Twenty Three to Midnight (Closed)

[Apollo Wilde]

Nine Inch Nails blared from the stereo as she idly drummed her fingers against her mouse pad. Beside her laptop, a cigarette lay in a malachite ash tray, long coils of smoke wafting from it. It was joined by several other butts, each categorized by a different color lipstick across it.

If you were to ask her, she hardly ever smoked. Only when she was stressed. Or on a deadline.

Which was every other day.

She really did want to stop smoking. It was one of her resolutions this year. Stop smoking. Eat better. Work out more. Stay at home more. Finally ask the cute barista at the coffee shop around the corner to a movie.

Overturn Proposition 42, which allowed Vampires to not have to identify themselves when mingling with humans.

You know, little things.

She should be thankful. And for the most part, she was. Her job truly was her passion in life, and each challenge it threw at her, she was able to rise to admirably. Her walls were covered in various placards and fancy pieces of paper, awards for this or that. Photos of her with prominent political figures, the last two presidents, mingled with family snapshots. Right now, she was working on mangled press conference notes, and with each edited word, coming closer to the decision that she would need to talk to Big Daddy about his newest intern.

God, who misspelled “president” as “presidence”? Intolerable. She reached for her cigarette, and took a long drag of it. Exhaled, as she looked at the chopped up word document on her screen. Watched as the cursor blinked. Selected “all” - and deleted the entire thing. Bolding the font and selecting a bright crimson, she typed at the top:

Big Daddy - Fire this intern. She’s shit. Excuse my French.

With some triumph, she stubbed out her cigarette, and started typing.

__________

“How do you respond to the accusations that you’re a bigot, Miss Battle?”

A polished smile with a Vaseline glide. Her hands folded primly in front of her on the table, modest nail polish that still had a little “kick” to it - a deep purple that set off the brown of her skin magnificently.

“I think ‘bigot’ is a rather unfortunate choice of word. And I’m also savvy enough to know that there is just no pleasing some people, as much as we try. I’m working in the interest of humans, humans everywhere, regardless of race, color, or creed. I recognize that vampires, as…creatures that resemble humans, of course would want the same rights. But the reality of the situation is that vampires still feed on humans. In fact, there are some groups out there that would be quite content to return to a slavery system, ensuring a never ending line of chattel. In fact,” she paused, taking a breath. “One of these groups, the Kinship, just attacked a homeless shelter, with the justification that they were feeding off of, and I quote, ‘the detritus of human society.’”

Across from her, another pundit was turning neatly red in the ears, before he abruptly spoke, cutting her off -

“Fear mongering! You’re creating fear among the populace, and keeping them from making sound decisions-”

“So you’re accusing me of manipulating through fear? When these fears are very well founded? Wasn’t it in the news, just Tuesday, that there were another set of vampire-hunger driven murders in the lower East End?”

The pundit across from her stammered, “Yes, that did happen, but it was hardly an act of terrorism! The vampires that committed this act were refugees; their safety net was yanked from under them, largely in part by Proposition 12, which, coincidentally, you helped to pass last year. You are in part of creating the desperate situation that these poor men and women found themselves in.” He was smug; riding high on the righteousness of his argument.

She was unfazed. “It’s easy to take the broad strokes of Proposition 12 and make the framer into the Bogey Man. Proposition 12 clearly states that the blood that vampires receive from certain facilities, the shelters designated for transient vampires that they cannot help within their own clans, are to be stocked only by donations. These restrictions were set in place so that there would not be a shortage to hospitals in time of need, and that all needs were met. Can you weigh the life of a human against the life of a vampire? Humans are expected to control their desires and there are consequences for not doing so-”

“Vampires can hardly be expected to be held to the same standards as humans!”

Silence across the table. The moderator, an older blonde, looked cautiously from one pundit to another.

“Mr. Pacheco, if I’m understanding you correctly,” started the blonde, obviously choosing her words carefully. So much for impartiality. “You believe that vampires should not be held to the same standards of humans?” Her voice was struggling to remain neutral.

Blood was in the water, and all parties knew it. And Mercy Battle attacked.

“In short, you’re saying that we need to make excuses for murderers, is that it?” She didn’t raise her voice, but there was a hint of calm incredulity that ripped the rug from under the other man’s argument. For a split second, the panic of having his argument so skillfully undermined was clear on his face.

“See, that, right there? That’s when my Mercy got him!” guffawed a portly older man, his once red hair gracefully aged into a pale gold.

“Big Daddy, please,” laughed Mercy, “Harold doesn’t exactly make it hard to get him all hot under the collar. The man’s temper is about as short as a hen feather.”

“What? Can’t a man appreciate the good work his best girl does? Come on, now: it’s a poor dog that don’t wag his own tail.” He waved over the bar tender, held up two fingers. The bartender nodded, set two fresh tumblers of amber whiskey in front of the two of them.

“I’m just telling it like it is,” she said, reaching for her glass. Taking a small sip, she enjoyed the burn from her throat all the way down to her stomach. “Harold McCoy may have been formidable a few years ago, but something’s really gotten him spooked. I feel like he used to have much better control of his temper.” She looked concerned, her violet lips making a small moue.

“Oh, well, hell, Mercy, didn’t you hear? He’s on their bank roll now. Has been for the last year and a half. I thought you were on top of this?”

“I’d just heard rumors, but I recall a certain august senator telling me to believe none of what I hear and half of what I saw.”

The older man paused, then chuckled, lifting his glass to his lips. Taking a long sip, the two were quiet, listening to the muted sounds of the bar. It was well after midnight; the taping had run until the early evening, barely giving her enough time to get back to the hotel for a quick nap. Remnants of her interview still clung to her - traces of her “fancy” perfume lingering stubbornly against her preferred fragrance of jasmine and apricot body oil, rapidly fading lipstick that she didn’t bother to touch up.

“How’s back home, Big Daddy? Feels like it’s been forever since I’ve been back,” she said, still watching the news play behind the bar. Her heels abandoned on the floor beneath her, she slid her bare feet back and forth over the rungs of the bar stool.

“Well, now....that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.” He set his glass down, let out a mighty sigh.

She inwardly steeled herself. Any time he sighed like that, it wasn’t anything good. “I didn’t think you came all the way up here just for my Joan King Live appearance.”

“Now, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m awful proud of you, Mercy. Always have been, always will be. You should know that. That don’t change, no matter what happens. You’re like my own daughter. Hell, as far as I’m concerned, you ARE my daughter. Just spent a little too much time in the sun,” and he playfully pinched her arm. His hands were large, heavily callused despite the years behind a desk. On his left hand was a worn gold wedding band, a heavy gold signet ring on his pinkie on the right hand. “But just because I think of you as my daughter doesn’t mean you become my only child, now. I can’t spoil you that much.”

“It’s Jessie, isn’t it?” She spoke without feeling, resisting the urge to down the rest of the whiskey in her glass.

“Well, now…” He sighed again, his big shoulders rising and falling. “She got to seeing this fella. Couldn’t stop talking about him - you know how she gets, just yammering on like there was no tomorrow. It was in one ear and out the other. You know, since you took to travelin’ so much on these jobs, she hasn’t really been the same. Been looking everywhere and nowhere for something. Girl’s got a right to be loved, just like the rest of us - but you know how she gets. I don’t know where me and her mama failed her, but we did.” His bushy brows dropped, and his normally merry brown eyes dulled as he looked into his glass.

“Mercy, she's taken up with a vampire. They want to turn her. And she wants to be turned.”

His voice was coming from a great distance; she could barely hear it over the rushing of blood in her ears. When she spoke next, it was a struggle, her body wringing her voice from her.

“My God, Big Daddy, why?”

“I just don’t know. I’ve prayed on it long and hard, and I thank God for the little grace He has shown. She says she won’t do it, not unless I agree to it. And I told her how I felt. Just about broke my heart to tell her no. Surprised you hadn’t heard about it,” he added, looking at her.

“No; Jessie hasn’t spoken to me…much. This would make sense, though,” she sighed, and, regardless of how it would make her look, she downed the rest of the whiskey. “Last time we talked, she kept poking at why I said the things I did. Asked me if I really believed them. I didn’t think much of it then - starting to make sense now. Shit. I mean, shoot.”

He gave her a mock glare. She gave him a half-hearted shrug.

“I think she’s gonna try to get back in touch with you. Try to get you to see things her way. I need you to try and talk some sense into her.”

“Big Daddy, Jessie hardly ever listens to me-”

“I’m gonna stop you right there. You and her been thick as thieves since y’all were ankle-biters. You think she doesn’t listen to you; that girl won’t say “boo” to a ghost unless she talked about it with you first. Just get on back home for a few weeks. Take a break. Campaign’s gonna run fine without you for a few weeks. Especially with that,” he gestured to the TV with a thick finger. “Come on home, Mercy.”

She looked down at her distorted reflection in her empty glass. Drummed her fingers against the sides of the glass.

“All right. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

 

[Obuzeti]

Noise.

Ammina stares out over the honking, the shouting, the hum of engines and electricity in its wires; the pigeons and rats, in their seething, frantic hum on the fringes of the city; keyboards clicking, televisions playing, music blaring, ceaseless and bubbling conversation needling its way through his hard-purchased calm and corkscrewing into irritation, slowly but surely, sapping his patience even more than his childe before him, who stands awkward and unsure before his seated Grandsire. The hallway is muted and empty but for the chair and the windows, narrow and cramped. It is not a place for people, which is why the sire could be so often found haunting these skyline passages.

He blinks, slow. "Elaborate."

Devon Harpschord does not swallow or fidget. He is vampir, and past his fifth decade - these are habits one loses by the third decade, at most, as the blood slows in the veins and coagulates into thick sludge, then finally dust. Instead, he stills, immobile, staring at his Grandsire, as sure a sign of lost nerve as any human tic. It's a prey response, after all.

"Please, elaborate," Ammina repeats, softening. This is not the world of his birth, anymore. He stands from his seat beside the grand window, and turns to face it, staring out over the hungry city, so the childe will not have to face his gaze. It is not guilt, he knows - Devon has never been prone to that affliction - merely fear. Passion has a way of annhilating regret.

"Her name's Jessie Wells, and I want to turn her," Devon says, picking words carefully, now. His long black hair, a common affectation of the blood, sways in still air. The grandfather clock in the corner of the loft hall ticks quietly. "We've been courting for six months, now. That's accepted by humans, and we don't have - the right to get married. Not as we are."

Isn't that a statement than burns. The Catholic Church yet holds that union is between a man and a woman, but that vampires fall under neither category, not being human at all. No ordained cleric would preside over a union of the dead and the living. Ammina exhales, and his short, blunt nails clatter against the glass with a tinkle. "And you wish to turn her, so as to get around this."

"She says a blood union would be - good enough for her too," Devon says, faint incredulity coloring his tone. "That what is mine will be hers too, and hers mine."

"Her wording?" The sire questions, his head tilting just so.

"Yes."

"My," Ammina murmurs, "What an eloquent child. It's to be expected though - it's in her blood, after all."

There is a beat of silence, as the shadows of the room creep from their corners and the gleam of streetlights shudder and retreat through the pale glass of the window. The Grandsire is not intimidating, at first; a nondescript man of average height, olive-skinned and slow to move, grace staining his deft gait like wine. It takes time for the danger to filter through. It's in the deliberate crook of his fingers and in his eyes. Truly old vampires no longer blink. Their eyes shine, reflective, because they've crystallized into smooth gems, like spinels, pale white and ghostly. Ammina's are translucent and orchid white, except for a brief pool of sharp blue. If one looks carefully in good light, they can sometimes see all the way to the back, into the shadows beyond.

No one knows how old he is.

"Her blood," Ammina says, contemplative. "Wells blood. Senator Well's blood. Do you understand, my childe, what a position you have put us into now?"

Devon, now sixty years into undeath, takes a dozen seconds to compose his answer, and does not move at all even as he delivers it. His pulse shudders in his veins and his throat, feeble mortality quaking in its last remnants. "One of opportunity. And - I must. I must."

It's true. He has Toreador blood in him. Hopefully not enough, at least.

"On your head be the consequences," Ammina says, soft, but this is not denial, and Devon relaxes, muscles untensing. "I will do my part. You must not provoke - they will look to drive you to act. To instigate. We must welcome, in this matter. She must come to our house. Invite her as you will, but do not coerce."

Public relations tire him. Humans tire him. They are - changeable. And he changes so slow, these years.

"Go," Ammina says, and Devon goes, ponytail flicking behind him. The sire reminds himself to tell the childe to change it later. There will be interviews, and questions, and public appearances, and in this century long hair is no longer fashionable. One must be controlled. No raging passions, like Byron and his madnesses. No heart and no meaning, worse than his childer will ever be. Just the right words in front of the right people. A poor puzzle to solve for his blood's future.

But he'll do it, nonetheless. They are his blood. First, he needs to speak with the girl in question, and ascertain her own motives. If she is an agent of her father's will, it will be simple enough to cut this string before it can pull around his childe's neck.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She ground out one butt, then another, waiting.

Jessie, hearing that she was coming back, had squealed, dropped everything, and swore that she’d pick her up from the airport. Already, Mercy was sweating under the humidity of the South, tugging at her shirt for some relief. Uncomfortable now, she knew she’d quickly get used to it. One of the things she hated about the North was how dagblasted cold it was. A lonely cold, one that crept into your bones and settled in, convincing you that the sun would never be powerful again.

No wonder the vampires loved it so much up there.

“Mercy?! What did you do to your hair?!”

The voice was sharp, honey-dipped in the cadence of the South, and sprinkled with love. She’d know that voice anywhere. Hurriedly stubbing out her cigarette on the sole of her pump, she tossed the butt into a nearby trash can. She’d littered enough for the day.

“I cut it,” Mercy replied, feeling an old twinge of self-consciousness. Jessie had a way of saying things that made people think or look twice – the only real oratory skills she’d inherited from her father. Nearly everything else from her was sugar sweet and slow like honey, just like her head in the clouds mother. Which, of course, wasn’t meant negatively: Mrs. Wells (known at this point only as “Ladybird” – how she got that nickname, no one knew) was the sweetest woman Mercy had ever known, save for her own grandmother, and could no more speak ill of her than she could kick a kitten.

“That’s for sure,” chirruped Jessie, now running her fingers brazenly over the smooth flesh of Mercy’s head. Instinctively, Mercy had ducked down a little, allowing Jessie to actually touch her head. Mercy was a few inches taller – as kids, she’d towered over the orange-haired girl. “I bet the press had a field day with it,” Jessie murmured, then stepped back. “But look at you! You look good!”

“Uh-huh,” Mercy deadpanned, taking a few steps back herself. For sun-baked moments, the pair sized each other up. Jessie was still milky skinned, with a galaxy of freckles on her face, nose, and arms. Still had the thick orange hair and her mother’s merry bright blue eyes. She’d put on some weight though – and carried it well. She was dressed casually enough, in jeans and a short sleeved top, a thin gold cross about her neck.

Mercy had enough of her own reflection in the window of the plane. An angular dark-skinned face, caught between apprehension and fatigue, with full lips and dark eyes, framed by even darker eyebrows and lashes. In a fit of whatever (she still didn’t have the words for it), she’d shaved her head bald. That had been a few weeks ago, however, and her hair was starting to grow back – still, quite a sight shorter than Jessie was used to seeing it. She was also dressed casually – far moreso than would be expected from someone of her standing. Jeans torn at the knees, beat up converse, and a tank top emblazoned with a calm Buddha’s visage. She wore no jewelry.

“You look like something out of a comic book,” Jessie finally said, breathlessly. “Like a warrior woman.”

“I’m not quite sure how I should take that,” Mercy chuckled. Her face turning pink, Jessie rapidly waved her hands.

“I didn’t mean it like you looked like somethin’ funny or bad! You’re stupid hot, Mercy. Been tellin’ you that for years,” and the pink of her cheeks spread to the tips of her ears. “You’re the only woman I know that can cut all her hair off, tell men to go to hell while doin’ it, and still look like somethin’ out of a story book.”

Mercy was never one for compliments; any thrill she’d gotten from praise was beaten out of her the day she got serious about politics. Still, under the onslaught of Jessie’s honesty, she felt her cheeks heat up. Clearly her throat awkwardly, she drummed her fingers against her thighs.

“So, we gonna stand out here all day, or you gonna take me home?”

____________

Mid-way down the highway, Mercy found her nerve.

“So a vampire, huh? You know Big Daddy came all the way to me to tell me this? Scared the daylights outta me. I didn’t get any sort of sign; just bam, ‘Miss Battle, there’s a Mr. ‘John-Boy’ to see you. And there’s Big Daddy in the hotel bar, fit to drink himself blind behind this stunt. So this better be real good.” Mercy kept her gaze on the world rushing by outside of the window. She was aware that if she were to look at Jessie, she wouldn’t get a word out of her. The other woman would wilt under her gaze like a wildflower left without water.

“You mean to tell me that’s where Daddy rushed off to? To go get you? In the middle of a campaign season? Oh my lord,” she said, softly. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Mercy, I’m so sorry, I just…I didn’t think to call you, with what you say in the news and all. I…I knew you wouldn’t approve. Daddy, I could deal with, but I can’t bear the thought of you being sore at me.”

Mercy was quiet, continuing to focus on the greenery outside. She’d long since learned to hide her own tells; signs of nervousness, signs of concern. It took time for her to learn to let these things go, to be raw and bare in front of family.

“I just think, though, if you’d meet him, you’d see what I was talkin’ about. What there is to love. How much he knows, how much he’s seen. Just talkin to him makes me feel like…you know, like, when we were kids, and it’d be just boiling out, and we’d be wishin’ and hopin’ and prayin’ for the ice cream man to come round? Remember how excited we got, just hearin’ them bells? That’s how I feel around him. Like he’s the relief, the thing I’ve been waitin’ and watchin’ for.” Jessie’s voice wavered. “I know this is a lot for you, but I just…Can’t you just meet him? Just once? Then you can feel however you got the right to, but I just need this one thing from you. I swear, I’ll never ask you for anythin’ again.”

It was an old “trick”, though “trick” might not be the right word for it. Every time Jessie swore that she’d never ask for anything again, she meant it, right then and there in that moment. It was an earnestness that was infuriating and endearing in its sheer innocence.

Mercy sighed, her breath fogging up the window. “I’ll meet him. Politics off the table. Promise.”

“Cross your heart?” The waver in Jessie’s voice was considerably more optimistic.

“Hope to die.” Mercy shifted in the passenger’s seat, folded her arms carelessly behind her head.

“…Well, all right then,” chimed Jessie, ending it with an audible sniffle. “I’ll send word for him to come round tonight. Real causal, okay? We can go out – don’t even have ta get dressed up. But you and me, we’re gonna go to the mall first. Old time’s sake. Ice cream on me?”

“Double scoop or bust.”

____________

“Causal” turned out to be a jazz bar in the Heights, a not quite gentrified, but not quite slummy area of town. It was a haven for the arts - and one of Mercy’s favorite places back home.

Of course, with the Heights being the bastion of the arts in the city, it was also the most liberal, and it didn’t take a genius to know that vampires freely mingled with humans here.

Common opinion was that Mercy Battle wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place - at least, that’s what the more hard-nosed liberals assumed. The fact of the matter was (and what made Mercy so particularly convincing and insidious about her politics) was that, well, Mercy didn’t personally care. The music here was good (the band was cranking out Gershwin hit after Gershwin hit), the setting was chill, and she felt…comfortable. The night was slightly less humid than the daytime, and under the cover of starlight and warm street lights, she was dressed in jeans (without holes, this time), heeled sandals, and a cream off the shoulder blouse, offsetting the long line of her neck and elegant lines of her shoulders.

She was waiting outside now, with the other smokers, eavesdropping on the conversations of others. Not that she heard anything particularly interesting or useful to her - bad habits died hard, and, honestly, it was nice to hear other people talk, and not have to be the one always doing the talking. After the mall (and despite Jessie’s protesting), Mercy had opted for a rental car and gone her own way, re-visiting her old haunts. She knew she’d see Jessie later, and as much as Jessie protested Mercy staying at a hotel (and Mercy knew that Big Daddy would have a fit over it as well, once he got back into town), Mercy had said that she needed the time to herself. That much had been true. It was a lot to digest.

Still, as she watched the people mingling and talking on the patio with her, she’d given her word. Promised that she would listen. She was…, if she was going to be honest with herself, intrigued to meet this vampire. She couldn’t really call him a man, could she? Former man. Whatever. Politics off the table. Taking another drag, she blew the smoke upwards, watching it dispel in long curls of gray.

Ah. There they were now, coming up the sidewalk. Stubbing out the cigarette in the nearest ashtray, Mercy stepped back into the bar. Navigating through the press of people, she wound her way through. Spotting her through the crowd, Jessie eagerly waved, accidentally jerking the arm of the dark haired man with her.

“Mercy! Mercy! Over here!”

“I hear you, I hear you!” The obligatory embraces and kisses on the cheek, broken by Jessie wrinkling her nose.

“I thought you said you were gonna stop smoking!” The shorter woman pouted, hands on her hips.

“After the campaign. And that’s all I’m saying about politics right now. So, who’s your date?” She hoped that her voice sounded friendly, welcoming. Not that she was fighting the rising tide of nausea in her stomach. She’d need a few drinks in order to get though this.

No politics no politics no politics no politics no politics.

“You joker,” Jessie’s voice was loud, a little too loud. Nervous - not as nervous as the pathetically frayed chuckle that followed it. “This is Devon - Devon, this is my sister, Mercy Battle.”

 

[Obuzeti]

"Devon Harpschord, to be precise," he says, his accent faintly Cornish. Black hair swishes behind him in a smart ponytail, as he places one hand over his heart and gives a short bow, pale lips quirked in a wry smile. His skin is pale, but not the ghost white of a new vampire, marking him as quite probably at least twice their age. Another point of discomfort, for those so inclined. "I'm the vampire, yes."

Dressed in quiet blacks, he blends into the lines of shade between the streetlight, clean, creased slacks and a dress shirt marking him out just subtly from the casual crowd; a businessman, maybe a golfer, out for a night with his country wife. There's no disguising what Jessie is in any clothing. The kudzu's in her curly hair and the warm burr of her accent. There's a watch on one wrist that looks understated and tasteful, and probably cost more than what most people here make in a month.

Jessie gives him a shocked look, hands planting on hips as she riles up, but he soothes her temper with a gentle touch on her shoulder. His fingers are long and deft, the nails gently pointed; there's been more than one shock video made about how strong they are, sharper and tougher than any metal. A strong vampire can peel stainless steel like an onion if he wants."I know it's to the point, but there's really no reason in edging around it. It's why we're here, and she'll just get more nervous trying to treat me like a 'normal' person. Yes?"

Just the flicker of an eye across the line of her shoulders, the way her feet are pointed, and the tensing of her abdomen. He reads her like a book, and closes the cover afterwards.

There's a faint, bitter cast to his smile as he gives a Gallic shrug, and gestures to the bar. There's a curious laziness to his motions, so particular to the breed - never hurried, never less than composed, grounded by age and experience that most people found intolerably condescending even when never mentioned. There's nothing worse than someone who knows better than you. "Let's go inside. You have questions; I'll answer them."

"T'ain't any reason to be all in a rush, now," Jessie says, more firm now, as she regains her equilibrium, Senator's steel sliding into her spine and locking it straight. She is Big Daddy's daughter, and his blood runs true. "This ain't a war meeting. You're both my people - though I'm sorry, Mercy, he does have a cuter butt than you - and I'm not drawing any battle lines tonight. Ya hear me?"

"Then perhaps it is best that Miss Mercy be properly informed before she makes any decisions about anything, yes?" Devon replies, the gentle logic immutable, though his fingers lace with Jessie's as he says it, locking their hands together, and the strength Jessie draws from the gesture is noticeable, inflating her shoulders and putting sunlight back in her smile. It has the look of a couples-secret, some warm moment treasured and remembered between the two.

Devon glances back at Mercy and raises one finely-detailed brow (and isn't that a mystery - how do the dead grow hair? By the time it's hair, of course, the cells are dead anyway, but no ambulatory vampire has ever consented to an examination of their root cells.). "I am sorry that my butt is cuter than yours."

Jessie tries not to snort, and mostly succeeds.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Well, she certainly hadn’t expected that. The sense of humor, at least. Jessie had dressed to flatter her newfound figure - a causal sundress in a pale green, a shade that set off her hair and the bright blue of her eyes.

Mercy didn’t put much stock into her own personal appearance – at least, not off the clock. And, truly, compared to Jessie and Devon, she was underdressed, perhaps a bit shabby in her appearance. Off the clock, she had an air of being uncomfortable in clothing - her jeans were too big in the waist, her tops were always just a bit too big on her frame. Clothing for her appeared to be a hindrance, not an enhancer. There was enough, even in the ill-fitting clothes, to suggest that the body beneath was not what the clothing would have you believe.

She aimlessly worked out, enjoying the monotony of repetitive motion to work out her stress - and had taken up with yoga, something that she personally thanked Jessie for introducing her to. But everything else? Well, that’s what make up artists and hair stylists were for. Without her arsenal, she seemed shorter – even deflated, compared to her television appearances. But there was no mistaking the sharp calculation in her eyes as she looked him over.

Damn. He was also more attractive than she would have thought. But then again, Jessie did always like the pretty ones.

She found herself with enough presence of mind to bite back the first snide retort to his comment, pulled back to reality by Jessie’s pleading puppy face. Drumming her fingers along her thighs, she itched for a cigarette – but knew she couldn’t excuse herself this soon into the conversation. Devon…was not quite what she expected. Not that she was imagining a Nosferatu clone – he had the tell-tale signs of vampirism. And regardless of what his intentions were, standing this close to a creature that could end your life in a heartbeat would be enough to make the most seasoned cops nervous.

It was only through her years in the political arena that Devon’s unhurried gestures didn’t instantly feel patronizing. She’d been addressed worse, and certainly treated worse, standing outside of the capitol building not even ten miles away. Just because politics weren’t going to be on the table for discussion didn’t mean that she couldn’t treat it like a political situation. Wrapping herself firmly in that security blanket, she simply nodded in regards to his suggestion, forced that pundit smile to her face.
Jessie commented; Mercy had to stop herself from rolling her eyes, both out of annoyance and out of the sister role she’s played for so long. Had to remind herself that Jessie was speaking out of nerves – she had a tendency to get a little extra “jovial” the more nervous she was. What she did allow herself was a sigh, and a rough mental calculation of how many drinks she would need to get through the night. The lovey-dovey nature of their holding hands didn’t help matters much either - regardless of his vampirism or not; Mercy loathed public displays of affection.

She’d let the butt comment slide: Jessie had teased her about her butt or perceived lack thereof since she’d gained a few pounds and crowed that she finally had some “junk in the trunk.” So, to his comment, she simply smirked.

“Sounds good. I could certainly go for…something. Drinks first, questions later. Jessie’s right – what’s the hurry?” He had to know she was nervous; that she was off balance. But she wasn’t going to let him use it to his advantage. She had her own reason for loathing vampires, something that went beyond the media presence. She gave him that dazzling TV smile; she knew the game, and he wasn’t fooling her. She was far too skilled at what she did to let nerves trip her up. He wanted to catch her off guard with being forward. A amateur tactic, but one that could be quite effective.

Letting him lead them inside, she at least waited until they were settled, before she flagged down a waiter and ordered a vodka, neat. Drummed her fingers on the table while they waited. In the center of each table, a small candle with a fat dancing flame sat, casting warm shadows on the patrons. Towards the back and center of the bar, the band played away, butter smooth sounds capped with an elegant woman taking vocals.

“So, are you a good fuck?” she said, without a moment’s hesitation.
Jessie let out a squawk.

“It’s fine; you don’t have to answer,” Mercy purred, “I’m sure Jessie will tell me all about it later. Won’t you, Jess?” A coy smile. Ah, and there was the Battle charm. In the darkness of the bar, Jessie’s face was still quite red, and her smile caught between embarrassed and sheepish, knowing that Mercy was right.

“Merrrccccyyyyy,” she pleaded. “Live up to your name, please!”

Mercy held up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Hey, he said he said he’d answer my questions. Though I guess, in all fairness, you can’t ask a man about his own performance in bed and expect the truth. So I’ll switch gears. How long have you been seeing my sister? Where did the two of you meet?" Her gaze was trained on him - sharp, perceptive, but not hostile.

 

[Obuzeti]

Devon blinks at the extremely forward question, throat flexing - one of the few tells the vampires had, as they had over twice as many muscles there as in an ordinary human. It was a guarding gesture, covering the vulnerable jugular with a sheathe of thick fiber that slid up over it, beneath the skin. He opens his mouth, pauses, and simply nods. "You probably would have to ask her," he demurs, "As an impartial observer, of course."

Jessie giggles a little, her composure shoring up at her paramour's expense. From the tiny, frustrated roll of Devon's eyes, this isn't uncommon. "I don't know if I'd call myself that. How's about you settle for - ahah - a satisfied customer?"

Devon closes his eyes wearily, and Jessie does a little bottom-shifting dance of glee in her seat. "He's an Englishman," Jessie whispers conspiratorially to Mercy, "has all these neat ideas about bein' a gentleman, and politeness, and propriety too! Class act, I tell ya."

Devon chooses to ignore this aside entire, and regards Mercy with a determinedly unruffled expression, like some Southern gentlelady at a tea party whose children are currently mucking about, buck-naked, on the back lawn screaming. "We met about six months ago, at a gardening expo. Jessie was looking for a way to keep vandas lilies, but was having difficulty keeping them in a pot."

Jessie cringes a little. "How was I supposed 'ta know you keep 'em in a hanging basket? I'd never heard a' that before then."

A little curve quirks one corner of Devon's mouth. "Clearly. So we talked flowers for awhile, and she made mention that her local greenhouse gardener club had some varieties of Angel's Trumpet that I hadn't seen in decades. So I visited there and we talked more."

"'Course I noticed he was a vampire right about then, and there were - harsh words, said." Jessie adds, but doesn't look bothered - she's apparently settled that issue, as far as she's concerned. "So I asked some questions, and asked some more, and my gosh, Mercy, the things he knows! He was a soldier in the World War!"

Devon's throat flexes again - Jessie fails to notice - and he nods, once. "Yes," he says. "We discussed history, and after that began regularly setting times to meet one another."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Most people were under the impression that America was a post-racial, post-class society.

What most people didn’t know, or what they heard, and instinctively wrote off, was that the lines of race and society still very much carved up the country. Mercy knew better than anyone – she’d grown up across 110th street – the unspoken dividing line of the haves and have-nots, of black and white. It was something that many opponents of hers failed to realize, or remember. The years in the ghetto for the formative years of her life gave her the uncanny ability to read people - and a certain bluntness that was made “sweeter” by the frosting of the South and carefully placed idioms. Reading people as he did, he’d notice it – the tensing of her shoulders, the sharpness of her gaze that was searching through him, waiting for the slightest thing to not line up with whatever narrative she’d created in her head.

“English.” It was neither a statement nor a question; a mere rumbling in her throat to show she’d processed the information accordingly, weighed it against information that he didn’t have. “Jessie can’t hold water on her stomach,” she added, “So I’m sure you know all about us. Well, I suppose watching the news would explain that as well. Though I was originally born and raised in Louisiana. In theory. Could’ve been born right on the state line – not sure if Ma was sober enough to tell the difference.” What was this? Supplying deeply personal information right off the bat? Bold move for her.

Mercy continued. “Moved to Texas with my grandmother when I was about 5 or so. And now we’re here. Jessie moved back home after college-”

“You should have too,” pouted Jessie. “Not as much fun without my Peaches around!”

A blind man could have seen Mercy wince. She drummed her fingers against the table, a quick staccato as if trying the scales on a piano. Clear gesture of uncertainty, with the slightest dash of anger. Jessie had crossed some invisible line, and the two women knew it.

For his edification, Jessie turned in her seat a bit to face him. “ ‘Peaches’ is her nickname, like that Nina Simone song, ‘Four Women’? ‘My name is…PEACHES!’” she belted, a glint of triumph in her eyes. Only family could have Mercy against the ropes that quick.

Well, one embarrassment for another. Mercy wouldn’t let this one slide.

“Gardening expo? Odd,” she said, after taking a leisure sip of her vodka, “Jessie, you never mentioned anything about working with plants.” A telling look at Jessie, then her gaze was back on Devon. “As a little girl, Jessie hated getting dirty. I was always on my own when it came to mud pies.” There it was – the softening of an accusatory statement with anecdotal proof. “I suppose we all grow up and change, don’t we? This wasn’t around the time that things with Robert went south, was it? He always had a green thumb.”

Jessie’s cheerful face paled. Mercy had taken her bet, raised the stakes. And it wasn’t something that Jessie was willing to pay. Not like this. With a wavering smile, Jessie gave her an off-handed shrug.

“My hair would’ve been on fire and he never would have noticed me to begin with. Not since I gained this weight.” A mild note of defeat, laced with an unspoken apology.

“To be fair, Robert was a horse’s ass on the best day.” The apology was accepted; another offered in its place. Instantly, the sun returned to Jessie’s smile. “But glad that you picked up a new hobby. I can’t garden for shit – mud pies were about as far as I got.” Mercy smiled, now, the expression disarming in its incredible, rare warmth. “And history is always a noble pursuit.”

“Mercy,” back to her given name; the fence was truly mended, “was a history minor in college,” Jessie filled in. “Used to run me crazy – all she did was read books and watch those dry old specials on the History Channel. Before it was all crazy stuff,” she added.

Mercy was shrewd enough to know when to let silence reign – and she let it, let the conversation mellow and age as she drained the last of her vodka. Incredibly smooth with just the right amount of fire to it, she quickly signaled the staff to bring her another one.

“Seems legit,” Mercy sighed, feeling the warmth spread through her limbs. “Believe it or not, Devon, I don’t have many questions about how…you choose to live your life. But I do want to know how you came to your current…state of affairs.”

What was her end game? If he had expected direct and overt hostility, he wasn’t going to get it. As far as Mercy was concerned, what Jessie said insomuch as what she didn’t say spoke volumes. Jessie was in love with love – the type of girl that fell hard and fast for any pretty boy that gave her attention. Some natural curiosity may have kept her around the vampire this long – and Mercy was game to find out what Jessie really saw in him, but she would have to get Jessie on her own, and not without her undead beau to get straight answers. Now it was her turn to be dismissive – if not a little annoyed. She’d dropped everything to come rushing back home for Jessie’s newest flavor of the week. Big Daddy must be getting old.

“Though I suppose my reputation precedes me,” she said, out of the blue. “Do you have any questions you’d like to ask me? It’s a rare opportunity, after all. No camera, no recorders…” She ran her finger round the rim of her empty glass. “Just little ole Mercy Battle and her sister in a jazz bar on a week night.”

 

[Obuzeti]

"I'm not surprised she never mentioned it," Devon notes, his tone dry and unsurprised. He'd listened to all the chatter on their backgrounds without batting an eye, passive and calm, and simply decided not to comment on it. "She gave it up after all her plants died."

Jessie colours solidly, but he strokes her arm in apology, offering her a consolatory smile. "I know it might have been a doomed hobby, but good things came of it, didn't they?"

There is a pause as he collates his thoughts. It stretches out very nearly into awkwardness, as the vampire settles into stillness unconsciously, only to regard Jessie with some curiousity as she nudges him. "She wants to know how you became a vampire, hon," she prompts, familiar with these brief fugues. The drawback of long memory is that it swamps the bearer easily; experience tides over them in memory bound by blood, and they are given to reverie and fantasy.

"Aye," Devon says, his accent thickening as he faced Mercy again. "So she did."

"Operation Tonga," he says, slowly, tasting the words much as saying them. "It was to be my first deployment. It was the first major deployment of paratroopers - there had been a test run, Operation Colossus, to destroy a dam in Calitri, Italy. It was successfully bombed but the team was captured, tortured, and kept as POWs for the duration of the war. General Gale deemed it a worthy use of resources and ordered a much larger deployment to supplement Overlord, as part of the Normandy landing. The Ninth Division would parachute in its entirety."

"You don't understand what 'parachuting' meant at the time. Dropping with minimum supplies, disorganized and with no control of your landing zone, into fortified enemy territory, at night. No armor or air support, no cover as you floated down into the gunlines. One radio a platoon, to reduce chatter. It was - an all-volunteer outfit. Projected casualties were high."

Devon's fingers pop as he tenses and relaxes them slowly, nitrogen cracking out of the joints as the muscles flex.

"A man came to us in the night, three days before deployment - June third, nineteen forty four. He said he had been asked a favor and offered us a gift. It would make us stronger, and faster, and tougher. We'd need to drink special vitamin-water to stay healthy, but that the government would take care of us. That it'd do everything it could to support us, and that was why we were offered this."

"So I accepted. I think maybe two hundred total did. We got sick, then better the following night, and we drank the vitamin-water and were better still. We slept at day and did the night-exercises and felt like kings. And then we dropped at twenty-three hundred hours, onto the Mauville battery."

Devon abruptly shrugs, the movement too smooth and liquid, like an oil bubble popping. "We found out later, those that lived, what we had agreed to. The government had tried to weaponize vampirism. But they ran out of the vitamin-water - blood, of course - very quickly. And then those that survived the hunger, the bullets of their fellows and the Germans, learned very quickly indeed of the realities of their new situation."

He glances back at Mercy with flat eyes. "To my knowledge - I did not further participate in the world war, myself - they did not repeat the experiment. I imagine the vampire that turned us was assassinated swiftly. Lemures does not suffer fools gladly, though they made proper restitution for their misguided childe. It is through their generosity that I survived the turbulence."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Mercy was an excellent politician, but there were some things that no amount of research could prepare her for. As surprised, -shocked, even- she was to hear Devon’s story, she quickly composed herself with a thoughtful “hm.” Her mind dashed from one thought to another, making notes here, highlighting information there. Seems like she would soon have another side research project.

“ 'I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters, when I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose,'” she murmured, half-way under her breath.

For a moment, silence reigned round the table. Jessie, her blue eyes wide and sympathetic, squeezed Devon’s hand. The chill of his flesh no longer bothered her as it had in the beginning. Though she’d heard the story once before (asked in her own moment of curiosity), it did not lessen the emotional impact. Mercy, her expression trained back into one of calm interest, nodded. She licked her lips, looking for the next question.

“How did you feel, knowing that..” she paused. Her words had tumbled out of her, showcasing an endearing, childish thirst for knowledge that could potentially be considered tactless. “How did you feel, once it set in- no, wait. I’ve got another question, first.” All formality, whatever little she’d brought in with her, was swept away now in her curiosity. Though a part of her nagged at her -of course he’d answer this, knowing that he could appeal to her through his former humanity, and not the monster he was now-, she silenced it. There was more to learn, after all.

“You said that those ‘who survived the bullets’ of your ‘fellows’ - I thought you could only kill a vampire by,” and she drew a line across her throat, swiftly. Jessie shot her a glare - and Mercy shot her one right back.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Jess; I’m not going to kill your boyfriend,” Mercy sighed, both for the edification of Jessie and of Devon. He’d raised too many interesting conversation points for her to scare him into quiet.

Jessie’s scowl deepened. “I’m not too sure about that,” she sniffed. “And that’s a tacky thing to ask. You don’t go round asking how to kill people!”

“But that’s just it,” Mercy replied. “It’s common knowledge how to kill people. Shoot ‘em, stab ‘em, the list goes on. Now, if I were to say that I was developing some sort of super weapon or virus to kill people more effectively, then yes, that would be a ‘tacky’ question.”

Jessie continued to glower. Mercy went to lift her hands in defeat, thought better of it, and took a sip of her drink. Then she lifted her hands in a conciliatory motion.

“Fair. Excuse me, Devon.” And with that statement from her, she’d let the topic drop. But it was all too clear that she was far from done - if she wasn’t going to get an answer from him, she’d get it somewhere else. “What did you do, then, once you found out? You said ‘Lemure’ - is that the name of one of the families?”

Now it was Jessie’s time to speak. “I thought you would know all of this.” Her tone wavered between surprise and a mild smugness.

Mercy gave her an affection eye-roll. “Believe it or not, I don’t spend my entire life researching vampires and their hierarchies. I have hobbies.”

“That don’t include dating,” Jessie sniffed. “You’re going to be an old maid before you know it.”

Mercy coughed, just a little, around the mouthful of vodka. Swallowing, she shook her head. “I already am. And I have come to terms with that,” she grinned, but it was clear that she wasn’t about to humor the conversation heading in this direction. “And what ‘turbulence” are you referring to, Devon?” In control again, Mercy was shepherding the conversation back to him. The careless family banter wasn’t working on him, anyway.

 

[Obuzeti]

"It's a meaningful question," Devon says, eyes hooded as he looks at Mercy with some level of - respect? "And one that wouldn't be commonly answered. I can understand the asking of it."

He takes a sip of his glass - dry gin, a taste that would have curdled a human's tongue - and nods. "A new vampire's changes have not settled in his body, and can die in mortal means. Losing enough blood or excessive physical trauma will end them. A failure to obtain vitae will also kill them, as will prolonged exposure to daylight, though it will take several hours for the UV allergy to become fatal."

Devon taps his own chest meaningfully. "A vampire past his first few decades - the precise point varies - is a different thing. The blood slows in the veins, the heartbeat stills and only moves in great stress. I can no longer bleed, and traumatic injuries are regrown in weeks, if not days, as the self-image of the vampir has become fixed. Cranial trauma can be lethal if it is extensive or complete, but minor injuries are recoverable."

Now, finally, he gestures outward. "A sire - anyone past a century - no longer has liquid blood at all. Decapitation is the only viable method of killing one, bar diablerie. As for sherr, they are not prone to death."

Despite the descent into truly obscure terminology, Devon does not further explain, merely sipping his drink and continuing onwards.

"Lemures is both a family and a sire. All families share the name of their blood sire, and consist of all his childer and the descendants thereof. Families usually move together in political and financial matters. Those strong enough sign the Sabbath Accord, become a full Clan, and gain protection from smaller families and each other in exchange for certain restrictions. None new have been raised since the last world war."

Devon's fingers lay still on the tabletop. He glances aside, then back and continues. "The Axis Powers signed a treaty with the Tremere Clan, arguably the most powerful at the time. Part of their abilities involves the manipulation of blood and genetic material - it was planned that their help would ensure entire generations of pureblooded Aryan children. Along with other violations, this caused the Accorded Clans to issue vlastdani upon all Tremere childer and their sire. They were hunted down and drained to the last, and they no longer exist."

He gestures, somewhat wearily. "I am told that somewhere just north of eleven percent of our kind died in the process, between the Tremere casualties themselves and the schemes they put in play against the rest - a period known now as die Blutung. Ultimately, that is what caused us to move towards public revelation. Another event akin to that would have been intolerable."

Jessie's mouth begins to open slowly, and she shuts it as Devon elaborates upon matters he's never even touched on before. She throws a confused glance at Mercy, then says, "You never mentioned any of this before."

"It wasn't relevant, and I imagine this is the rare situation that it is, given Mercy's occupation," Devon replies with a grimace, and downs the rest of his gin with a grimace.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

At Jessie’s surprise, Mercy chuckled darkly. Jessie never was one to ask the “serious” questions about whoever had caught her fancy. Surely he’d been around long enough to be able to gauge when someone was serious about a relationship. Unless, and the thought made her grin grow a bit wider, Jessie had the luck of finding the one vampire out there that was as careless and fancy-free as a flighty human in their romantic pursuits.

“I wouldn’t have considered exposure to sunlight an allergy, but it makes sense,” another raise of her hand to refresh her glass. The vodka was working admirably - this would probably be her last drink for the night. She was inching closer to the line of becoming entirely too comfortable, and she still had to maintain herself.

“That’s a lot of terminology that I’m not familiar with. Enlighten me - what’s a sherr? And the Sabbath Accord? Vlastdani?” The more he explained, the more it became clear that the families were set up quite similarly to the Yakuza - a fact that she kept to herself, but did cause her to laugh a bit.

Jessie, for one, was quiet, nursing her mojito. It was clear that the conversation had soared entirely over her head. Rather than cause malcontent among those at the table, she seemed to be enjoying herself, soothed by Devon’s sonorous voice, and the fact that Mercy had kept true to her word and hadn’t dragged politics into the issue. It seemed a shame, really, she thought to herself, watching the two. Had the circumstances been…different or better, they might have actually been friends.

Her stomach churned, just a bit, and now it was her turn to flag the waiter. There wasn’t much insofar as real food at the bar, just tapas, but it would be enough. Give her something else to focus on as well. She’d merely posed that she was in a relationship with Devon; not that she was pursuing anything further than that. It was nerve-wracking, thinking about how much worse the problem would become if she mentioned what she really had in mind. How she really felt. She had told Devon, reiterated, several times, that she believed that a marriage between them was possible; just that it would take time. Something that he truly had in droves. For her…it was a fine line between patience and impatience. She’d reassured him that if this was going to happen, the only chance they really had for her family’s approval would be through Mercy. Under all of that bluster, she felt, no, believed, that there was still the same kind girl that believed in love and harmony. The same girl who believed that by going into politics, she could make the world a better place.

It just took time, that was all. And some new experiences.

“You make it sound like I’m out to personally kill vampires,” Mercy had a slight, bitter grin. “And as I said that I wouldn’t get into politics, all I can say is that I assure you that that is not the case. If it was, I would be no better than a common murderer. An animal.” The last word, she stretched out, around the glass of her refreshed drink. “And politicians are a lot of things - I try not to be one of the baser ones. And that is it about politics.” A meaningful glance to Jessie, who was in the process of lifting a small taco to her mouth. The orange-haired woman smiled, then took a bite, nodding.

 

[Obuzeti]

"We do not consider you an enemy, Mercy," Devon says, soft, his eyes drawing a shade paler, whiter in the shadows of his hair as he slips into the royal we, "For the reason that there remains time in memory when known vampir could not palaver with men without the threat of bloodshed. This age is yet new, and if we are judged by the virtues of our foes, then we are not dishonored by your opposition. You are principled in your resistance."

Devon looks down into the depths of his empty glass, hands clutching convulsively. He pours himself another tumbler of dry gin and downs half of it at a gulp, then glances back up at Mercy, eyes a light brown again. "Pardon me," he coughs, and glances aside again, composing himself.

After a moment, he continues.

"First, 'allergy' isn't completely accurate, but UV radiation causes a chemical reaction in vampire skin that is exceedingly unpleasant. Part of the transformation removes our ability to produce melanin, which is why we're so pale and dislike sunlight so much. It's also why you will never see one of us in a tanning salon."

Devon shrugs, the corner of his mouth raggedly quirked. "The Sabbath Accords are what define the Clans. They establish territory, the right of judgement over their members, extradition, diplomatic ties, and relations with other entities. The entire thing is several hundred pages long, so you'll forgive me if I fail to summarize it appropriately. It is - a Constitution of sorts."

"Vlastdani means 'unforgivable judgement', roughly speaking, and is the vampiric equivalent of capital punishment. It removes the protections of the Accords and peerdom. They become as animals and can be hunted freely. It is exceedingly rare, and only the complete complicity of Tremere allowed such a thing to be cast over a clan entire."

Devon pauses at the last, then slowly says, "A sherr is - the highest. The masters of all the Blood."

He shrugs, helplesss and uneasy, the movement a bare ripple of motion. "I can tell no more. I am not even sire. These are matters beyond me."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She’d now lost count of how many times Devon said something that surprised her. It would be all too easy to respond with a snide comment - she could feel it curling on her tongue -she didn’t. At this juncture, she honestly had no idea what he expected of her, or, better yet, what Jessie had told him. “Who is ‘we’? Your clan? Whatever that might be? What clan are you a part of? Who do you ‘report to’?”

Her questions were rapid fire – a lesser man with a lesser attention span would feel that he’d been pelleted with buckshot. Thrown off balance, and not sure where to start. Effective in debates – though something she usually avoided, as it could come off as overly combative and sloppy. Here, however, she fired them off as not to forget. For every question that she asked him, there were at least five more in her mind, rapidly multiplying with each new answer from him.

Ha. Just like the Yakuza, she though, wryly. Though it made sense. With limited “prey”, it would only make sense that they would have to have some sort of structure set up. “Have vampires ever allied with human Hunters in order to carry out justice for those who broke the Sabbath Accord?”

Hunters had changed their name, alliances, and methods over the centuries. Nowadays, the most “legitimate” hunters were a part of the police force, similar to S.W.A.T.– meant specifically to handle vampiric crimes according to human justice policies. While they were helpful in the event of the occasional uprising, the Vampiric Crimes Unit, or VCU, were met with mixed reviews. Increased reports of human / vampire aggression and vampire profiling had done much to sully the VCU’s reputation within the last few decades. Combined with a historically low enrollment and high turnover rate, the VCU was often subjected to budget cuts, and there were some cities that felt that they should do away with the VCU altogether. One of Mercy’s talking points was a reformation and restructuring of the VCU – including all vampire units that were to work separately from human ones.

Her stance on Hunters outside of the VCU, publically, was negative. Without the safety regulations, code of conduct, and psychiatric check ins, Hunters outside of the restrictions of the VCU were no more than dangerous vigilantes, with their methods and reasoning changing drastically from individual to individual. While she had not been familiar with the vampire side of things, one of the pushes for being vampires to be known publically was the spillover of clandestine Hunters and vampire cold warfare. Innocents had been killed – human innocents-, sparking a moral panic and a clamor for the government to do something. Thus the VCU was unofficially born, folding in many of those early hunters. Still, it wasn’t entirely uncommon for a particularly brutal Hunter (and subsequent “extermination” – or “murder”, depending on who you asked) to make the news and spark a flurry of forum activity, both praising and condemning.

But, as not to bog down the conversation too much, she cleared her throat, with a small glance to the not-so-riveted Jessie. “What do you do in your spare time, Devon? Do you work? I think I’d be insufferably bored with my life if I didn’t have a job to report to.”

Realizing that there was now a point to contribute, Jessie nodded enthusiastically. “Mercy doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘vacation,’” she stage-whispered. “One time when we were at the beach, I threw her phone into the ocean. She was hotter than fish grease. You should’ve seen the look on her face,” Jessie forced out, between helpless giggles. Mercy joined her a few seconds later.

“ ‘Livid’ doesn’t even begin to describe how mad I was,” Mercy added. “I was in the middle of working on a grant – had a deadline due that weekend, and in the toss of her hand, there went six months’ worth of work. Thank God I had it backed up on my system at home, otherwise I would have killed her right there on the beach. No one would have persecuted me.” She gave Jessie a wink. "But it might have made your dating a bit easier," and she flashed Devon a wicked smile.

 

[Obuzeti]

Devon's eyes go sleepy, flat, and the gentle bob of psuedolife drains out of his body, leaving him empty and still as he stares at Mercy. The absence of body language is a little unnerving, particularly given that even breath does not stir him. "I don't think you intended to," he replies, soft, "but you just said several things in a row that are quite offensive."

He clasps hands with Jessie and lifts hers to his mouth, kissing her knuckles softly. When they lower back, his paramour is eying him curiously. "Well, what did she say, hon?"

But rather than answer, Devon finishes his second tumbler and glances aside again, then nods to Mercy. "We're stepping a little too far into the realm of the political for my liking, on what's supposed to be just a casual dinner. I mean you no disrespect, but on these subjects if you wish to speak further it will be at another time."

With that prounouncement Devon actually relaxes, and so does Jessie, eventually, though she shoots an apologetic glance Mercy's way first. "I think I'm a little more comfortable now anyways," she confides to the table at large, in an obtrusive sort of whisper.

"I work as an architectual consultant and engineer," Devon states, relaxing back into his seat comfortably. "Chiefly for private projects, and some nature reconstruction. I have the advantage of seeing my projects come to completion in their own time. I built my own house, for example."

"Oh, Mercy, it's gorgeous," Jessie interjects, her eyes wide. "It's this big two-story house back in the woods, and it's got railings and patios and a pagoda, and there's these little trails everywhere, and it has a secret passage, even! It's just the best."

"As for free time," Devon notes, throwing Jessie an amused look, "I spend a lot of time drawing and painting, which is a direct antecedent of my actual job. I'm not particularly artistic, I just like drawing geometries and structures."

"You're a home-grown talent," Jessie corrects, with infinite patience.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Ah, there it was.

Between the liquor and the conversation, it had become a little too easy to imagine Devon as yet another temporary beau. Perhaps vaguely human. The illusion was quickly shattered by his colorless stillness, and Mercy felt the hair on the back of her neck raise. She downed the rest of her glass quickly, and set it down on the table, drumming the fingers of her left hand across the top of the table, the fingers of her right hand tracing around the rim of the glass. A nervous tick – the only one she’d allow herself in present company.

“…My apologies, then,” and it was quite a testament to her oratory skill that she sounded legitimately contrite. She wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t. There was information still to be had; damn his feelings. If they could even be called that. And the way Jessie took his side, instantly? It was enough to make her a little ill. It was one of the things she constantly found hard to digest about Jessie; her instant complacency to anyone she was romantically interested in. Amazing how someone could grow up with everything handed to them, given to them at the slightest whim, and they still had such a yawning gap in personality. Flaws big enough to match their pocketbooks, she supposed. It’d be something that she’d never get used to.

Jessie, despite the reassurance from Devon, seemed to notice that the temperature of the room had cooled considerably. Though Mercy still had a “smile” on her face, the charm and warmth had gone out of it. A calm mask, typically reserved for opponents, not family. Her grip on Devon’s fingers unconsciously tightened.

“Well,” Mercy let the words slip from her slowly. “I think I’m good,” and, with a graceful move, she rose to stand. “Jessie, I assume we’ll talk later in the week.”

Jessie’s face fell. “You aren’t thinking about leaving already, are you?” Her eyes were pleading.

“It’s late – I had a cross country flight not even seven hours ago, Jess.” Mercy’s tone was cool, but not rude or careless. As if she were explaining something she’d gone over several times before with a reluctant child.

“But you used to be able to stay up later.” It was a barb, vicious, at least, as vicious as Jessie ever got. In response, Mercy merely rose a brow, as if to say, “is that really the best you can do?” The air between the parties chilled past the point of rescue. To Mercy, this was now a waste of her time, and she’d reached the limits of grace with Jessie. Jessie, for her part, was frustrated that she hadn’t made more headway, that Mercy was as stubborn as she remembered, and colder to boot.

“That was when I was a bit younger. You forget; I’m an old maid now. Devon, nice to meet you. My apologies again that the conversation turned awkward for you.” She didn’t offer him her hand. “Jessie, we’ll talk later.” Nothing in her tone was clipped, but it was clear that these were her goodbyes.

Wilted, Jessie nodded. “Yeah…get some rest, then, Mercy. Try to eat something before you go to bed?”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” God, waffles sounded amazing, come to think about it.

With that, the taller woman turned her back to them, cast a longing glance at the bar. A few more drinks would certainly cut through her stress. Better not risk it, though. She’d hate to leave the rental car overnight in a bar parking lot, no matter how “nice” said bar was. Instead, slipping past the bar, she made a bee-line to the smoker’s area.

This time of night, it was nearly deserted – most everyone was inside, listening to the music, talking. And here she was, alone again (naturally, as the song went). Reaching for her cigarettes and matches, she was dismayed to notice that her fingers were trembling. It took a few attempts for her to strike a match (quaint, in this day of lighters) and light a cigarette. When it was finally accomplished, she inhaled so deeply that nearly half of the cigarette vanished into ash.

“Fuck,” she muttered to herself, a heavy cloud of smoke escaping her lips.

 

[Obuzeti]

The lingering smoke wafts sideways, over a bench nearby. A man sits there, no taller than Mercy herself, and puffs on his own deathstick, though his is finely wrapped, rice paper around some herbal concoction that smells faintly sweet in the still night air. The tip of it burns slow with an orange light.

"Your rendezvous did not go well." he says, statement rather than question. "Why?"

There's no judgement in his words, merely passive acceptance. His eyes aren't visible from where he sits, idly watching the nearby road and each car that passes, but his voice is patient, with a tang of some foreign accent that adds a zest to each consonant; h and v are enunciated with peculiar strength, and the French loanword is pronounced with sibilance.

Inside, behind the two of them, Jessie laughs soundlessly at something Devon has said, the quiet worry already fading from her eyes, as the vampire cups her chin and strokes one honey-tanned cheek with a deft thumb, flirting already, escaping into a lover's world once again from this one of uncertainties and choices. He eyes them for a passing of a second and then dismisses them, turning back to the road and its succession of strangers passing each other by.

In the end there is no difference. They will not know each other better, and it is unlikely they will know themselves more, either, by the inevitable end. Those seeking perfection in mortal frames are destined for mortal ends - confused, and briefly satisfied, and lonely, by turns.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Had she sworn loud enough to be heard? She didn’t think so. Or hadn’t thought so. Perhaps she was louder than she thought because of how quiet it was out back. Naturally “fenced” in on three sides by the random patches of greenery that categorized even the biggest Southern cities, the road noise was negligible.

With a suspicious look, she took a smaller drag of her cigarette. There really didn’t seem to be anyone else out there. In other circumstances, she would have just left, ignored the statement that was, she was realizing with no small amount of dismay, clearly directed at her.

Off the clock, warmer for the vodka, and itching for a fight, it took her physically stomping her cigarette under her foot to restrain herself. Ground it further than it needed to be under her heel to deal with warring personalities. The attitude of her adopted North wanted her to be nasty in her response, damn all politics – she was in a bad mood, and he was crossing a line. The Southerner in her wanted to just pull up a seat and share her life story. To have an audience that would understand her pain and reassure her that she wasn’t being irrational.

She settled for something in the middle.

“ ‘The best laid plans of mice and men.’ Which would assume that I had a plan to begin with. Family’s difficult,” she quipped, lifting her foot. What was left of her cigarette was a collection of smeared ash. Childish, considering that there was an outdoor ash tray right next to the door. “Excuse me,” she added, not too unkindly, looking around for the best place to make her exit. Caught between a rock and a hard place – she would either go back into the bar, and run the risk of Devon and Jessie again, or out through the patio, which would mean she’d walk directly past him.

Might as well walk past him. He was the lesser of two evils at the current moment. Hitching her jeans up a little higher from where they’d crept down her waist, she gave him what she assumed was a polite nod and smile and less of a pained grimace.

Then she paused.

What a peculiar word choice. How would he know that? She turned to look at him, her eyes narrowed. Then ‘relaxed’, in her political comfort blanket. “You’re quite perceptive,” she finally said. How stupid. Of course there could have been the potential of someone watching. There was always someone watching. “If you want my official statement, I am home to review my charitable endeavors. If you want an additional statement, please follow up with my public relations person in the morning. I’m under strict orders not to discuss business,” and there was that Vaseline glide smile that, tonight, didn’t reach her eyes.

 

[Obuzeti]

The man lets these things said pass him, body quiet and at rest. Her carefully packaged statements wash by and are gone, ignored.

"They are as children." he says, as a breeze sweeps over the asphalt of the highway, brushing the smoke back into the short fringe of his hair. He doesn't blink. "Devon and Jessie know only their needs, and until they understand this they will have nothing but the brief absence of them. You cannot fill a sieve. You can only teach it why it is empty."

He lets the silence sit for a moment, allows Mercy to first process this, then his awareness of this, and then the implications thereof. Family is indeed difficult. One could soothe the pain of their mistakes, but not prevent them. This is the line between family and slaves.

"They will be in love, and then not, and neither are prone to regret." He says, finally, as he turns to regard Mercy directly. "The choice, I think, is whether this doomed union will propagate on her people's terms or his. This choice still falls to Senator Wells, though perhaps not in the fashion that he would prefer."

His eyes are orchid white, pale like fresh origami and unstained linen.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

It was one thing for her to have a negative view of Jessie - quite another for an absolute stranger to hold the same opinion. The anger she’d managed to tamp down was rising again, and it was with some stilted control that she turned to face him again.

“…Right…”

The words died on her tongue as soon as she spoke them. Her blood turned to flame, arching sharply on her side, across her stomach, lower to her mons. She staggered a bit, did her best not to grasp at the burn on her side. Tried to play it off as a mere stumble; the uncertain gait of a woman unaccustomed to high heels.

It took her some time to find the words, to will her tongue to move and her lips to part. “How stupid. How incredibly stupid. I hadn’t thought of the possibility of more than one of you being at this meeting. Nor had I considered, in any depth, that I would be watched. We, rather, would be watched.” His unspoken message carried volumes - and rather than shy away, her approach now was blunt, scrubbed free of the sugar of civility.

Without asking if he minded, she sat down next to him. Close enough so that they could speak freely, but not so close as to encroach on his personal space. While her brain screamed at her not to sit so close to a creature that could end her with a mere flick of his fingers, her gut made her stay put.

“Who is Devon, to you, then? And what do you possibly hope to gain through Senator Wells?” It was her turn to withdraw another cigarette. And, with hands much calmer than they were before, she steadily struck a match, and lit it. Her lips closed enticingly around the butt, careless eroticism that was not calculated.

 

[Obuzeti]

The man's eyes flicker to the pulse pounding in her throat, staring straight through her throat to the current of hot blood. He sees it as clearly as sunlight in a dusty room, and traces the tattoo's trail with his passive stare before returning his gaze to the road. He sincerely doubts she understands what - it's rare enough even in his prolonged existence.

"Devon is my blood, and I see to his welfare." He answers, unmindful of Mercy's proximity. Her prolieo will set itself off at ranges this close - either to warn her away from another vampire, or to push her into becoming part of his household. It would depend on how much contact she has had with his kin previously. "Just as your father would not allow his child to walk alone into strange places, so will I accompany my childe into the lion's den. He is not yet spun to his full length."

He makes a brief gesture, flicking away her thought. He moves like a praying mantis - stillness into shocking, sudden motion. "Wells has the power to take his familal frustration and inflict it upon a race. I am concerned only in that their eventual parting be personal, and not the banner of a crusade."

The senator is temporary. So will be this political climate - they pass in their own time, as will this country and its government. What people remember is sentiment; hivethink, shared emotion echoed across the gestalt that rings for centuries. The isolationism and xenophobia of Japan, the wounded dignity of China, the bitterness of England; passed down through generations, a hurt that they refuse to surrender to healing. Should such a thing start here, with a pretty face on a powerful man's daughter, it will echo in their sullen hearts long beyond their petty lives.

Hatred outlives the hateful. He needs to cut it at the root. Thus, here.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The mark had been with her so long that most days, she forgot about it. A fine script in a language beyond what she knew, it was so delicately etched on her skin that it seemed a particularly fine birthmark. Slipping from the top of her mons, it was a delicate vine ending near her navel, a lover tracing a line down her body.

Always self-conscious of it, she had relegated herself to one-piece bathing suits and to always cover her midriff, even when it wasn’t fashionable to do so. Her grandmother, in her myriad lessons, had taught her to cover it up, another page in the book of modesty.

The fact that it was hot to the touch now was deeply, deeply troubling.

But perhaps she’d merely had too much to drink. She had said it earlier – she was tired, hadn’t eaten properly. It passed quickly enough, quickly enough for her to refocus on the thread of conversation. However, until she could be absolutely sure that the sharpness had passed, she sat in silence, listening to his responses. His voice was smooth, unhurried – but, empty, it felt, to her ears. The type of voice that could promise intimate things and places without a hint of true intent behind them.

A real professional.

“You’re a dutiful father,” the words were mingled with cigarette smoke. “But your concern is unfounded.” This latter bit was in a much lighter tone of voice, scoffing, but friendly. “Senator Wells isn’t fool-hardy enough to do something like declare war on your entire kind because his daughter is dating one. Or whatever she’d like to call herself doing.” She’d almost slipped; explained why she was there. “I’m sure as a father, you can understand a little over-protectiveness towards a daughter.”

What she didn’t say weighed heavier between them. A hint of hurt that Big Daddy would never send someone to check on her own welfare. The fact that this man seemed to think the Senator would be a bigger thorn in his side than her. Senator Wells, as well established as he was, was in the twilight of his political years – she was poised to take over, and do so much more than Wells ever had. Than Big Daddy ever had. Bitterness twisted the corner of her mouth, even around the curve of the cigarette. She wouldn’t give into the idea that life wasn’t fair; that she’d had no one to coddle her or look after her. Life was life, impartial to those it graced.

She watched the occasional car pass by, before her gaze noticeably drifted to the night sky above them. While light pollution from the city dimmed the dark expanse, it was clear enough that quite a few constellations could be seen. The moon was a secret half-smile, luminous above them. Despite the burn of impotent anger, she smiled, looking up at it. The first smile of the evening that was free of artifice. Even monsters had families and could love – though part of her chided herself for being so optimistic about what held this particular family together. Similarities that others used to pull them closer – similarities she used to keep them at arms length.

She leaned forward to stub out her cigarette on the concrete. “Senator Wells is still a politician at the end of the day, and despite some public opinion,” she breathed, sitting back up, “isn’t as crooked as one might believe. However, one might think that vampires stand more to benefit from whatever relationship this is than the Senator’s daughter.” Jesscia’s name was carefully excised from the conversation, a conversation about others, shared by two third party observers. It was tempting to probe for additional information. Now wasn’t the time. “Besides, all you and he would need to do is wait. We are but mere mortals, our lives flickering moths compared to yours. Why the impatience?”

 

[Obuzeti]

"Because your ideas will outlive you." He says. "A beginning can only be set once. I will not have my childer tarred in their first free nights. What your leaders and fathers and preachers say now will define what your kin read centuries from now in your textbooks; I can shift the scales now, or lift a mountain of prejudice later."

His head turns and he glances at the woman beside him, judges her in a bare moment, and then nods. "I believe neither Wells nor you are my enemy. Many ill things are done in ignorance, though, and I would not have them come to pass; Wells from his religion and you, from your mark. Neither of you understand the source."

A pause, as he considers.

"A gift, freely given. Your mark is called a prolieo - it is an engagement mark from a Lemures vampire, likely given to an ancestor of yours. It has passed down to you because the contract was left incomplete and never consummated. It burns in my presence because it was crafted by one of my blood, and recognizes mine."

He does not know what circumstance led to this, but he can imagine. Another Devon and Jessie, in another age; seeking without finding. How cyclical. This woman, at least, he can respect, her and her father. Aware of their convictions, and the realities cast thereof by their determination to hold to them, these two he is willing to speak directly to and deal with. Those lesser he would have moved through without pause.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Since Mercy started on the “path to Washington,” she was used to people saying ugly things about her. Her origins. Her family. Her relationship with Big Daddy. Over time, they’d lost her sting, and she gained the reputation of being unflappable, with a smile that was condescending and told the recipient to go straight to Hell.

All of that composure left her. Blood instantly chilled, her stomach sank, and she could feel icy sweat collect on her forehead. She got up so quickly from where she was sitting that she staggered back, nearly tripping over her own feet. Swallowing hard, she ran a hand over her head, let it rest at the back of her neck. Before long, her nerves collapsed - and she began to laugh. Haltingly at first, then, gaining speed as what he said continued to sink in, it bubbled freer from her, ringed round the plunge of hysterics before collapsing into it.

She was backing away, laughing still, shaking her head. Struggling to make sense of his words, now, just sounds bouncing in her head. Logic screamed at her, struggled to regain control. He was clearly trying to knock her off balance. But how could he know about…that? What “contract”?

Breathing suddenly was hard, and she backed up again, running into a nearby bench. The harsh clatter of wood against the concrete seemed to have a steeling affect on her. She sat down on it heavily, digging her fingernails into the wood. Dug into the wood so hard that the tender flesh beneath her fingernails stung. Then, letting go, she reached, with openly shaking hands, for her cigarettes and matches. Fumbling, it took several strikes of the match for it to burst into flame. Even then, with the cigarette poised half-way between her lips and her side, she was unable to light it. The match burned down; burned her fingers. Hissing in pain, she dropped the match, slipped her fingers in her mouth to suck momentarily before she withdrew them, waving them.

“…You don’t know the first thing about me.” It was a sad, sorry thing to say, the bark of a defeated dog. But she could muster nothing better. “Or my relationship with your kind?” Now a calm fury ringed her words. “You think this hatred comes from misunderstanding. In some cases, you may be right. It doesn't change the fact that your kind live by murdering, and you make no reparation for what you do.” She chuckled again now, bitterly. “Though if hard pressed, I’d say at least your kind does something with the body. Murder for a reason - the need to live, as opposed to ideals.”

She lit another match now; watched it burn before tossing it to the ground. A woman of nervous ticks and tells. She lit another, then another, before she forcibly turned her attention to him. Forced herself to look into his blank white eyes. He’d provoked her, and there would be no backing down now.

“I’ll educate you, then. Your people? They took my family. Something I’m sure you’ve heard before and care nothing about. My mom and dad? Young. Impressionable. Drawn together by me, so I heard. Mom was too young to have a baby on her own. Dropped out of high school. Dad apparently cared enough to stick around, but you can’t do much with a GED. One low end job after another; started selling drugs. That’s what killed him. In theory.”

The next match she lit, she actually lifted a cigarette to it. Inhaled shallowly. “His death sent mom over the edge. Apparently she got real paranoid. Started taking drugs to stop the nightmares. I wouldn’t know - I was raised by my grandmother. Mom died when I was two.” She exhaled now, and her voice escalated in its quiet rage, inched into being livid, though she didn’t raise her voice. “Years later when I had pull with the police department, I got into my dad’s cold case. Official cause of death was drug bust gone bad. Shot in the chest, back, and neck. Open and shut case. Except it wasn’t. He’d been bled nearly dry before they actually shot him. Had him for days, draining him bit by bit. Giving him time to recover, before starting again.Torture.”

Her gaze was penetrative, searching him for an answer she wouldn’t find. Venting her fury on the stone of his calm stability. “No one gave a shit,” the swear was harsh and cutting from her, jarring against the smooth, politically correct of her usual cadence, “because it was another dead nigger in the ghetto. Your kind knew that,” and now her smile was painfully wry. “Still know it. The cops don’t give a good goddamn because no one cares when your kind murders. There’s something to be said about survival. I understand that. Better than you might think. It’s another to just murder out of boredom.”

She neglected to mention what he said about her mark. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was true. She couldn’t deny the fact that there was a reaction, but it could have been anything else. The coldness of her fury had done much to stem that sudden, sweet burn. “But why should you care?” It was a rough laugh now, as she stood up, stomping out the cigarette, barely smoked. Her palms were sweaty, and she openly wiped them on her jeans. “Just another sob story from some stranger.” Words still sat heavily on her tongue; churned her stomach. Her life, the truth of it, was an ugly story. That she knew, all too well. Even with that knowledge, reciting it was enough to bring back painful memories - to remind her that no matter how close she’d come to making her peace with it, it was surreal in its brutality. “It was only through my grandma’s actions that the neighborhood was safe again.” Just how, she wouldn’t say. She’d said enough as it was.

 

[Obuzeti]

The story curdles his lips, disgusts him. It is why he wastes so little time attempting to teach the new childer - because the change is inherently selfish for them. The first few weeks of a vampire's existence define their morality permanently, he has found, as neurons and their spiritual pattern affixes itself to a constant. It takes far more dedication and purification than these childer will ever commit to in order to release those initial leanings. It is the crucial flaw of reaching beyond biology. With the release of evolution's grasp, so do most vampir also loose themselves. Their immortal frame overwhelms their frail spirituality. They are lost in eternal maya.

"Murder is unnecessary," he says, flat, a touch of impatience entering his voice. Always, this illusion of necessity. "Blood is as well, but I have explained this so often to the new childer as to make further efforts pointless. They are slaves to appetite, to need. It is well they have passed."

He inhales once, sharp, and the flame on the end of his cigar burns sharp through the paper and crisps the whole thing in one rush, dancing against his lips before he swallows that too. There is a beat, and then he exhales smoke and flame and shadow in a rush, pooling about him in a darkened veil like gunmetal snow.

There is silence, as the ash swirls.

"I cannot sort the virtuous from the ill." he says, finally. "I no longer have the time, the presence, to inspect all the childer, and have not in the modern epoch. They swell and seethe, and I will not, as the Abbot of Beregost once commanded, let all die and sort the righteous afterward. I can only defend the whole and pray afterwards that of the chance I offer some will partake graciously."

He is so tired of these stories. Of the young taking this gift and polluting it into mere power, coercion. It makes him covet his open sands and still skies again, without the meaningless froth of self-deluding fools he still feels responsible for.

"I cannot apologize. And I cannot control them, not even as much as Devon implies. I can force compliance but not obedience in my absence. I cannot change what they choose to be." He says, the words grudgingly surrendering the truth. He cannot control Devon, just as she cannot force Jessie into the path of wisdom. The folly of family has compelled them both here.

He snorts once, harsh, and is still.

"What would you suggest? This is not my age, Miss Battle. It is yours."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Her thighs were solid under her jeans, and it was through wiping her hands that she struggled to reorient herself. It was sheer hell, the warring feelings - the logic threading through it all, screaming at her to spout some joke, something to reverse the soul vomit that she’d just spewed to a stranger. And not just any stranger - a vampire, and one that had Devon on his leash. A dangerous man.

For the first time in several years, Mercy was confronted with the undeniable truth that she was entirely out of her league. It was only her deeply rooted pride that kept her on her feet now, kept her from collapsing into a pool of tears. Over the dull noise of late night traffic and the murmur of conversation, the strain of “Wild is the Wind” slipped through, the singer’s voice honeyed smoke.

It was too much. She tilted her head skyward, hating with a depth that made her physically ill the heat of tears gathering under her eyelids, pooling at her eyelashes.

“…You’re a smothering father,” she croaked out, at long last. His attitude infuriated her, but arose a deep sorrow. A remembrance of someone else who thought that their actions could contain the actions of a whole. He was much like Senator Wells; he had to know that, sitting there so disgustingly secure and aloof with his cigar. Overweening, overbearing, smothering men - the worst kind of control freaks. And that’s really what it was all about. This man, this thing resembling a man, cared not a whit for her as an individual. He wanted control - plain and simple. And clearly could not have it.

A thousand stinging remarks sprang to her tongue, all beaten back by the futility of it. What difference would her words make to him? Absolutely nothing.

It was of a dim consolation that he admitted, for all of his desire for control, that he lacked it. It made him all the more insidious, all the more unpredictable. For in knowing that he had no control, he showed no inclination to give it up. What’s more, he had the lifespan to be patient.

“What do you mean, ‘what do I suggest’?” Quiet fury gave way to smoldering ash of anger, of incredulity of the audacity of him, he who seemed to know everything, for ‘advice.’ Patronizing her. “What do I suggest?” Her voice was sharp now. “I suggest you just wait. We’ll all die, in time. Some sooner than others.” Her posture, ramrod straight now, suggested defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. Foolish, but she clung to it tightly to steel her. To get her through the rest of this. She had to end this conversation, had to get to herself. Had to.

And so she did.

Without so much as a word of goodbye, she was pushing through the small iron gate that surrounded the outdoor patio, and was out into the street. In the corner of her mind, she knew it was potentially a futile gesture - had he wanted to, he could overtake her. The burgeoning logic, the same sense that kept one foot moving in front of the other, that kept her hands in her pockets fishing for the rental car keys, reassured her that he would not do such a thing. He apparently had much at stake as well; perhaps he didn’t see the relationship as a positive one as well.

She did her best to bury the comments from him about her mark as far down as she could; to scrub them from her memory. It was a silly thing; he couldn’t prove it, anyway. It was just a muscle twinge, indigestion; she could have bumped into something on the plane and now she had a bruise there. There were explanations for it. For everything.