Creatures

"Listen, I'm calling all the shots." Laughed the vampire at the head of the table.
"And I say, when I don't want a big birthday party I don't want one, capiche?" Protested an attractive young vampire with small and sensible canines. His golden hair shined in the light. Seated next to the boss man himself he might as well have been sitting in the man's lap, the way he had been primed by him so perfectly for the friendly conversation and the gentle, digging character assassination at the dinner table was ridiculous. He was a prize whore, as tasty as the veal they were eating and just as expensive. There was no other man better fit for the job. He raised his ringed fingers exaggeratedly, making a boyish gesture that was half scouts honour, half a fearful crossing of himself in the face of the potential birthday plans his aquaintances had planned for him.

"Aw, but what about your parents, huh? They drove up all the way from the Bahamas just to get here for it!" Coaxed the boss with a knowing grin.

As if reading Tank's thoughts, a man leaned into his direction and whispered,
"You think they're fuckin'?"
Tank gave the man seated next to him a particularly bovine look, saying nothing. Luckily, the interaction was interrupted, to the relief of the initiator, when the cherubic vamp at the head of the table started choking on his veal for a moment, before primly dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.

"You're kidding!" He croaked, finally, and it was cute. It really was.
"I must be," Said the boss, taking a slight sadistic glee in seeing the boy panic, shrugging his shoulders easily, waiting for the table to grow silent.
"The Bahamas are islands!" He yelled finally, slapping his sexed-up subordinate on the shoulder. The table, after thinking about what the man had said for a second and deliberating whether to laugh along too, roared in response.

"Wait wait," Said the young vampire, who's name was Pierre, "You mean... They can't drive up from the Bahamas because... Oh!" He laughed along too, cracking the table up again. If it was a dumb blonde act it was a very good one, an endearing one, Tank thought to himself. He picked up a fork. The thing looked tiny in his fist - fake plastic cutlery in a little girl's toy kitchen set - but he held it in his hand nevertheless. The man who had made his proposed speculation did not speak to him again. He stared at Pierre expectantly.
 
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"We should head home," said Cecilia, her arms wrapped tightly round her waist. With his hand tucked cordially into the crook of her elbow, Arrow and the Lady of Aster-Pitch Manor walked through the parade's finale which, now under cover of nightfall, had turned into a brilliantly heinous celebration. However, it was no place for a Baroness: a nervous one at that, whose inexperience in the gutter district of the city left her stuck to Arrow's side and wary of the dark. He guided her past haphazard stalls and the cheap neon lights of pop-up bars, and beneath the now-tattered ribbons of a Chinese dragon float. They turned to leave the main square down an alley so poorly lit Arrow had to fish his phone from his pocket to use as a torch. The alley was narrow, threading between tall, dilapidated old buildings now inhabited by squatters and insects.
"Don't worry," he said softly to a baulking Cecilia as they paused by the alleyway's entrance. "I know my way round the city, and this is the quietest route. We won't have any trouble." Eyes followed them from a top-floor flat, and widened as much as their drugged-up state would allow when there was a muffled noise and Arrow's torchlight disappeared.

The gang of young Creatures had sprung from the square and cornered Arrow and Cecilia in the alley. They were quickly surrounded by leering, loutish drunks after any money they could get. Cecilia, in her sky-blue summer dress and with rose-adorned antlers, was a perfect target.
"Take this," said Arrow calmly, thrusting a wad of cash towards the gang's de facto leader. He grabbed it, stuffed it into his pocket and laughed.
"Now you." He looked at Cecilia.
"I - I don't carry cash," she stammered, opening her bag with viciously trembling hands to prove it. The Creatures grabbed it and emptied her belongings onto the grimy concrete, then stared up at her in disdain. Their leader smiled slowly; he was eyeing the gemstones around her neck.
"Guess we'll just have to take something else," he said, reaching for her throat.

It was then that the commotion started. Arrow grabbed the Creature's wrist and shoved him backwards.
"Don't put your hands on her!" The gang immediately pounced, beating Arrow to the ground as he attempted to protect Cecilia, who gasped and cowered away from the hands reaching for her. Everything was a blur and Arrow couldn't get up anymore, try as he might - his mouth was drooling blood and his body ached and he couldn't see much but blinding white so punched clumsily in hopes of hitting someone. He heard Cecilia scream in fear and something else joined the commotion, roaring towards him. He tried to scramble away from the shadowy new attacker who Cecilia seemed to fear so much but was grabbed by the ankles, yanked forwards and picked up with a cold arm around the waist. The gang started to retreat and as Arrow looked around in confusion, he saw that they ran as soon as they met the eye of the Creature who was dragging him. Cecilia cried out for him as each of her arms was taken by two more Creatures, male and female, who looked vaguely familiar.
"Take her home," said the man holding Arrow with a voice that croaked like his throat was in tatters. "Take her home!"
By now, Arrow was bleeding out so much that consciousness was escaping him. He felt as though he was swimming against a current with only his gasping mouth above the water, and everything kept going black. Eventually, still being dragged though Cecilia was now far out of sight, he fainted in the arms of his captor.
 
Jet yawned, tapping her manicured nails against the hardwood surface of the bar. As any good heist should go, of course, but that was just how the system worked. While she waited for her men to come back, she scrolled through messages on her cell; listings from various members dictating they were in position, conversations between the group. They didn't know she'd bugged all their cells, of course. It was a necessary step in the means of keeping everyone in order. If any of her crew members came into trouble-
-and there was one now. A beeping red alert on the west side of the city. She snapped her fingers, and a waiter came over with another cocktail for her. She sipped it. "West side, third avenue. The duo got spotted."
There was a sigh from the waiter, and with a ripple he vanished.
She grinned. Oblis was a grand addition to her inner circle, and she was very glad for his unending loyalty to her cause. He was the reason she was able to seize so much power over the northern sector of the city, honestly, and was now extending her tendrils to the western sector. Probing, searching. Seeing how easy it would be to take control.
She spun a knife casually against the table, letting it clink down. Now all she needed to do was wait.

Pom and Edi were cornered in an alleyway. Pom had her ears covered, curled down and whimpering against the wall, while Edi was in front of her, brandishing sharp teeth and more knives than should be feasibly possible. He was panting heavily. A few of the men lay unmoving on the other side of the alleyway, but there was still far too many, all significantly bigger than them.
One of the men grabbed Edi by his throat, slamming him against the wall of the alley and ignoring the Cetda's kicking and hissing. "Heh, look at this one! Still got some life in him. Probably would fetch a pretty penny."
"Not seen anythin' like em before, that's for sure. How much you think they're worth?"
The first man shrugged. "Couple hundred, maybe. If we bargain it right, could get it up to half a grand easily."
"Guys-"
"Only a couple hundred for these two? I'd argue they're more than that, J." The second man easily lifted up Pom, who thrashed in his grip.
"Let her go!" Edi yelled. He flicked his foot, revealing a knife embedded in the show, and kicked up, digging it into the man's wrist. He let go of him with a snarl, and the tiny boy darted over to the man holding Pom, only to get kicked away into the arms of two goons, who twisted his arms behind his back to keep him still while the second goon turns Pom about, examining her.
"This one would fetch a good five just on her own."
"Guys-!"
"She can't see, though, look. Surely that makes her less valuable."
"Not if you sell her to the people I'm thinking of. They love exotics."
The two shared a grin. A whisper of shadow interrupted them, as the two holding Edi back suddenly drop to the ground, releasing his arms. A shout is heard from in front of him, and he's tackled by a trembling bundle of fur as Pom wrapped her arms around him and held tight.
"Edi, a-are they gone?" Her voice shook and squeaked more than normal. Edi held her close, looking up at the figure wreathed in shadows standing over the various dead bodies in the alleyway.
"Yeah. Thanks, Oblis. Looks like there's a few gangs here, but no major overlord. We should be able to handle it."
Oblis just snorted, and in a whisper of shadow was gone again, leaving the two trembling and alone together.
 
"Ciao boys." Pierre shoots a grin to the men inside the warmly lit restaurant who smile back at him, because they can't help it. It's infectious. He waves a pale and petite hand like a royal with his back turned to them as a final friendly gesture. Pierre stalks out of the Strawberry Moon, his collar pulled tight around his neck. He wishes he'd brought a scarf, but perhaps the effect that would produce would make him too Dorian Gray, too foppish. The men can only tolerate so much, after all. He keeps the smile on his face until he sees something that makes it fade.

In the shadows, a thing lays crouched against a wall, its back one sweeping arch, an impossibly large hand steadying it, splayed flat against the brickwork. There are squealing noises in the parking lot outside of the restaurant on this cold night, accompanied by slick thuds. Pierre used to be a fisherman when he was but a nestling, and the sound reminds him of when his father would hawl a net onto the boat, the desperate slapping of fish against fish and the bangs as their struggling tails hit the sides of the boat ringing out. He cannot stop thinking about the image for a startling second, and then the memory dissipates and he's left back where he stands, arms by his sides in the dark.
The squealing stops and is replaced by the noise of rain pattering on concrete. Pierre instinctively, even in the face of such a bewildering scene, reaches for his umbrella. But it is not raining.

Tank turns sharply at the rustling sound from behind him. He grips the limp Corpik he impaled on his teeth tighter in a gloved and bloody hand. Even with his gaze on the young whore, he continues to sup. His adam's apple bobs thirstily as he drinks the good stuff from an artery, occasionally turning his head to spit fur and scales onto the earth. He slows his excited snarling- a subconscious tick one doesn't know one is doing until the moment of realisation- to a dull and satisfied rumble awkwardly, now that he has a voyeur.

"Oh Jesus!" Pierre says as the headlights from a distant car run across Tank's face, illuminating him in a flash of brightness. He holds a surprised hand to his chest as Tank straightens, rising to his full height which seems to tower above Pierre's lonely shadow. Now he'd probably only come up to the man's elbow, Pierre thinks. There is a grotesque impression of an emptying can as Tank gives the Corpik one last customary wrench and crimson spatters down Tank's shirt. It's an expensive shirt. The boss made sure all his men looked ship-shape, and now it's ruined forever, probably, unless in some unlikely event Tank comes to his senses and decides to wash it in cold water and salt as fast as possible. The sight makes Pierre wrinkle his nose. Crazy fucking bastard.

"Was the veal not enough?" Is all Pierre can stutter out as Tank pushes past him, evidently wanting to get home to whatever institution for the disturbed he crawled out from post-murder of an innocent member of the vermin persuasion.
"Needed something..." Tank turns his head to the side as if he's thinking, and that's the scariest thing of all, Pierre thinks, the idea that a vamp like that could have thoughts like the rest of them. Because what would those thoughts be? Depraved. Dangerous. He thinks. So he can plan. So he can realise opportunities.
"Alive. It's warm, then." Tank offers Pierre a glimpse at his red stained canines, the way they curve so ugly strong down his lips. It's a wonder Tank doesn't cut his tongue to ribbons when he eats. The great big thing looks away modestly, as if embarrassed.
"Cold shit doesn't do it for me." He looks around as if searching for an example. His eyes land on Pierre.

"You were sweet at the meeting." He addresses Pierre directly, making the smaller man panic inside.
"Like a little doll with a string on the back that you pull." Ominous. Was that a threat? Pierre wants to ask him what the fuck that meant, but Tank gives him a strange kind of salute, the fingertips sweeping over a deep scar on his forehead. What can only be a goddamn lobotomy scar it seems. Pierre backs up and watches a monster depart.
 
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Pom makes her way through dimly-lit back alleys, navigating a path only she can see. Edi struggles to keep up, but he trusts his partner. It isn't the first time they've navigated this route, either, though Pom knows it far better from the few times she's had to go here without him.
Pom's ears flick up and she takes a sudden, sharp right, diving into a pile of boards and boxes. Edi follows her, just catching sight of her feet wiggling through a small gap in the wall and vanishing. He quickens his pace, slipping through after them, and the two are plunged into darkness.
While he has no idea where they're going, Pom isn't bothered. She lets out clicks too high for most ears to pick up, though Edi can, of course, hear them loud and clear. When the sound bounces back to her, she gets a clear picture regardless of the lack of light, and moves further down the hallway after grabbing Edi's hand to lead him.
She comes across a pair of small, silver doors. Her claw taps a tiny screen, which beeps for a second before cutting out to static. The doors slide open, and the two of them crawl through.
It opens out into a huge space that looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Passageways of metal stretch out before them, a larger set of doors off to one side. The "main entrance", though it's not like they ever use it.
The two progress through to a room they know well, navigating closed doors and ignoring faint screams from various places and in various glitched tones.
The room in question is a laboratory, of sorts. A giant chamber in the back is filled with some kind of bubbling blue liquid, a specimen of some sort suspended in the mixture, asleep with all manners of wires protruding from it and connecting to the floor and ceiling. A girl who looks relatively young floats about a desk filled with various equipment, muttering to a notebook floating behind her and jotting down who knows what. She's about their height, bar the forcefield that keeps her three inches above the ground. At the moment, she seems engrossed in whatever she's doing, but she puts it down once she notices Pom and Edi.
"Ah. Welcome~" she coos, with a smile slightly too wide. "Your quarters are ready, as always. Proceed when you're ready."
Pom beams.
"Good to be home, Phaedra!"
 
Lights. How sweet. Lights strung up like telephone wires all over the neighbourhood. Different colours, candy coloured. Red blue and orange and pink and green. Tank smiles -as best he can with the teeth he has -at his surroundings. Through his drunken stumbling, his drifting ways that left him marble mouthed and empty headed, he'd really hit the jackpot this time. A rich neighbourhood. Rich, so fuckin rich every single one of its inhabitants can all afford the beauty, the scenery, the lights! Hell, it's a wonder they didn't have guards at the gates. Or pigs tailing every suspicious looking character in their cars, just checking, you could never be too sure, protecting the neighbourhood. Tank laughs aloud to himself, exhilarated from his last feeding. He strips his jacket off and dumps it in the road. It always felt warmer in richer neighbourhoods, like the very weather and temperature could be bribed into peace with a bit of dinero. He glanced down at his chest.

There remained a dusty coloured stain over his shirt from when that Corpik had bled out over him, but that couldn't have been helped. He'd been desperate. And now he was better. So much better. A woman dressed in furs was eyeing him from across the road. The darting eyes and the snubbed nose of some sort of Jackalope. She was looking at the jacket he'd shed, confusion written over her face. He turned to her and her eyes clouded with fear. The persistent clickety-clack of her heels as she sped up her walk. He grinned at her back.
"I may not be good-looking, baby, but I'm a killer in the dark!" He sneered after her. She began to run. That was okay with him. There were prettier women out there for him now. There must be, in a place like this. There had to be. This was the place the famous Aster-Pitches were raised, the gorgeous Cecilia and the rest. The latter Tank didn't spare a second thought to. Who the fuck cared about the others. It was that Cecilia, the one he'd seen discussed about in all the magazines that interested him. Those Velveteen rabbit antlers... Tank chuckled.
"Hey, you know a good place to eat around here?" He called after a weary man in a business suit. He sped up his walk too.
 
Arrow didn't quite wake with a start, though that's how it would have looked to outsiders. His eyes opened slowly, vision hazy and made painful with any attempt to focus. In fact, his whole head throbbed. Drawing a breath hurt his nose so much he gasped, which swung open his bloody jaw, causing only more pain. With it came a rush of clarity, and that's when he started bolt upright.
He was on a chaise-lounge in a modest living room with the burgundy curtains drawn and a glass of water on the coffee table. There was a needle set beside it, full of liquid. His breathing - a clumsy mix of nose and mouth breaths, alternating when the pain got too much - quickened as he examined the needle. He looked around dazedly. He wasn't bound or chained and the place was quiet. Had he been injected with that stuff while he was passed out? He tried moving a little to see if he was paralysed and, he thought anxiously, about to be cut open like in the human horror movies he used to watch. He wasn't. In fact his wounds, though painful, were dressed. A bronze hand reached tentatively to touch his face: his eyes were a little swollen and his jaw was uneven with dried blood. These wounds too, however, seemed to have been looked at. There was gauze in his cheeks (which he then unceremoniously spat out).
"Uh," said a nervous voice. Arrow started again, turning his head towards the doorway, where a leggy figure loomed. Red curls haloed his head, all the way down to his jaw - but they were parted nicely, and brushed, like he'd made an effort with his hair after months of disinterest. Arrow couldn't stop staring. The man was holding a mirror. "Would you like to use this?"
More thick silence. Arrow's mouth was suddenly dry and the pain seemed immaterial. The room was shadowy, but he'd never forget that face.
"Um- yes," he said, still unable to quite comprehend his situation. Mirror in hand, the Red Chief made his way slowly over to the chaise-lounge.

"Looks worse than it is," said Jack awkwardly while Arrow prodded at his blackened face, holding the mirror up so he could see himself. Jack bent down to pick up the needle and Arrow looked up at him silently, asking with his eyes. Their gazes met for half a second before the tension became too much to bear and they looked away again.
"It's morphine," Jack said, flicking the needle. He saw Arrow's brow crumple nervously and quickly continued. "Medical-grade, proper dose, all that. It's for your pain." He moved a little closer and saw Arrow flinch. Within, his grey heart tore itself apart.
"Do you trust me?"
Arrow put the mirror down and stared at his hands. They were remarkably unharmed save for a little bruising, despite all the punches he'd thrown. Jack's, on the other hand, were bloodied and bandaged at the knuckles. With each slow blink, pain shot up from behind his eyes into his browbone and temples; the more he thought about it, the more tantalising the prospect of relief became. Eventually, he looked at Jack.
"Yes," he said softly, holding out his arm. "Yes, I trust you."
 
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