Titanium [Micah]

[Remington Rothfelder]

There was an unsettling stillness to the night as Remington made his way down the street. He was in one of the less savory parts of town, known for its higher crime rate and elevated homeless populace. There were a band of men huddled together around a hastily constructed fire just under a bridge to one side. They didn’t bother him, so he didn’t see the point in acknowledging them. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket, his shoulders faintly slumped. Unlike the other ‘living’ beings in the immediate area, his breath did not come out like white smoke when he exhaled, the temperature in his lungs effectively the same as the air. He was lost in thought, about the trip he had taken down south with Sterling, about how every time he went south of the Canadian border, his life got just a little more complicated.

For once it was more personal than anything else. So there was that.

He probably would have continued on his way home if not for a familiar phrase used on unfamiliar lips. He had, for once, not been out for a jog or hunt, but rather had been in the process of signing over his dojo to the man he had been training to replace him. The contracts he had with a local theatre group and a more distant film studio were close to expiring, and he had no intention of renewing them. He had been working for months to try and cut his ties with his human life, but he’d been unfortunately burdened with several obligations that he’d been forced to see to. He had been gradually closing the off one by one, tying up his loose ends so as to attract as little attention as possible.

“Yeah, it’s a new tome.”

“One the fanged fucks haven’t gotten their hand on yet?”

“Well why would they want it, you have to ask yourself.”

“Those greedy bastards always want everything.” It sounded like an observation.

“Well yeah, but a ritual to make it so one of their kind can’t sire ever again? I mean how would that help them?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Remington blinked as he walked, careful not to slow or draw attention to himself. He walked until he’d made it past their line of sight before he ducked behind what looked like a rundown apartment building. The entire neighbourhood stank, but he was left to wonder if it was the type of thing he should report to Velveteen. Hadn’t she once told him that Micah handled rituals for the bloodline and Tytonidae? Maybe that was a better course of action.

The two of them had never been particularly close, which was not to say that Remi took exception to Micah or that he suspected the other man had an issue with him. They were both quiet types by their very nature, it seemed. There was a certain level of respect there, certain boundaries that did not get crossed. None the less, Remington had been meaning to get to know his sire’s companion for a while. His hand slid from one pocket to another and he pulled his phone so he could send the man a text GANGLAND - There’s a new tome I don’t think we have. Approach with caution, the ones who have it might be hostile. He hit the submit button and glanced around the corner towards the men who were all gathered in a circle. Then he settled in to wait.

[Micah]

It was supposed to be a quiet evening in. At least, that was what the original plan was. Micah hadn’t bothered to crawl out of bed as of yet. He was content right where he was. His wife was wrapped around him, her head on his chest and every so often he’d run his fingers through her hair as was habitual for him when they were together like this. Neither one of them had said much and he wasn’t even sure she was even awake. It didn’t matter though. Nights like this were few and far between so when one of them rolled around both were quick to take advantage of them.

Then his phone went off.

At first he ignored it. Hardly anyone ever texted him in the first place so he was fine with ignoring it. Until it started going off every five minutes and then it got to the point of being overly annoying. Reaching over his wife he snatched the annoying device off of the beside table and swiped his thumb across the screen. 1 New Text Message. Touching his finger to the notification he saw it was from Remington. A frown appeared on his face. Micah could count on one hand the number of times that Vel’s childe had ever contacted him and he wondered why he wasn’t trying Vel.

It wasn’t that Micah didn’t like Remington. On the contrary he was the one childe of Vel’s that the killer could even tolerate and even had a bit of respect for. When Micah wasn’t available and Vel needed someone at her back there wasn’t anyone that he trusted more than Remington. That spoke volumes. Maybe it was because Remington had never shown any interest in Vel, not the way that Micah saw as a threat. There was respect there, and a healthy amount of loyalty but that was where it ended. If anything ever happened to him he knew his wife would be in good hands, but he pushed that thought aside and opened the text.

A new tome. Interesting. And reason enough to get up no matter how much he wanted to stay in. It was with great reluctance that he untangled himself from his wife and slid out of bed to get dressed. Micah could feel her eyes on him and he chuckled, turning to face her as he pulled his jacket on. “If you keep looking at me like that I won’t be going anywhere, and it sounds important. Remington wouldn’t have contacted me otherwise.” He bent down to brush a kiss to her mouth. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I love you.” He heard her echoing a response as he left the bedroom and slipped through the portal that would drop him at the location he had been given.

He didn’t see Remington but knew he couldn’t be far. Pulling out his phone he sent off a message to the man. “At the entrance. How far in are they?” Setting the phone to vibrate he stuck to the shadows and waited for a response.

[Remington Rothfelder]

His careful observation of the men told him very little about them more than he had originally noted, which was both perplexing and annoying. The subject had shortly changed after that, as if they had realized that they were being listened to, and wanted to backpedal. He had a worrying moment during which he'd thought that perhaps he had given himself away, but they ended up looping right back around to that damnable ritual again a few minutes later. And then into more pointless drivel that offered up nothing in the way of useful information to him. It seemed almost as if every time they were about to reveal something that could be useful, they just barely skirted away. It was a game of 'keep away' that he grew tired of almost immediately. He very nearly barreled in and started hacking them into pieces himself. He only needed one alive, right?

He was about to do just that when his phone silently vibrated against his hip and he pulled it out to take a look at the screen. A second later, he fired off a response. They're about a block to the east just under a bridge. They're posing as homeless, don't be deceived. I'll be approaching from further east. And then he pulled his gun so that he could duck away from his cover, and step briskly down the street. Even with his size, he did not have the clumsy movements of a man whose muscles had grown unruly. He was silent in his tread and strangely graceful for what he was - due likely in part to his path and in part to his time training in the Canadian MMA circuit. He approached without hesitation anyway, not uncautious, but unwilling to back down. Perhaps one of his greatest weaknesses. When he comitted to a fight, he didn't back down. He couldn't.

He was on them a second later. He did not see Micah, but he knew that did not mean the man wasn't there. He announced his presence by lifting the barrel of his handgun, holding it just an inch or so away from the back of a man's head. The trigger was pressed and there was a sound like a metallic clap of thunder as his victim's eyes widened, and a hole erupted from the middle of his forehead like a caustic flower in bloom. Blood trailed down over his nose and he slumped to his knees dead. He didn't sprawl forward, but rather sagged back onto the ground, coming to lean against Remington's knees as if he were just resting there. Newly revealed, the vampire set his sights on the next target. It did not occur to him that they would be organized or prepared for a strike.

No sooner did the first of them hit the ground than the others had weapons drawn, and one of them pulled away from the others, barking something into an invisible ear piece. Were they going to call back up then? Well, the more the merrier as far as Remington was concerned. It had been some time since he had let his darkness out and it craved the opportunity to extinguish the lights of a few wretched mortal lives. He smiled, a rare expression that was likely made to seem somewhat demented with the wreckage of blood splatters on his face.

[Micah]

While he waited for a response from Remington Micah glanced around the area. He didn’t venture this way much even though he was staring at the building he’d purchased a couple years ago. MRC stood tall and silent in front of him. It was more or less empty for now but there were a few projects in the works inside that had taken a backseat to everything else. Micah wasn’t complaining. Eventually he’d get back in there to finish everything he had started but for now it would have to wait. He was here for a purpose and it wasn’t to reminisce about the **** he had waiting for him once things settled.

At that moment his phone buzzed with a response from Remington giving him directions and a heads up on the guys that had been discussing the tome. To the east, Remington had said. Entering the slums Micah turned to the east and headed for the bridge. God how he hated this place. The disgust that he felt was sure to be plainly seen for anyone who cared to pay enough attention to his face. He lost count of how many used syringes turned to dust under his boots, left there by the two legged vermin that were too lazy to dispose of them properly. He passed humans and vampires alike, the majority of which were too strung out to even notice him as he walked.

He drew on the shadows as he approached his destination, allowing them to fall over his body like a comfortable cloak. They wouldn’t last long but he didn’t need long. Just enough time to survey the area for an idea of what they were up against. Micah didn’t get much of a chance to take a head count. The familiar sound of a gun going off pierced the night and one of the thugs hit the ground with a hole in his head. Micah smirked. That was one way for Remington to announce his presence. The others exploded into action and as they did Micah drew his own weapon and took a step forward just as the shadows fell from around his tall frame. Between the two of them the killer had no doubt that they’d have no problem cleaning up.

Out of the corner of his eye Micah caught sight of one that fell away from the pack. Micah heard the voice plain as day, calling for reinforcements. That was all well and good. The more the merrier really but he wasn’t going to allow that one to live. No way in hell. Taking aim he stared down the sight and squeezed the trigger. The first shot he fired was an intentional miss. It grazed the target’s ear effectively destroying the communication device. Before the thug had a chance to return fire Micah sprinted towards him, stopping briefly to bring the butt of his gun down on his temple. Just as he predicted the human fell to the ground like a ton of bricks. With that one out of commission Micah took a spot at Remington’s side. “You started without me asshole.”

[Remington Rothfelder]

Pupils dilated wide, black slowly swallowing the natural colour of his irides even as Remington breathed in through his nostrils. The scent of wrecked flesh and the rush of hot blood onto the ground was addictive in its own way. Remi never could have found the artificial **** found in most druggie's syringes to be nearly so effective as the bloodlust that sang in his veins. It gave him purpose, power, the stealing of life in its own way. Because when he was done, the ones who were left behind were at best shells of who they had been, and at worse totally gone - where he, on the other hand, always came out of a fight feeling more vital. It was a foolish man that let the excitement of the hunt over-rule his good judgment though, and Remington didn't fancy himself a fool, so he remained careful all the same.

He spotted Micah moving to take out the man who had fled the scene, but by that time, Remington himself had fallen upon the remaining men. Or rather, they had all come to him, and given him the chance to play. They did not seem to be very good as fighters went, which was not a note of arrogance on Remi's part. He had spent more than a decade learning all varieties of martial arts and other forms of hand-to-hand, and weapon combat. He had grown up in Texas, and his father had made sure he knew how to use a gun by the age of ten. He knew his way around a brawl, and there was a lacklustrer feel to the enthusiasm behind his enemy's attack. A snarl took his normally somewhat attractive features, and twisted them into something truly ugly.

He hadn't picked a fight with hopes that it would not be a good one. His sword, nearly as tall as he was, sliced cleanly through one man, and the paladin fell into pieces. He heard Micah speaking and looked up. "Just makin' sure you knew where to go, old blood!" He called back even as he just narrowly avoided taking a shot to the gut, avoiding the blow by curling an arm around one of the hunter's necks when he spun away. By the time he turned back into his original position, he had a fleshy shield that absorbed the blast. He dropped the still living man and returned fire so that the attacker's chest exploded.

It was at that moment that those reinforcements came, but they did not come as a legion or phalanx. No, they came as a circle. There were only a dozen or so of them, each with hands linked in a circle around a central figure. The man wore a hood, but one could easily make out that he only had one deeply blue, working eye. The other had a jagged scar running over it, and appeared to be closed. He had a white beard that was trimmed close. Not stubble, but carefully shaped to accentuate the square of his jaw and the peak of his chin. They were all chanting, and Remington had no clue exactly what they were saying; it was in some language he had never heard before. But that lone figure at the middle of the new squadron had his gaze locked on both Micah and Remington.

Remi didn't know exactly what was happening, but he felt something shifting. Something changing. He reacted wordlessly, lifting his gun to take aim. He fired at the cloaked figure and his bullet bounced off of what appeared to be an invisible shield, a bubble. It was curiously similar to the telekinetic abilities some vampires had. A growl rose then from the predator's chest. Okay. A challenge.

He began towards the ancient sorcerer, allowing the confused hunters he had been in the midst of fighting follow along after him as if to try and rip away his attention.

[Micah]

If the old comment had phased him any it didn’t show. He may be old in Remington’s eyes but sometimes age was beneficial. Or maybe his wife’s child had been joking. Now wasn’t the time to consider that however, as Micah wasn’t going to let the other man have all the fun. But Remington had had a head start, leaving just a few left by the time Micah had come onto the scene, and it looked as though the situation was well under control. He did have to wonder if he had been fast enough to take out the one that had broken off from the rest of the pack. His question was soon answered as he and Remington found themselves surrounded. ********. What a waste of time that had been after all.

They appeared all at once. Such a move wasn’t something that he expected. The few thugs that had been left from the first group were forgotten as they both turned their attention to the new threat. Micah didn’t like the sound of that chant, and he sure as **** didn’t like the way that crazy freak with the one visible eye stared at them. It made him want to stroll over there without a care in the world and pluck it right out of his head but the killer didn’t think he’d be able to get close enough. And judging by the way Remington's bullet never hit the mark Micah knew that he was correct in his assessment. They weren’t going to be able to take the sorcerer out. Not until the circle that surrounded them was broken.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Remington draw his blade. In any other circumstance he’d have made some sarcastic remark about what he was trying to make up for in using such a monstrous weapon but now really wasn’t the right time for that. It was with a whole lot of reluctance that he started to put Eternity away but before he did, he emptied the clip by killing off the rest of the thugs that started to follow Remington as he made his way towards the sorcerer. What kind of killing partner would he be if he let an enemy have a free shot at the other man’s back?

The chant was starting to make him uncomfortable but at that point Micah was unsure if the shield protected the entire circle or the sorcerer. He weighed his options, He could either waste bullets or he could attempt to break their concentration. The sorcerer was the biggest threat to them right now, he was positive of that. Why else would there be a need for such a thing. Right then. Micah knew what his next course of action was going to be. But how to do it? After a quick scan of the area he had his answer.

Cement block. Perfect.

Acting quickly Micah bent down and picked the block up as if it weighed no more than a feather. He took aim and whipped it as hard as he could at one of the men in the circle, hoping like hell it didn’t bounce off. If it did, they were well and truly fucked.

[Remington Rothfelder]

It was almost comical the way that the cement block sailed through the air, like a football thrown so that it spiraled as it came into contact with the head of one of the men in the circle. Funny because it looked like it just replaced a cranium, suddenly a living, thinking head on a set of narrow shoulders and the next a disfigured bit of jumbled rock, and then the next nothing as the thing continued its journey till it hit the ground and formed a small crater. There was an immediate explosion of blood that didn't even have a chance to drip down a body, which just stood there dumbly for a second as if confuse as to what it was meant to do. Then knees buckled and it fell to the ground with a sick sound. Remington caught the action from the corner of his eye and silently lauded Micah, internally pleased at the sight of the efficient kill.

With every passing second, the chanting grew louder and louder. At first, Remi thought that it was because he was getting closer, but it was more like the words were getting clearer and clearer until they were searing their way into his brain. Almost like when Velveteen mindspoke to him, but not quite, a resonant quality that went through him as much as it impacted his eardrums. He felt them, as strange as that sounded. Like someone threw a net over his head, and then another and another. The first one was of no consequence, but as more and more layers were added, one's sight and movement became obstructed. The Shadow felt weight of some unknown burden press itself down on his shoulders, like he was being systematically cut off of everything that made him vampire.

The first thing to go was his sense of smell. First there was this putrid odor of spoiled eggs and rotten onions, of death and sewage, then there was nothing. Well. Not nothing, but it was as if his nose was human again, and therefor inferior. It was comparative to a person who was congested and couldn't scent anything more than an inch away from their nostrils. His hearing went similarly next. His eyesight (which was normally frighteningly good). He didn't know exactly what was happening, but he could feel his strength being slowly sapped as well and he wasn't about to be felled by a bunch of chanting morons so he called forth a spirit of sound and air, a demon that mauled one of the men to the ground, tackling him. Of course, the Sidhe did not deal a killing blow, but Remington was there to follow up with a clean stroke of his blade in an arch across a throat.

The pointed end of his sword dipped through the air, fluid as water, and came back to slam through the chest of another man. It seemed like the chanting was building to a crescendo, some sort of climax that had primal drums hammering into Remi's head.

Finally it stopped abruptly, the remaining few in the circle falling into what amounted to a low hum while the sorcerer spoke. His voice was deep and solid. "Called the curse of mortal frailty and the curse of severed ties, you are condemned. May you be banished to the outlands and the fae feast on your ashes." Remington was only half listening even though the words boomed into his headspace, feeling like they were too big to fit. He immediately had a headache as he beheaded another man in the circle, and threw his blade full force at the last minute to watch it thunk into a man, pinning him to a nearby wall with enough force that he immediately died. That only left the sorcerer.

But before Remi could do something like throttle him, the world changed around him.

One second in the slums, the next surrounded by the wilderness.

[Micah]

Micah got no satisfaction from that kill. He was slightly disappointed that it hadn’t lasted, that he hadn’t been able to draw it out. Even the blood spray was rather lame, because there was no spray. Just a fine mist of red that lingered in the air for a few seconds before it dissipated, leaving behind a headless corpse that dropped to the ground a few second later. Oh well. A kill was a kill after all, but Remington was well ahead of him. Body after body hit the ground before Micah even had the chance to pull out his blade. His wife’s childe was fast, he had to admit, and the killer was rather impressed with the effective way Remington cut through the mass of men in an attempt to get to the sorcerer.

The sorcerer. Him and his ******* chanting. Micah could concentrate on nothing but that damn chant. And it wasn’t just what he could hear. The voice was inside of his head too and Micah hated that ****. The only two people who he allowed to speak into his mind were his wife and his daughter. Neither did it very often, Vel more so than Zoey but it wasn’t ever an annoyance like this was proving to be. This voice actually stung and the louder it got the stinging turned into sharp, jabbing pains that had him dropping his blade and grabbing at his head in an attempt to get it to stop.

And then it was over. The voice was gone. The sharp, stabbing pain in his head was gone and there was silence. It was eerie how quiet it was. Micah opened his eyes, not even realizing that he had shut them in the first place and froze. The slums were gone. Now, he was looking at endless wilderness. The first thing he did was try to shift into the familiar form of a black timber wolf but….nothing happened. His brow furrowed and he tried again, this time attempting his eagle owl form but there was nothing. It was like he was completely cut off from every single power he possessed. Out of sheer desperation he tried to use celerity but was met with the same result. Every single power he had, he tried them all but the same result. There was simply nothing there for him to use.

Looking around he saw Remington standing beside him. Was he experiencing the same thing? Or was it just him? Whatever had happened to him the killer knew who was to blame. That ******* sorcerer and that damn chant. Micah cursed. That old sorcerer was going to die, just as soon as he found him. It was then that he noticed he felt different. That comfortable strength that he had grown used to...the killer couldn’t feel it. He could feel a ball of dread starting to form in the pit of his stomach. It couldn’t be...could it?

Just to test his theory Micah approached a sturdy looking tree. Normally all it took was a flick of his wrist to rip it apart, something that he had always found to be quite satisfying. Grasping a lower branch he gave an experimental tug and was met with nothing. The branch remained firmly attached to the trunk of the tree and all he had to show for it was some missing skin on the palm of his hand. Turning to the other male, Micah delivered the news. “We are well and truly fucked Remington.” Now what were they going to do?