. Once it gets darker I’ll go in and then give you the signal.”

She watched as the Rats scurried to follow her orders, a cool smile on her face as the other girl walked by her. Valorie could read the girl’s mind: Bitch, it said, echoing the thoughts in Valorie’s mind.

Meanwhile, the radio crackled back to life: “They’ve split up.”

“I have an eye on their leader,” said the she-elf. “Return to your post in case others show up. I’ll radio if I see anything.”

Valorie continued down the street as the pack of dark hoods disappeared into sideroads and alleys, pulling her own hood up from beneath her red flannel jacket. Flicking the cigarette out into the street, Valorie ducked into a small restaurant and found herself a table by the window. Pulling out her phone, she hammered out a quick text message and hit send. Then she pulled out a fashion magazine and pretended to be reading it as she formed her part of the plan.

She knew she had to get rid of the goblin--though not in the typical mafioso euphemism sense where she tied some cement shoes to his tiny green feet or give him a necktie from Colombia. Vandalism, break and entering, stealing, drug dealing, arms trafficking, necromancy? Fine. Valorie still had enough teenage rebellion in here to find something romantic and thrilling about defacing property. She had enough greed and desperation inside of her to be okay with taking from somebody else if it meant bettering her life. She could lie to herself and say that selling drugs and guns was mostly a victimless crime. She didn’t force the junkie to overdose or the killer to pull the trigger. Necromancy? She only saw it as bad when she failed, and even then it was hard to say if there was any victim but herself. She started with a dead body, she ended with a dead body and her own crushed spirit.

But leading a bunch of Rats to bash the green out of a goblin? Even if she didn’t harm him herself, she’d still be directly responsible for his wounding or possible death. She couldn’t deal with that. Valorie didn’t believe that she was a good person; that part of her was shattered, scattered across Santa Somabra by her own hedonism. Yet, even if she didn’t fully buy it, she could still lie to herself. Fuck it, even if she knew she was rotten to the core at least she could fool others into thinking there was an ounce of decency in there somewhere. She’d even be okay with that. So she’d help him escape.

But she had to find some way to make him trust her.

“Just a water,” she said to the waitress. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

As Valorie waited for her imaginary friend and the right time to make a move, Vigilance watched her from the shadows of a nearby roof, her fair skin disappearing behind her death mask. Seven more souls. She would claim seven more souls tonight.

[Rockette]

She Walks Through Beauty, And Bathes In Blood. . .

---

When you lived for numerous centuries and experienced many eras, one realized that cities don’t often change. The uniform desolation and method of depravity seemed to fester and ooze through the teeming spires gilded above and eclipsing a yawning sky. Individual shadows only seemed to pool darker and thicker through the masses of smog and debauchery laden within them. Objectives remained just the same, the only difference was the face carrying out the execution and juncture of the intentions embellished on the need and desire for power. Many of which often suffered from betrayal, narcotics, or simply sold themselves to the favour of thick life that came in ruby sins. The latter was the most favourable, lost souls yearning for purpose and prosperity under the unified lust of their superior species, proffering not only their pale throats pulsating with a maddened desire, but their souls also in penance. Slick teeth against sweat deluged skin perfumed with the musk of tangible despair — it made her deadened heart clench in a vice of stone-addled hunger.

Maharet breathed in the euphoric surrendering of her prey, cupping a frigid hand against the sallow cheek of her chosen, bribing them with shimmering pools of steelish-blue that shined a near crystalline persuasion. It was their first time, so she promised to be gentle, soothing any nerves by the simple caress of her nimble fingers over veins and skin, creating a shared chill that made both quiver in unison. Baited on the prospect of feeding and lust, the lady in red sunk fangs in deep, buried into the breadth of burning skin and felt the tremors of a groan take over the individual in her comforting grasp. Palms spread over locks, shoulders, sweeping down the naked curvature of her spine before gripping tight into the velvet chaise the very colour of their essence. A small hiss slipped between skin and teeth as she sunk in further, dwelling deep into the sequence of hunger and her own gluttony that fixated her daily. What felt like hours only crested into minutes, ending much too soon for the parties gathered as Maharet laid her partner down and heat plumed between them both from the sinful fester of her body stained ruby and gleaming in taint. She grinned, fangs bridled through out her bow-shaped lips and seeming much more barbaric compared to the common arsenal bequeathed to a rudimentary Nyctari. She was much more equipped, ancient, and adapted to sheer through her prey with a plethora of sharpened teeth and primary canines being the pinnacle of her denture cutlery.

“Sleep now, and dream of me.” She cooed, swathing herself up in pale silk and sweeping the mane of red hair over her pale shoulder. Through her various networks panned through out Santa Somabra, she had gained the knowledge of those whom desired and yearned for a more refined and successful vampire lord, a mistress to cart their dreams and desires through her bite and prowess. Maharet was adamant in seeing to these wishes, personally inviting them into her fold that was beginning to expand beyond the Rouge. Already she had gained significant influence that pursued beyond her original borders, encroaching the concrete groups that had long since found purchase in the red light districts and beyond. However, when rumour of her return circulated through the masses of her — for lack of better term — allies and enemies, various members sworn to the Nyctari either pledged themselves to her rise or simply swept off to the sidelines, finding the shadows of secrecy a better comfort than her potential. Not that she could blame them, her name carried currency and many knew the tale of Maman who had sired her entry into the tragic longevity of her kind. The latter’s death was much less known, but many knew that something had been the catalyst of Maharet’s need of retribution to those in Italy whom had betrayed her, slaughtering them in the same way they had slaughtered her kith and kin. Loneliness made the woeful turn mad and crazed and the first, fine webbings of blood lust began to sew carefully across her deduction and purpose, making her despair.

The vampire vacated one of her many parlours designed for feeding purposes and left the door ajar with curious glances peeking inside before scurrying off after their mistress. Thralls of numerous sizes and fashions dotted the interior of her abode, some heavily donned in velvets, others cinched in lace and some forwent clothing entirely and dressed in glitter and silver chain slunk over hips and their intimate modesty. Each bore a peculiar aura about them, as if not entirely here nor there and basking in her presence as she passed with fleeting touches and lingering eyes. Those of sycophantic qualms eagerly wed to her side, preparing to hang on her every gesture and word, these received dismissive glances and barely their acknowledgment, making them nearly mad and bent on pleasing her. These she preserved for the more ruthless tasks, their manic devotion serving as a fine persuasion to see her desires come to fruition when a more bestial method was needed. Her grin still plastered into place, she directed her glamourous simper into their direction and listened gleefully on their awe-riddled gasps and grappling fingers to receive more of their mistress. But, Maharet digressed on pleasing the lot under her spell and completely disbanded them from her side with an immaculate gesture of dangerously sharpened keratin. Small groans of protest sounded, but none objected openly as she descended down into her own foyer from her spiraling stairwells, the entire building housing living quarters above and connecting her directly to the Rouge housed beneath. Fine tremors laced through the floors, music of a deep, pounding bass gyrating through the building that almost made her purr, for the Rouge never slept.

Cool eyes pinned directly on the shrill urgency of the foyer telephone summoning her call, the ornate design of the ancient model was polished creme and gold, reflecting her veener as she finally palmed the device and brought it up to her ear. The voice that speared through the line was newly familiar, slightly grated and harsh and bore with it a wealth of intimidation and snark. Her grin blossomed, befitting that of a Chesire as the conformation of her newest order was delivered without fail.

“Your reputation seems well grounded then, monsieur.” Maharet purred through the device, letting her voice drop in an octave of a murmur as her fellow vampires began filtering into the foyer, awakening from various leagues of slumber. One of her newly purchased establishments had been targeted by a mass of — she sniffed — Rats that saw fit to test her newly found ownership. The moniker was befitting, at best, a cesspool of wasted youth whom gorged themselves on narcotics and filth, slinking across the undergrowth of trash much like the rodent they garnered such an epitaph from. Mongrels....

“I trust though that all of the rodents were put down, I don’t want any survivors remaining, such violence will not be tolerated in one of my establishments.” She carried on, her usual voice of lazy infliction hardening just so, not quite enough to be perceived as a threat, but just enough to be gleaned with the warning of a vampiress not to be curtailed of her payment towards services.

She had heard of these Lost Boys through various tales, some that seemed fantastical at best, but bore some evidence in her previous dealings with the city. One of them seemed, vaguely, familiar but seemed uninformed if her existence aside from her original suggestion that they work for her. She had plans for them, plans that she knew required a swift and delicate execution on the surface, but needed their sort of efficient brutality to see her deeds completed without a hitch and didn't directly connect to her Nyctarium. Another purr rumbled into her throat, one sated and pleased from her earlier feeding and the relay of a job well done.

“No matter, I trust that you’ve completed the job. I’ll send a contingent of my thralls to clean the place up for business to resume as usual. Proceed to the Rouge at your earliest convenience to receive payment and your next objective.” Her voice carried with it a candied bite, accompanied by the gleam of barbaric fangs still gleaming in scarlet. “Au revoir, monsieur.”

Maharet settled the device back to the cradle of the receiver, letting her slender fingers rest on the telephone as she glanced skyward along the stairwells of her home, eyes lingering on the fine painting that detailed the harsh and beautiful likeness of her late mother that was hoisted high above the balcony of the second floor. Sadness gleamed in the eyes of the vampire, suddenly submerged and eclipsed by rage as she spun on her heel, the fiery mane of her hair billowing around her thin shoulders and burning bright against the pale silk draped over her elegant form. Steel-blue bore into the vampires under her service and influence, some flinched whilst others bent to their knees, preparing for her command and desire. Maharet beamed wide at their attention and devotion, she could not ask for better vassals.

“It seems I have need of an old friend my lovelies, would one of you be so kind as to send a missive to Kurtz of Barrow & White for your lady? Tell him it’s rather.. Urgent and the pay will, of course, be much of his pleasure.”

With her order sent and a myriad of her vampires immediately seeing to her deed, Maharet released the makeshift slip of pale silk, letting it pool around her frigid ankles before she slid off down a well embellished hall, preparing to receive her anticipated company and to the receive the wanton and dejected souls that always found way to her beloved Rouge.

[Flagg]

“goule”: Goules. Goul, or ghul in Arabic, signifies any terrifying object, which deprives people of the use of their senses. Hence it became the appellative of that species of monsters which was supposed to haunt forests, cemeteries, and other lonely places; and believed not only to tear in pieces the living, but to dig up and devour the dead
A New Dictionary of the English Language, 1832

The office was small, a cozy, book-lined room dimly lit and tastefully appointed. The arched windows gave a panoramic view of the Financial District, the skyscrapers blazing in the gathering dusk. Behind the grand mahogany desk hung a large renaissance piece depicting the titan Cronus devouring his son. Beneath the painting, perched comfortably in a leather arm chair and wearing a crimson smoking jacket of exquisite silk and velvet, Kurtz was reading. The book was thick, bound in crumbling letter, and the words on the cover written in a language no longer spoken.

A discrete knock on the door. Armand stepped in.

"Yes?" asked Kurtz, removing his spectacles and setting his tome down on the desk.

"A representative of Lady Maharet to see you, sir."

Kurtz raised an eyebrow and stood, removing his smoking jacket and slipping into his blazer.

"More vampires." he said with slight sigh, "Send them in, Armand."

The vampire was no Nyte King, at least. Handsome, well (if rather archaically) dressed in blacks and reds, he carried himself in the superior, louche manner that marked out all of the Lady's playthings and puppets.

"Welcome," said Kurtz, flashing his wide, white smile and gesturing for his guest to sit, "Always a pleasure to entertain associates of our friend the Lady Maharet."

"You're brave, to speak her name like an equal," said the vampire, pausing to give Kurtz an appraising gaze. "You're a curious one, aren't you? Don't smell quite human to me...I wonder what you'd taste like."

Kurtz sat behind his desk, hands steepled in front of him. His smile shrank into a smirk, but he did not reply. The room was silent for a long moment before the vampire spoke again.

"My Lady requests the pleasure of your company, she has some business to discuss."

"My colleagues in Romania are working on acquiring the Bellini portrait, which I am informed can be shipped here within the year. The price," said Kurtz, "...is still not up for negotiation."

The vampire chuckled, "No, no, this isn't about her art collection. My Lady thinks you can be useful to us in another way."

"What could be beyond her vassals and thralls?"

"She wishes to tell you in person."

"I will go see her, then." said Kurtz, "She clearly means business, to offer such a delicious retainer for the job."

The vampire look puzzled, "Retainer? She has not offered any payment yet."

Kurtz laughed, loud and disconcerting, and the vampire shrank back as he noticed Kurtz begin to change. "You clearly don't know your Master like she knows me. You're the down payment."

-

When Armand entered the office an hour later, he found his employer sitting cross-legged on the carpet, sucking the marrow from a bone and grinning. The room, like Kurtz himself, was spattered with blood, viscera, and splinters of bone. Intestines coiled over the desk and furniture like grotesque streamers, and the ragged remains of the vampire's suit lay piled in the corner, with a fanged skull sitting on top like a paper weight, picked clean of flesh.

"Armand," said Kurtz, standing. His clothing was torn and soaked in blood, his face scratched badly down the middle. Neither he nor Armand seemed to mind or even notice. "Call the Rouge, let them know I'll be over tonight to discuss details and terms. And tell them to thank Maharet for the meal."

"Of course sir."

"Then have my office cleaned up."

[Drinky]

Collab With RedDusk

After Valorie’s departure, Sander found himself back in his room, lying on the bed while his legs dangled from the edge. A small part of his barely functioning rational mind nagged at him about the mess in the basement, but he brushed it aside. He wasn’t sure he could stand to be in that place right now. Not when his thoughts were all tangled up into one great mess, and he began to wonder if a gunshot would fix that. Probably not. It would just end the day with brain leaking out of a hole on his head. It was not a desirable outcome.

He groaned into his hands, finally came to the realization that he had come up here to mope. It would not do. So he closed his eyes and decided to take a nap instead. Oblivion would be welcomed, at least, for now. This mess could be dealt with later.

Coward, said his thoughts.

“Coward.”- He found himself echoing.

Later that evening, Sander woke to his darkened office. Groggy from his untimely nap, he sat up, vaguely realizing he was in his chair, instead of his bed. It set off a few alarms in his head, but he brushed it off. Sleepwalking. He used to do that. Maybe the habit was just returning. A trip to the basement later, Sander had already finished tidying things up with Mr John Doe, but the man’s final words still haunted him. The deceased man mentioned Nichole in a manner that suggested they were lovers in life. Sander would have preferred to contact the next-of-kin, but in situations like these, this Nichole would do. He just had to find out who she was first, before sending the body bag over, since it sometimes conveyed the wrong message.

Time to go digging through Marco’s contact list.

It didn’t take long. Information brokers were quite common in this city, but not many of them managed to stay long in the business. At least, not that he knew of. They were all forced to retire one way or another. Hopefully, this guy hadn’t. He wrote the address on the back of his hand in thin, scratchy letters, grabbed his keys and wallet from a nearby bowl before leaving. The thought of calling in first crossed his mind, but he dropped it. He needed the fresh air anyway, might as well get out while he still could.

It didn’t take long for him to find his way over to Gish’s place. Macro took him here a few times in the past, but he had never entered. The old man always told him to wait outside. The goblin was probably not a very nice person. Then again, what would he know? He had never met a goblin that was actually moving. The building loomed over him as he approached the door, but in truth, it was just your standard dump. After all, the people of Santa Somabra didn’t care much for architectural aesthetics.

He knocked the door exactly three times, then stood back.

-------

Gish sat at his workbench tinkering as he often did. Experimenting with different gun parts and cartridge loads just to see how much he could get away with without having the firearm become a small grenade. Different chambers, different barrels, different calibers, whatever happened to be scattered across his counters at the time would make for a new prototype.

Today's creation was a small 12 gauge pistol. Gish had taken the barrel and trigger mechanism off an old shotgun, sawed it down so short that the shotgun shell poked out the end of the barrel and attached a small pistol grip. He thought it would make a nice last resort concealed weapon.

The weapon seemed like an interesting concept, though some critical mistakes had been made. Gish decided to test his new creation and fire it dry with a spent casing in order to make sure the trigger mechanism was functioning. Only problem was Gish grabbed a loaded shell for his test.

He slid the shell into the chamber and snapped the break action closed. Not expecting any recoil, he gripped the weapon loosely and tested it.

*BANG*

The weapon went off, peppering one of his kitchen cabinets and sending the weapon flying out of his hand. Outside dogs could be heard barking as Gish went into a fury shouting and cursing, his fingers stung from the lit powder that had been blasted all over his hands.

As far as his neighbors were concerned he was a metal fabricator, he hoped they would be accustomed to loud noises here and there from his suite. That being said the sound of a gunshot was about as common as a barking dog in this part of the city. People usually only became concerned when yelling and screaming followed the sound of gunfire.

Once his flesh and jacket stopped sizzling Gish had himself a discarded cigar. He often took to ashtray mining during his walk through the city. He much preferred cigars to cigarettes, packed more of punch for him and had more taste to them. It was his lucky day too, as this cigar had only been half finished.

After a few drags he heard 3 deliberate knocks from the back door of the kitchen that went out into the alley. That was the usual entrance for people who wanted to conduct "business" but he wasn't expecting anyone. It couldn't be the cops or neighbors, they would have used the front door.

Gish stood up straight on his stool and gripped his workbench with both hands, ready to duck at a moments notice.

"Entah!" He groaned, cigar pinched between his knife like teeth.

------

The gruff voice was muffed somewhat by the door, but it beckoned him inside, or so he believed. The door was indeed not locked, and he closed it behind him after entering. A few more steps and he was standing before Gish, the proprietor of this little ‘shop’.

“Good evening, Mr Gish.”- He said evenly, all while eyeing the work table behind the goblin, gaze lingered on the modified weapon. He brought his handgun, of course. Walking around unarmed in this city was akin to going in public without pants on: both socially inappropriate and likely to land you in trouble. After a short pause, he continued, choosing to skip straight to business. He didn’t want to stay here for longer than strictly necessary. Something here rubbed him the wrong way; for a moment there, he thought he saw black smoke again.-“I believe you can help me find a friend?”

-----

Gish had one quick look at the guy standing in his kitchen and let out a quite sigh of relief. The kid didn't look like a heavy hitter there to cave his head in, hardly even fit the part of a wannabe gang-banger type. As odd as Gish's first impressions of the man were, the 'direct to business' tone in his voice were money to his ears.

"Mistah Gish eh?" he hissed

"Now I haven't been addressed like that since my time in the homeland."

He took a drag from his ash stained cigar and relaxed a bit

"Ooh is this friend you're looking for then son?"

------

“Her name is Nichole.”- Sander said, his shoulders slightly lifted in a shrug. After a moment, he added his own speculation-“Also might have a boyfriend, tall guy, about six feet, caucasian. But before you tell me, how much?”

This felt like a long shot to him; however Sander decided to take it anyway. Poking around was not a healthy hobby in Santa Somabra, but as long as he didn’t do it for too long, he would be fine. After all, he couldn’t let John Doe rot in his basement. Might as well find an address to send him to. If all else failed, there were always the acid vats.

-----

Gish's eyes narrowed and teeth clamped down so hard on his cigar that he nearly shredded it. Only one person comes to his mind when he hears the name Nichole, and every time he thought of her he got a little more disgusted with every recollection.

Gish gave a hard glare at Sander and sized him up. He could see neither ire nor vengeance in his eyes. Could this guy be curious about her? Sander didn't look eager or nervous enough for that. All the more reason to question why he would seek her out. His bargaining tone left much to be desired so he couldn't be any sort of professional hired out on a contract to kill her. Gish simply couldn't plant a motive as to why he would seek Nichole.

Gish took a long drag from his cigar and spoke in a low, serious voice.

"Alright son. I'm betting you're not here to find some mate that went missing from a stomp out at a pub. You'd not come in ere' and ask me bout' someone less they'd be known in the underground."

He flicked the end of his cigar and felt himself die a little inside thinking about the next few sentences he would utter.

"I'll give this one to ya on the house son, cos' there's only one Nichole to know about in the underground and that's Nichole Vielsiti."

Gish took another look at Sander. He could tell all this was news to him, all the more reason to ask questions as to the why. However, Gish knew he didn't need to know why, it wouldn't change anything and there was no coin to be made shaking him down as to why he wanted her.

"She's a vampire, a damn sick one at that. People tell stories about her, and how she lures men and women into a sense of trust with her only to kill em', rob em', and worst of all eat em'. Apparently some nobs say she's part of a cult called the Mieamangeur, an independent group of vampires that eat people. I used to ask around if she was in with the Nyctari or Nyte Kings but from what I hear the cult is sovereign from em'. Nasty bit of work she is, can't say I know where to find her sadly."

Gish tapped out the reminder of his cigar of the workbench and gave a small grin to Sander.

"I heard she's not fond of the way Goblins taste lucky for me."

He let out a quick laugh and smacked his hand on the workbench. Metal parts and pieces chimed with the impact.

[JulienJaden]

Collab with @Atrophy

Cab rides were great. All you had to do was get in a car somewhere, tune out and then, sometime later, you were wherever you wanted to go. It gave you time to process anything that was on your mind, to nurse wounds, to fight the urge to throw up, to get ready for whatever you were going to do... whichever the situation called for.

But cab rides were awful. They smelled, the drivers were greedy bastards who either showed no regard for their passengers and had some awful music turned to full blast or were nosey as fuck and would shut up unless you paid them to or threatened their life. During the rush hours, there was no way in hell they got you anywhere in the city in less than an hour, even if your destination was literally two blocks away, and virtually all of them were involved with one faction or other, so if you wanted to get from A to B without the entire city knowing about it, taking a cab was not an option.

The streets were busy as usual tonight but luckily, Francis Cain was in no hurry, not worried about raising anybody's attention and he needed a moment to think.

It had come as a surprise to him that Nyxvira Bloodbloom, of all people, had offered him a considerable compensation for finding the Somabra Slayer. Well, that wasn't entirely correct. The job was to talk to some Catholic priest from the the outskirts of the city who apparently happened to be the spiritual guide to two victims of the Slayer, and the Faerie wanted to know what he knew, if anything.

Of course, that wasn't out of the goodness of her heart. Nobody who sunbathed and stuffed their face while conducting a business meeting on a serial killer would do so for the benefit of all. Or, as she had put it:
"I'm fucking sick of people looking to me every-time some prozzie ends up dead."

The simple truth of the matter was that the Queenpin of Santa Somabra was surrounded by a lot of idiots who could follow simple orders and were unquestioningly loyal but also had trouble remembering to breathe when faced with something as challenging as simple arithmetic. The few that were capable either were more concerned with administrative work or, like Vigilance, had other work to attend to. She chose the easy way out: Hire somebody who has some experience with investigations, see if it leads anywhere and if it doesn't or if he turns up dead, it's no loss.

Not that he himself had high hopes for this padre and what he had to offer, but one thing was certain: If this lead somewhere, he would follow it up, with or without being put on Bloodbloom's payroll. If only Narcissa hadn't postponed their weekly drink date for some work assignment... he could have used a drink right about now.

That was the train of thoughts rolling through Francis' head as he stared blankly out the cab window at busy stands and bright lights of Chinatown, the smoke of the cigarette in his mouth adding an ethereal quality to the sight as it lazily rose through his gaze, until the phone in his coat started to ring.
The caller ID was that of one Richard Kennedy, an old friend of Cain's in the SSPD. If there was one thing he knew, it was that Kennedy never called unless he had a favor to ask.

After one more drag from the cigarette, Francis answered the phone and exhaled more than he spoke:
""Hello Rich. What's urgent today?"

"You act like I only call when--screw it," said Rich. "I just got word from one of my informants that some pests are about to try to overturn a goblin workshop in Chinatown. I normally wouldn't bother you on something as trivial as this, but my personal rat thought it would be a great idea if she got herself involved. She just texted me her brilliant idea to try and save that green son of a bitch by sneaking him out right in front of the same group of Rats she led to his place."

A barrage of gunshots cut Rich off, followed by the voice of the man yelling vulgarities at someone.

"Sorry," he said, putting his mouth closer to the phone. "Look, I would go stop her myself, but I'm rather tied up here. My bosses are willing to line your pockets if you can make sure that their investment doesn't get her head snapped off in a trap."

"Your bosses, huh? Right, now I remember - your little family business on the side was why Narcissa hates your guts."
Cain was half-tempted to tell his old friend where he could stick this offer. Yes, both Vigilance and him weren't exactly model citizens these days but at least neither of them had ever had their allegiances mixed up while they still worked for the police and every time Kennedy added some 'incentive' to his request, it not only made him question how flexible his morals were but it also became a little more dangerous - after all, his relative safety stemmed from being neutral when the different gangs clashed. If he agreed to this and it turned out he had to kill some high-profile Nyctari to save some girl rat, he would be in big trouble.

But Richard Kennedy was, after all, one of his sources on the SSPD, and one of the highest ranking persons on the inside he had connections to. And just now, he found himself in need of somebody like that.

"Fuck it... I'm game, but I need a little extra from you."
He inhaled through the glowstick between his lips and gestured to the driver that he should pull over.
"I want the Somabra Slayer file, Rich. And this time, the unabridged version, if you please - none of that 'half the pages missing' crap from the serial rapist case a while back."

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line as Rich thought his options over. When he spoke, his words seemed like they had been carefully cherry picked. "I will do more than that, my friend. I'll have one of my boys send you the necessary information to access our network remotely. Whatever the SSPD knows, you'll know."

Better than saying they had almost jack shit on the Slayer.

"I'm sending you a picture of my contact and the coordinates around where she should be. I'll let her know that backup is coming. She'll responded to the name Valorie; tell her that her professor sent you."

There was no goodbye; the line just went dead. A few seconds later Cain's phone would buzz with a text message pinning the restaurant Rich's girl was waiting in and a somewhat blurry picture. The young woman in the photo had blonde hair tied up in a loose bun. Her eyes looked angered and a sneer formed on her lips that grasped a burning cigarette. It looked like she was outside of a music venue. There was a little bit of dried blood beneath her nose. Her clothes were stained dark in some parts. The way the beer bottle dangled haphazardly from her left hand implied that the stains had come from the woman being too sloppy with her drinks. Her right hand was casually giving the photographer, and anyone who looked at the picture, a middle finger. To most people, it would look like your typical Rat after a bad night.

But not to Cain. The surprise was so stunningly complete that his mouth went agape and the cigarette dropped right into his lap, burning a small hole into his coat and starting to work on his pants before he noticed a weird smell...
"Piece of shit!", he cussed and put it out with a few hits of his free hand, momentarily forgetting that he was a wizard and a pyromancer and could have prevented the heat's bite altogether. He even forgot to enjoy what Kennedy had put on the table - remote access to the network meant that, at least for a while, he was free to use any and all SSPD resources and would make some of his work easier for him.

Yet all of that was not even half as relevant because he knew this girl. Several weeks had passed since then and he had had more than a couple of drinks - both of them, for that matter - but they found their way back to his place and into his bed. What he didn't remember was how goddamn young she looked in this picture, like a rebellious teenager, not like a "20-something, looking for company" she made herself out to be. The last he saw of her was getting dressed and sneaking out at some ungodly hour the next morning.

But it seemed like they'd soon have an opportunity to catch up on the events of that night, courtesy of Richard Kennedy.

"Keep the change", he told taxi driver, a burly man who didn't exactly seem fond of pulling over and letting his customer off so much earlier than expected, but one slam of a door later, Cain had forgotten all about the guy and disappeared into the sidealleys of Chinatown.

[Atrophy]

Collab featuring @RedDusk and @Drinky

Valorie gritted her teeth; the phone in her hand shook with in anger. What the fuck is he thinking? she thought, slamming the expensive phone down on the table hard enough to shake the glass of water and rattle her silverware. A plate of half-eaten plum chicken sat steaming in front of her. The waitress had kept harassing her, so Valorie had ordered a plate to just to shut her up. It turned out to be a good move, for when the sweet and tangy smell of the sauce had hit her nostrils it reminded her that her last meal had been the other morning. It was nothing special, really, but after having gone without food for more than a day and then some it seemed like the greatest meal ever made--until her handler in the police, Rich, had texted her back. The food soured. She regretted passing the bottle off to that bitch. She picked back up her phone. Miraculously, the screen was intact. She looked at the text log again--maybe that malt liquor had hit her harder than it felt. Certainly she was mistaken.

Rich: Don’t do anything stupid.
I’m sending someone to help.

“Tch, like I’m listening to you,” muttered Valorie, stuffing the phone into her jacket. Her plan would work. She would sneak Gish out of the front and then let the Rats in through the back. They would wreck some of his toys, feel better about themselves, and then they would all get stoned. Valorie smiled. Good karma to put the mind in a good state often led to the best trips. She could not wait to spend the night curled up on her couch with Sammy on her lap and an empty baggie of Fairy Dust next to her catatonic body. It had been days, weeks since she had some dust. But first she’d--What is this idiot doing!? Valorie’s jaw dropped. She bolted up from her chair, knocking it to the floor with a clatter as she stormed out of the building.

“I’m just having a cigarette,” she said dismissively back as the waitress shouted after her, knowing fully well that she was not setting a foot back in that restaurant. Her feet pounded against the street. One of the Rats had wandered out of hiding, ducking behind a streetlight in a failed attempt to act like a secret agent stalking across a road. “The fuck are you doing,” said Valorie, her voice registering at a note only a few steps below a dog whistle. “Get back, you idiot, get back.”

“Someone went in,” said the Rat, dimly.

“No shit somebody went in, it’s an apartment building.” Valorie kicked him in the leg. “Go, back, get back. Before anybody sees you. Nooooooow.”

“Nobody’s here,” said the Rat.

He was wrong. Vigilance watched the scene from the roof as the young woman in a red jacket grabbed the man in a black sweatshirt by the hood and dragged him towards a side alley. Her radio crackled to life once again; one of Nyxvira’s watch dogs calling to check up. She ignored it. The radio beeped again. Grabbing it, her voice dragged out from behind her mask: “All clear here.” She’d wait until the entire group revealed itself. Then, she would take them all out in one fell swoop. She could see the man talking to the goblin through the window. He wasn’t with the Rats; he didn’t have the air of filth radiating from him.

Valorie huffed as she turned the corner from where she had deposited the stray Rat. Casting obvious, suspicious glances around to make sure that none of the other Rats could see her the woman ducked into the apartment building. If one Rat would wander than the others would, too. It was amazing how the same people who could sit on a couch all day and watch the wallpaper couldn’t wait twenty fucking minutes for a more apt time to commit a crime. I can’t stand impatience people, thought Valorie as she bumped against some spinster as she pounded down the hallway towards Gish’s apartment. Coming upon the door the woman did not knock; she did not even slow down. It dawned on her as she pushed through the miraculously unlocked door that she never did think of how she’d convince the goblin to trust her.

Might as well try everything.

The goblin’s generosity surprised Sander, but his information on Nichole even more so. It could be a joke; Gish was pulling his leg here. Goblins weren’t really known for their hospitality. Or he just didn’t think Sander was a worthwhile customer and decided to get rid of him.

“Are you sur-“-He began, then cut himself off suddenly, turning to the closed door.

Black smoke coiled and spread, engulfing the wooden panel. A split second later, Valorie barged in. It dispersed.

As Gish simmered back down from his quick laugh he heard an unfamiliar sound. His front door had swung open. 'Who in the fuck uses the front' he quickly uttered. He hopped off his stool in an instant and wrapped around into the the doorway that connected his kitchen to the front door via a short hallway.

There stood a young woman, thin as a rail with rather pale skin. Gish took a breath with mouth agape ready to lay into her for just bursting through his front door of all places, but she beat him to the punch. That's twice in one night he felt a little piece of himself die inside.

“Whatever you do don’t fucking shoot me, okay, look I may not look it but I’m actually here to help trust me I actually work for some good dudes okay well I wouldn’t say they’re good actually they’re kind of dicks but they’re good for you, uh, I don’t even know what that means but listen you gotta trust me I’m here to help you out okay so there are a bunch of angry dudes waiting out back ready to come in and beat the living shit out of all of your scary, scary guns--please, seriously, do not shoot me I’d be so pissed off if you did--and then they’re going to beat the living shit out of you but if you come with me I can get you out of here okay even though I’m kind of just winging this--Sander!?”

She spoke so quickly that Gish stared in awe for a few moments, mouth still half open. Hands and fingers pointing and whizzing around as she spoke of friends, bosses, guns, beatings, shooting, and Sander. Gish did a quick double take between the two as they obviously knew each other.

The sight of her corpse supplier stopped her just long enough to catch her breath, lowerer her flailing arms, and gave the light bulb in her head time to actually flicker on. She turned to the goblin. It wasn’t her first time seeing one ever. There were plenty of pictures of goblins on the Internet, including some that she would very much like to forget ever seeing from her days of perusing the Deep Web. Yet this was her first time ever seeing one in real life. It was strange, but the first thing she noticed was his teeth. How the hell did a goblin have a brighter smile than her? Even if she was a few inches taller, that was still a kick in her ego’s gut. She pointed to Sander and gave a half-smile.

“We’re business partners. Sander and Pierce Protection Agency,” said Valorie, realizing that she didn’t know or didn’t remember Sander’s last name. She stomped her foot down. “Listen, a bunch of Rats are posted up right outside. It’s clear out front, but we gotta go now. We’ll keep you safe.” She shot Sander a pleading look and spoke through gritted teeth. “Right, partner?”

When she finally re-iterated and gave him the brass tax that people were coming to fuck him up, Gish's mind raced and he stared off for a moment. Sander was stunned. For the longest of time, Sander just stood there like an idiot, eyes widened and mouth barely closed. Only when he heard his name did he manage to regain some resemblance of intelligence and stutter out a few words.

“Eh…Um… I…Ah”- He blinked owlishly, gaze dancing back and forth between his ‘partner’ and the goblin. His mind roared, urging him to calm down and take in the situation before anyone got shot. Because from he managed to salvage from Valorie’s ramblings, someone might get shot very, very soon.-“Of course.”- He finally managed, narrowing his eyes at the necromancer slightly, before turning to Gish-“I’m sure my partner here will give us a very detailed explanation once we’re in the clear.”

Valorie gave an affirmative nod, the smile on her face widening in a devious way. She turned to Gish.

He'd always planned for the case of when a person would turn on him, but he only ever expected to have trouble from a single individual, never a whole crew. He never thought he would draw that kind of attention. For a moment he didn't even know if he could trust this girl.

Though, as was practice in his business, one has to come to trust strangers often with not selling you out to the cops or other riff raff. He knew he didn't stand a chance against a crew of people, he knew he was looking at death on one hand, and only probable death on the other.

He reached under his workbench and revealed a fresh, brand new cigar. It was one he had been saving for an occasion like this, his death. Given to him a long time ago, he knew little about it other than it was expensive and fancy. He pinched it between his lips and snapped his fingers hard at the end of it. The cigar lit effortlessly, he remembered something about a sort of dragon extract coated in the tip.

"Alright bird, lead the way. And elp' yourself to a piece if you think we'll need it." he said sternly, motioning to the weapons he had lining the hallway walls.

He didn’t really understand what Valorie was trying to pull here. It could be a ruse from the Rats; luring the owner away with cheap tricks before another group came charging in and robbed the place. He wouldn’t put it pass them. The Rats were a gang of hedonist; they would do anything for the next high. Valorie could certainly do better, but then again, it was her choice.

Fortunately, the goblin decided to go along without much fuss. Which was quite odd, considering the whole situation. Then again, it was the goblin’s shop. His choice to throw it away. He even offered them some items from his shop. Sander glanced briefly through the display, before stopping on an old hunting rifle at the back. Fingers of shadow wrapped around the trigger. He swallowed drily, turning back to the door with a brisk snap of his head.

“We probably won’t.”Hopefully. Still, Sander reached into his leather coat and undo a strap on his shoulder holster. Just in case.

“Aha, I think I’ll pass, thanks,” said Valorie, the gun she already had weighing heavy in her purse. “Look, we should--S-S-SHIT, GO!”

The back door flew open with a bang. They hadn’t waited for her signal. Of course they hadn’t waited for her signal. Stupid fucking junkies, thought Valorie as she grabbed Gish by his hand and dragged him out the front.

Sander was turned away from the back door when it happened. He didn’t see anything, but the telltale sound of wooden door being kicked open was hard to miss. Beside him, Valorie had already begun to drag the goblin to the front door, so he followed suit while one hand creeping into his jacket, wrapping around the gun. He found himself surprisingly calm as he flicked the safety off. From then on, it was easy. He just followed Valorie’s lead, occasionally glancing behind them to check for pursuers. They were followed, predictably. There were figures in black hoodies just around the corner. The thugs weren’t content with just the shop. So it turned out Valorie was sincere all along. That, or this was a very, very elaborated ruse. But such thing felt rather far beyond the capabilities of an average Rat.

“Valorie.”- He used her full name this time, his voice a low grumbling, full of uncharacteristic irritation.-“Your friends.” Deal with them before I do, but that was left unsaid.

One.

“They aren’t my,” she turned on her heels just in time to see three Rats turn around the corner, “my...friends. Uh, hey guys, I mean, what the fuck are you doing?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” yelled one of the Rats. It was the girl whose parade Valorie had rained on earlier. From the sound of her voice, she had been hitting the bottle pretty hard while they had been waiting. She was backed by the boy Gish had insulted earlier and the Rat that had wandered out stupidly into the middle of the street earlier. In the distance, something sounding like metal sparking against metal rang out. “I knew we couldn’t trust you!”

Two.

“Wait, wait, wait, I can explain. This isn’t what it looks like,” said Valorie. A loud noise went off in the background from Gish’s workshop. She heard a yell forward by two more loud bangs.

Three.

“Looks like you’re a fucking gobo-lover,” said one of the guys. The one who had visited Gish earlier. Valorie quickly let go of Gish’s hands. She gave a sideways glance to Sander that was supposed to communicate something along the lines of “Trust me, I got this.” Instead, all it said was that she was way in over her head and drowning fast.

Something caught her eye. Shaking, she rose her hand and pointed behind the girl.

“B-b-b-behind,” was all that Valorie could meekly mutter.

“I’m not drunk enough to fall for that, you fucking sl--”

A bloodcurdling scream tore through the air. That sound. Valorie had never heard that sound before. It was the sound of someone dying. She knew she should take this time to just run. She knew she should just turn and run and get the fuck away from here as quick as possible. She knew she was just a little kid playing the role of a tough ganger. She knew she was in over her head. She knew she was going to get herself killed. Yet, Valorie had to see death. It could be a breakthrough, it could be the thing she needed. She had to see it, she had to see it. As if in a trance, the woman pushed the goblin towards Sander. She did not know if her partner took the hint to grab him and go or not; she didn’t care. She had to know what death looked like.

For a second, time stood still. Valorie’s eyes wavered as she focused on the figure: a tall, slender in dark form fitting armor with the face of a skull. The masked figure was clutching the girl Rat Valorie had hassled earlier as the two male Rats slowly turned to face the reaper. She was still screaming as the nasty, serrated edge of the being’s blade that was shoved through her back was ripped out through her side, viscous splattering across the street as the screaming subsided. The light in the girl’s eyes disappeared; the corners of Valorie’s lips twitched. Her heart thudded against her chest in a mix of fear and excitement. The dead girl’s grip on the bottle still in her hand faded; as it shattered against the street time resumed its normal pace.

Four.

One of the boys turned to run towards Valorie. His head popped in a spray of pink mist as a bullet entered his drugged brain and ricocheted around the polluted mass before erupting out the front of his skull. Valorie could feel the warmth of his blood as it splattered against her face. She could taste the cooper flavor on her lips. Five. The other boy had tried to swing at the masked bounty killer with his steel pipe. Vigiliance sheared through the blade and then sheared through the boy. Six. Valorie’s mind raced. Her eyes danced trying to not miss a second of the massacre. She could smell the sickening sweet scent of death. She could hear the dying moans of the last boy. All of this. She needed to remember all of this. This would be the breakthrough that she needed, all thanks to--

“Oh F-” started Valorie, her better senses finally kicking in.

“Seven,” said the masked woman, leveling her gun at Valorie.

Valorie’s ears were ringing as she dove through a door on her side into an old warehouse. She didn’t have time to look and see if Sander or Gish had run away. She didn’t have time to look at the dull, burning sensation that was aching through her shoulder where the bullet had grazed her. She didn’t have time to look as she ran through the warehouse, stumbling behind cover as another gunshot rang out. She didn’t have time to think as her hand grabbed the syringe of Demon’s Blood in her pocket, pushed up her sleeve, and jammed the needle into her arm. The effect was almost instant. She no longer needed time to think or look; she’d have all the time in the world after she killed this bitch. Grinning devilishly with unbridled confidence, Valorie pulled the gun out of her purse and flipped the safety off. She crouched down low and then, hearing Vigilance’s boots crack against broken glass on the warehouse floor, sprung into action. Jumping higher than she ever had in her life, Valorie’s finger squeezed. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Vigilance knew right away that the Rat had jammed herself full of Demon’s Blood. No human could hop like that. She twisted into cover as the bullets rang out throughout the warehouse. Two of the shots went completely wide, burrowing themselves into the far wall of the warehouse. The other bullet hit the ground by her feet. Vigilance returned fire, moving from cover to cover as the two progressed through the warehouse. The Rat slid underneath a table, firing twice at the she-elf. Bang. Bang. Another bullet whizzed by Vigilance. One struck her in her armor. It hurt like a bitch, but she shook it off and returned fire. The Rat had already vanished. Vigilance looked around. The warehouse was dark, lit only by the street lights coming in through the cracked industrial windows. Vigilance stilled her breath. She listened. She could pick up the Rat’s rapid heartbeat almost instantly--it was too close.

Valorie leapt down from the rafters above on top of Vigilance, bending the barrel of one of her pistols and ripping the other from her hand. The she-elf tried to flip the Rat over her back, but Valorie grip was too strong. She had never killed anyone before, but the Demon’s Blood coursing through her veins told her it would feel amazing. She drove her gun underneath Vigilance’s mask, promising herself that she’d resurrect the bastard again just to watch them die once more after this. A shudder went through her body as she pulled the trigger.

Click.

Click click.

Clickclickclickclickclickclickclick.

Vigilance flipped onto her back. Valorie was more surprised than hurt by the hit, but it gave Vigilance enough time to slip free and draw her blades, but not enough time to block a flying knee from the Rat. Vigilance felt her armor cave a bit as the force of the strike knocked the wind out of her. Valorie felt blood drip from her leg. Another flesh wound, or the Demon’s Blood didn’t let her notice it as anything else. Vigilance recovered in time to bat a crate out of the air with her sword; the follow up knocked one of the swords from her hands. Another fucking crate flew through the air, Vigilance leapt out of the way...and right into a shoulder check from Valorie. She heard something crack as she hit a wall and knew from the pain that it wasn’t her armor. There was no fucking way she was going to let herself get beaten by some junkie bitch. She reached down to grab her sword, her body shaking with anger.

“Looking for this?” growled Valorie, waving the iron sword around like a toy. An unlit cigarette was pursed between her lips as she sat on her haunches on top of a table. “I heard about you. You think you’re some tough scary bitch because you dress like a fucking goth and murder some stupid little fucking druggies. Well, I’ll have you know that I’m not your normal stupid little fucking druggy.”

She hopped down from the table, put the point of the sword in towards the ground, and stepped on the blade until it snapped under foot. That was a gift, thought Vigilance, bristling as her temper rose. She began struggling to her feet. Valorie laughed sharply.

“Just give up!” yelled the Rat. “Don’t worry, you won’t be dead for long.” Valorie clasped her hands together, bouncing with excitement. “The things I could do with your body. Oh, the things I will do with your body.”

Vigilance watched as the girl reached into her pocket, producing a lighter. Valorie couldn’t see it, but the she-elf was smiling beneath her mask. Striking the lighter with her thumb, Valorie began to raise it up towards her mouth. As it was halfway up her chest, the flame turned blue and leapt onto her flannel jacket. The jacket went up like a christmas tree. Valorie howled something incomprehensible, throwing the jacket off of her body. The flaming cloth landed on a pile of crates, and they caught ablaze as if they had been soaked in gasoline. As Valorie spun back around, Vigilance was already on her feet.

“Are you done playing around, little girl?” said Vigilance, the teal-flame of warmblood wreathing her body as smoke began to fill the warehouse.