Run [Closed]

[Jesse Fforde]

Run.

To run is better than to pace. To walk back and forth barely even wearing a hole into the ground one stands upon. Self-inflicted rehabilitation has not worked, in the grand scheme of things. One cannot take oneself out of the world when connected to others, whether by blood or by faction or by adoption. A break has been suggested; officially sanctioned permission to remain ensconced in solitude, to try to maintain calm and control the urges constantly running awry in Jesse’s system.

Patience is something that Jesse has pride in himself for. Except, pride is also something that Jesse has an abundance of. Pride in self. Where once he had given no shits about what anyone else thought, he now gives more shits than he would care to admit to. This he attributes to several things. First: he never had anyone he cared about, or whose opinion mattered. Second: he had an ego to match his pride, and gave no shits because he always believed himself to be the best kind of person. Except, lately, and periodically these days, he is subjected to heavy doses of self-loathing and low self-esteem. The worst fear he has is letting down those he cares about. Thus—giving shits that he’d prefer not to give.

And, thus, he would not be taking leave. He would be attending hunts, as per usual. And he would drink the blood that his fiancé brings to him because he will not have her worrying. He cannot fall apart. Cannot, for Grey’s sake. Because if he falls apart, she will fall apart too. And he will never forgive himself if anything should happen to Grey because of his own shortcomings.

The self-inflicted rehabilitation had only lasted so long. The fresh blood, the fresh hunt, it had awoken in him all of the violence and rage that he had worked so hard to control. The calm that he had attained for one single week had been banished, smashed and shattered. He does not want a repeat of the last time, however. He does not want to push everyone away. He doesn’t’ want to fall on his knees and beg for death from someone else’s hand because he has too much pride to do it himself. It’s a catch 22.

Jesse knows what he has to do to make it all better, but he is reluctant. Since the discovery of his peculiar curse, he has sired five. He has taken the lives of five humans and changed them, irrevocably. The last had been in November. November the fifth. Clover, who has disappeared. Who has not responded to Jesse’s summons. Whom he has not heard from. Clover, who hadn’t transitioned all too smoothly, and who Jesse has assumed has disappeared because of her loathing of the man who’d turned her.

How does he stop that from happening again? How does he turn someone and know that they won’t turn on him? He doesn’t want drama. He wants someone who will love this life as much as he does. He wants someone who will be responsible, and who will listen to him. Someone who won’t go and sire others without taking on the responsibility required to look after them. How does he find someone like that?

Jesse’s entire body shakes. He feels like time is running out, somehow. There’s a countdown within him and the longer he takes to figure it out, the worse he gets, psychologically. He has a responsibility to control himself, to make himself better—for the sake of those he cares about.

The tattooed man bounces on the balls of his feet in elevator of Veil Towers. The shuttle is carrying him downward; his fingers stretch, clench into fists, and stretch again, before he shakes them out. Not for the first time, he’s wondering whether holding himself up in one apartment for a whole week was a good idea. Jesse had never been a man able to sit still for too long. He got restless. All that restlessness has coagulated, an internal bleed that’s now blocking all his good intentions.

Jesse is out the door of the elevator before the it has even has the chance to fully open. His boots thud against the marbled lobby floor, echoing around him. A woman yelps as she nearly runs headfirst into Jesse as she’s coming in, and he’s going out. Jesse cringes, an internal twitch as he hears her heart rate scatter. There’s a lingering warmth that she leaves behind and he wants nothing more than to turn around, grab her jacket, pull her close and tear into her neck. Suck her dry, right where the cameras can see him. Right there in the public eye.

Instead, his feet hit the pavement and he runs. There’s no jog, no gathering speed, no hesitation. As soon as that crisp night air touches his face, he’s running. As if for his life. Running, with no destination in mind. Sprinting, like a man training for a marathon, but no doubt looking like some kind of criminal dressed in his black jeans and his leathers, with that beanie pulled down over his hair. But he does not look back. The soles of his shoes grind into the asphalt, the pounding rhythm of his weight combines with the melodic schck schck of dislodged dirt or snow or garbage. No steam escapes Jesse’s lungs, even though he feels the inferno rising inside.

But he runs. He runs, and he does not stop for no man.

[Grey Weston]

It was late. Too late to reasonably expect grocery stores to remain open. It was the hour of Quikmarts and 24-hour convenience stores. He needed groceries. He'd noticed this, in an abstract sort of way, several days ago. The tiny dorm fridge he kept to one side of his mostly utilitarian kitchen had overheated three days before, spoiling a half-gallon of milk and half-thawing the Primal meat medallions he housed for Stoker in the process. The refrigerator was temperamental at the best of times; its ancient cooling fans wheezing to life, sounding like the tar-choked lungs of a chronic smoker in the early hours of the morning. More often than not Grey would wake to find the brushed metal box warm to the touch, exhaust from its fans hellish in temperature. The thin black cord that snaked across the white tile of the kitchen was patchy, thick stripes of duct tape silvering the worn and fraying sections.

Aside from a half-full container of sour milk and a handful of lukewarm fruit cups and cans of instant soup, however, he was dangerously low. He'd originally meant to rectify the problem earlier that afternoon. Those half-formed plans had fallen through, in part because he'd taken to keeping irregular hours. Sunlight brought on lethargy, and a creeping, peculiar aversion. So when he stirred at a quarter past eleven, he'd wasted no time in leashing Stoker and venturing from his apartment. The problem that presented itself, naturally, was that very little was still open. His solution was to tether Stoker to a nearby lamppost before ducking inside of an all-night deli. It offered little in terms of essentials. It did, however, have a selection of bottled drinks and hot and cold sandwiches, many of which had been tagged with faded orange neon stickers displaying their eminent expiration. He purchased several of these, slinging them into the cheap plastic handtote provided by the deli.

He'd worry about groceries later. A day at a time. Wasn't that what the program preached? He ducked outside again minutes later, clutching an off-white and grease-spotted paper bag. Stoker, who had been sitting patiently, instantly rose to his feet, tail wagging, muzzle straining forward to scent at the bottom of the bag. The vague scent of bacon and smoked ham exuded from the bag, escaping in a vapor trail of heat in the cold. The dog fixed Grey with an expectant look, his front paws lightly dancing over the pavement in an anxious, patternless, back-and-forth step. It coaxed a laugh from him. "Alright, alright. Just..." He trailed off, a frown forming. The dog's gaze abruptly dropped and focused elsewhere, ears pricked forward, muscles beneath sleek black fur tense. The sound of footsteps reached them belatedly. Rapid. Drumming over pavement. He shifted, instinctively moving to one side of the sidewalk. Yielding.

Stoker erupted. The dog lunged, drawn up short by the leash still firmly secured around the lamppost. It reared onto its hind legs, dissolving into riotous, darkly timbered barks, intermingled with the low percussion of snarls. His jaws snapped the air. Mindless. Frenzied. Grey frowned, before wrapping his fingers in the worn, soft nylon of the leash. Attempting to jerk the animal down. Bring him to heel. "Sorry," he muttered. He didn't bother to add 'He never acts like this.' While true, most considered it a pretty lie. And if not a lie, a reason to take personal offense at the notion that there was something inherent about them that an animal disliked. "Shh, hey," he continued, voice low. This last was addressed to the distressed canine, rather than to Jesse. With any luck the man would have the sense to dismiss the incident and move on.

[Jesse Fforde]

The dog comes out of nowhere.

If Jesse were paying proper attention, maybe the dog would have been avoidable. Maybe he’d have run on the opposite side of the street and kept going, never to have looked back. As it is, he’s too focused on trying to expel his energy. Maybe if he physically exhausts himself, he won’t have the energy to think. He’s done a few blocks by now, the streets blurring as the wind lashes his skin and chaps his lips, causing his eyes to water and blister with the water needed to moisten them properly. Leather swishes against leather and the denim of the jeans chafes between his legs, but the constant pounding of his feet against the asphalt is a release, in a way. A physical jolting, reminding him of the reality around him. The taste of the salt in the air, drifting in from the river; the scent of greasy beef as he passes by a cheap take-away joint, the feel of the wind and the burn, the thudding of his feet, the rhythm of all of it.

All interrupted by the vicious, violent barking of a dog. For a few sweet seconds Jesse had closed his eyes, running blind. Protection against the wind. He’s almost right on top of the dog by the time he opens his eyes, travelling at a momentum that has him skidding and stumbling, throwing up his hands as he barely managed to keep himself from bowling over the dog. He is witness to glistening teeth and a gnashing maw; dogs don’t particularly like him much. Maybe they have an innate urge to protect their masters, especially when their masters turn out to be human—much like this one is.

Normally, Jesse would keep going. He would ignore this scene, maybe flip the dog the finger and keep walking.

But it’s not the dog’s fault. Jesse knows this. The dog has good instincts. Jesse is someone who ought to be avoided. In that moment, Jesse related to the dog. All he wants to do is rip and maim. All he wants to do is tear someone’s throat out, but he’s on a leash. A leash he himself has fashioned, but a leash that he would like to be free of. His willpower is slowly slipping. The leash is fraying, and his own lips curl back in an animalistic snarl.

If he were human, he would be panting. He’d be out of breath. He’d at least be breathing faster than what he is – which is not much at all. In fact, looking at him now, he looks like a man who’s been on a mere stroll. His skin is still deathly pale, the ink stark against the whiteness. His eyes are gleaming, glistening with a blue fire. His chest heaves, but only because he’s sucking in the scent of this human and his dog. Hot. Human. Alive. Alive. Fresh. He takes a step toward them. And then another. He gives no fucks about the dog, and whatever violence in might threaten. His eyes are steadfast upon the dog’s owner, boring a hole into the other man’s skull. His gait is rolling, but steady. Exactly like that of a predator preparing to pounce.

”Why do you keep him on a leash anyway?” Jesse asks, his voice rough and rasping.

”That’s ******* cruel. He’s an animal, he should be free. Go on. Do it. Just let him go. Let him go,” Jesse demands. He’s not really thinking ahead. If he were, it would be obvious he doesn’t care much for the animal’s well-being. If attacked, Jesse will kill it. Without regard. He doesn’t want the dog. He wants the dog’s owner. He wants to stretch that lanky men out and break his bones, even as he’s taking every last drop of blood.

[Axel Rosen]

Not all the windows of Axel’s apartment at Veil Tower are completely boarded over; just the ones in the bedroom. It’s not that he stays there often, but he came back to get some books and materials that he thinks he’ll need to do his research on vampires throughout the history of mankind. He’s specifically looking for books that he owns that are translations of texts that are over two hundred years old and some years. As he’s gathering books, he looks out the window of the main room and sees a man sprinting in one direction. The blur of pale skin splattered with ink is familiar to him. Placing the books down he follows the path of travel with his eyes, scanning to make sure that he aims slightly ahead of who he assumes is his sire.

Focusing he attempts to teleport himself just ahead of the male’s forward path. When he wills his power to go off, he realizes that he’s a bit too off. Axel lands behind who he now knows is Jesse. The feeling of his sire’s presence is in a nearly palpable area. Axel can feel it in his skin, a welcome crawling feeling greater than that of the maggots in his skin. A sigh of relief leaves his lips as he turns around to start walking in the direction of his sire. He goes to call out to the man, but gets visually confronted by this choice to make.

His sire is in one of his irritable moods. Axel’s seen it quite a few times, what with the way he goes through times of murder and times of calm, near serenity. This is obvious a time of murderous moods. Being the metaphorical devil on his sire’s shoulder, All Axel really wants to do is to cause a mundane scene, distract the street, and divert the attention of what little people are here away so that his sire can vent some frustration on the human him. It doesn’t appear, yet, though that anything is going to happen. Jesse seems to be merely demanding something, Axel can’t hear from this far over the sound of the street.

Wandering down the path toward the two of them. The dog snarling, Jesse doing almost nearly the same in his own way, and the man trying to calm his dog down. This is going to be interesting and part of him wants to be there to make sure the show goes on, but safely without breaking any of the rules. He doesn’t necessarily want to get involved. While Axel enjoys a good murder every now and then, one without plot or reason. He’s evolved in the way that he kills. He likes to kidnap, starve, deprive of sleep, torture, then when they break and look forward to the times their fed. Then he kills them. For fun.

Now that he’s closer, his eyes look to Jesse, inquisitive. He’s had one question coming after the man: ’Where the **** have you been?’. Now the question is a bit different. It’s in his eyes, ’Well?’. The man that sired him taught him how to hunt, how to kill and how to take sport in it. Honestly it came relatively easy to Axel as he doesn’t feel remorse or sadness, or really anything. He tries, claims he does at times, but he’s coming to accept that this is what he is. Embrace the monster, the emotionless void of wanting to corrupt and harm others. So it’s a little surprising to him that human before them still stands, still breathes, still has blood in his veins.

Leaning all of his weight onto one of his feet, he waits for something to happen. Despite not looking that way, he is rather prepared for the dog to attack or it’s master. He’s watching both of them from the corner of his eye, still looking at his sire. He’s almost begging them to move, to jump, to make the first move. It’s like when he’s with Jesse he reverts back to the mentality of the pack hunting the two of them had done together. It’s a time of actual glee in his life, the many times they’ve done it.

[Charisma]

She felt like she couldn’t breathe.

Which, in retrospect, was true. Her lungs no longer needed to operate for her survival, and yet she felt as if she were suffocating. The walls of the Flats were caving in on her, and her vision dimmed as the faces of the other vampires began to become distorted. She hadn’t a single clue what had brought out the random bought of panic, but it had somehow managed to sink its claws deep into her chest. Slowly, she brushed her tongue over her lower lip as she studied the scene around her. Despite the mangled appearances of vampires and zombies alike, she was able to make out most of what was happening. Perhaps it was because she had been submerged in the actions of the lobby for days. Attempting to find one specific thing to focus on, she frantically continued her search. Instead of easing her, it send her panic into overdrive as the faces began to come one. The vampires that had one looked friendly and welcoming became disfigured as the zombies took over there forms. “Oh god,” she squeaked, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears. Not wanting to disturb Fable, she took a few steps away from him and pushed her shaking fingers through her hair. The honey colored strands felt like silk against her skin, and yet the familiar scent of her shampoo didn’t welcome her. Instead, she only smelled death. Twisting her fingers harder into her hair, she felt the sharp pain against her scalp, but even that failed in its ability to snap her out of the panicked assault. She began to teeter on her Louboutin’s as if she were drunk, the need to escape the prisoned hell she’d been assigned to rushing through her. Only a week again, she had been worried about her next thesis and her essay for Professor King. Now, she was worried about the next kill and the fight for survival. Her life was gone. She was dead.

No, not dead.
Murdered.

The knowledge hit her full force in the chest and splintered outwards, until even her fingertips were tingling. Velveteen’s face filled her mind, and she was sure if her heart could still beat, it would be threatening to tear from her chest as the fear swamped her. Tears burned the back of her eyes, though she knew she wouldn’t cry. She had never been able to let her emotion show. Ever since her death, it had only become worse. She felt herself slowly shutting down, except for right then. For some reason, the safety net she had found for herself had torn, and the emotions were splitting her apart at the seam. She needed space, she needed to breathe – she needed to live. “I need to get out of here,” she muttered to her sibling, before dropping her bag at his feet. She didn’t allow him a chance to speak to her, to even acknowledge her statement. She knew if she did, he would ask her what was wrong, and she wouldn’t be able to lie to him. He didn’t understand. He viewed her killer as a savior, while she viewed her as the woman that stole everything from her. Yet, despite all of that, she felt a connection to her, one that she would never be able to fight. She knew she would die for her again if she so much as batted a lash, and it frightened her. She should hate her, and yet she felt a kinship. It was twisted, morbid. Was she simply replacing her mother with this woman? The question was one she asked herself countless times, and it was one she never wanted to know the answer to. Gasping for breath, she twisted full circle and took off for the door, nearly running a zombie over as she did.

The second the chill of the wind hit her skin, she was free. Her heels clicked rapidly against the concrete as she raced through the city, the Egyptian cotton of her black dress billowing about her thighs. She had to be a sight for anyone that saw her, something for them to run home to their families and laugh about over dinner. They would talk about the woman who had decided to take a midnight jog in heels, and they would then go to bed wandering if they should have done something to protect her. The guilt would eat them alive, and they would have something else to talk about the next morning while getting their kids ready for the day. She’d never have that. She’d never again be able to sit around a dinner table and speak with her father. She’d never have children, she’d never have a husband.

Her life was gone.

The exertion of her legs pumping became a welcome release, the easing of her tense muscles bring her a relief she hadn’t felt in day. She knew she’d never be able to outrun the demons, especially when they were no longer a figment of her imagination, a story that had been told through the ages to scare children. The demons had become real, and they had faces, names – they had stories and histories. So, she knew that it didn’t matter how fast she moved, how far she got, they would always be right behind her. Taunting. Laughing. There would be nowhere to hide, even if she had come up with a plan to do so. She had no destination in mind, not a single end-game. The temptation to keep running until she hit the city limits was strong, but she knew she wouldn’t stop the moment she toed the barrier. Who said you had to? the thought flittered into her mind uninvited, like the tiny little devil urging her to another disastrous outcome. She had learned long ago not to listen to it, but perhaps this time it had a point.

Maybe no one would notice…

If it wasn’t for the trio of figures just a distance ahead, she might have given in just this once. Instead, she felt herself slowing to a stop as she approached them, the frantic sound of two beating hearts causing her blood to run cold. Their own blood rushed just beneath a thin barrier of skin, skin she knew now was so easily torn apart. No! She wouldn’t give into that temptation, no matter how strong. It was dark, too dark for even her. Her entire form trembled as she cautiously moved closer, and her movements were tense. She had no idea what she planned to do. She should just keep walking, skirt around them and pretend she hadn’t seen a thing, but her humanity was still intact despite everything. She couldn’t leave the human to fend for himself. It was rather ironic, being it was how her story ended and begun. Clearing her throat, her heels made a quiet sound as she stepped closer to the human and his companion, French accent thick as she quietly voiced a question that had such an obvious answer. “Is there a problem?”

You will never learn your lesson, Charisma.

[Grey Weston]

For a moment, the shepherd strains against Grey's hold. Surges against a thin arm solidly barred against his chest. Lost to instinct, a creature flawed by design. Compelled to respond to ancient, barely understood hardwiring that insists, in the most primal part of the brain, that it fulfill the purpose of the breed. If the dog heard Grey, it didn't give any outward sign. The barking stops, replaced by a low, continuous growl. A low-frequency sound that Grey can feel against his arm; that same low, thrumming noise of a car with its bass turned up too loud, the shock of the sound almost like a secondary pulse. It almost looks comical; a rail-thin boy half-crouched, pale arms wound tightly around the torso of a half-hysterical dog.

"Because there are laws," Grey returns smoothly. Ironic, given his own illicit activities. "And because," he continued, fingers deftly pulling at the knot at the base of the lamp, "If I let him go, he'd tear your throat out." The words are oddly neutral, delivered with a calm that seems strangely out of place. He resumes working at the knot, drawing stiff nylon free of the vaguely rusted base, the motion scattering a handful of peeling paint chips. He only stood once Jesse drew closer, the set of his jaw tense. As if in response to the gradually mounting tension between the pair, the sound of the dog's snarl builds in crescendo, the sound guttural, his upper lip shriveling to expose teeth. For a moment, Grey's gaze locks with his. Cool. Measuring. Most would have stepped back, underneath the weight of Jesse's scrutiny. Given in to an inexplicable sense of unease. Given ground.

Grey was still, other than the absent way his fingers tightened on the leash, the pads of them rubbing into the worn, familiar grooves. As if considering. "**** off." The words are low, and almost deceptively cheerful. But there's no mistaking the steel underneath. As if to underscore the sentiment, his own lips curl back into a half-sneer, revealing a pair of upper canines that are...abnormally long for a human. Pointed at the tips. It's foolish, and he knows this, on some level. The message is clear all the same. Walk away, old man. Walk away and we can all go back to having a ******* peachy evening. A flicker of movement registers in the corner of his eye. A handful of feet back, moving steadily closer. Grey swallows, unwilling to give Axel his full focus. But there's logical way to keep both of them in his line of vision. It complicated things. "Stoker." The name is even, the delivery more outwardly calm than he actually felt. His hand inches towards the dog's collar, fumbling for the S-hook around his collar.

"Go home." The dog doesn't move. Doesn't take its gaze from Jesse. "Go home!" He repeats, voice harsh. At this, the dog's head turns, gaze settling onto Grey. Steady. Conflicted. Grey's finger finds the leash's connector and releases it. For a moment, it looks as if the dog will disregard the command and spring. The sound of heels punctures the tension, the noise staccato. Both dog and human are momentarily confused with the arrival of Charisma. Too many of them. The realization is gradual. Heavy. "I don't know," he says at last, his gaze returning to Jesse's a moment later. "Is there?"

[Jesse Fforde]

If I let him go he’d rip your throat out.

Jesse sneers. His head cants to the side as he considers the dog. A big dog, yes. But not a zombie dog. Not a wolf. Not a bear. Not a ******* fadecreature, or a fae. Just a normal garden variety dog. Jesse’s tongue slides over his teeth, his own canines sharp and threatening. A breach, but a small one. A small one that he wants to rectify by tearing the throat from the human who would dare to think his dog would do Jesse any harm.

Jesse doesn’t even respond. His rolling gait continues. Why respond? Why chit-chat with this human who’s about to end up dead? It’ll be easy to shove him up against that wall; to drag him into some dark shadow. Right? Jesse isn’t in his right mind. He needs to be more careful, he knows this. Reason is screaming at him, digging its nails into his brain. But he isn’t listening.

If it weren’t for the fact that this small scene suddenly became very crowded, he’d have done just that. Instead, he falters. He falters because he feels the presence of his progeny, lurking just beyond the reach of their little group. Axel’s presence acts as a warning bell—a whistle screaming in the middle of a battle field. Jesse is supposed to be responsible. A role model. He recalls this, in the heat of the moment. He cannot breach Masquerade. Not here. And if that weren’t enough, a teetering blonde disturbs them, too.

Jesse’s bright hues turn on the new comer. His nostrils flare. Just by looking at her he can tell she isn’t human. She is vampire, just like he is. Just like Axel is. For a moment he is distracted, his lips parted and his throat dry. He wonders who she belongs to. Wonders what it would have been like for them, sinking their teeth into that luscious neck of hers. Wonders how they must feel, to have her as a part of their coterie. Is that jealousy Jesse feels, because he hadn’t got to her first?

Jesse turns back to see that snarl and those sharpened teeth; to hear the human tell him to **** off, before telling his own dog to go home. The dog doesn’t shift, and Jesse goes on ignoring the creature. What he would have said, had the curb not become so crowded, was that the dog could try to tear his throat out. It wouldn’t go so well for the dog. But all comments are summarily dismissed—alongside the it’s none of your ******* business he was about to fling at the blonde—as he notices those teeth.

On a human that cannot be quite human.

Jesse takes another step forward. He lunges, as if to grab at the human’s mouth, to pull back the lips to peer closer. As if to take a drag of air, of scent, to try to figure it out. That there, beneath the human veneer, is something different. Something… parasitic? Something not quite. Something that might ruin everything.

The Necromancer’s voice has fled; he has regressed. What the **** need is there for conversation? He is a man of action, always has been. He should have just kept running.

[Axel Rosen]

Holding back a retort that would have sounded something like, ’Oh yes, please let him go. This should be entertaining to say the least’. Not to mention that losing a dog like that would almost be a deficit in itself. He thinks that he’d seen somewhere a German Shepherd puppy go for about twenty-five hundred dollars. That’s not including the costs of raising it, that’s just to adopt it and ‘vow’ to take care of it. It appears that this human has, or it likely wouldn’t have the energy to be snarling. So it would be a two for one, in Axel’s opinion. He’d get to watch Jesse effortlessly destroy something innocent and the human is out an investment that might have been beneficial to him.

Axel’s eyes, black behind a pair of sunglasses, move over the dog. He almost wants to will it to relax, using the power that allows him to feed without alarming the victim (not that he ever uses it.) Where would the fun be in that though, he’d rather just let the dog continue to push it’s luck. Even though the sound of the snarling and squawking, what the barks have devolved into, are getting rather annoying, he’d rather let this go on a tiny bit longer.

Just far enough away, or his attention on the human rather than his sire, Axel doesn’t register the fang flash. Those pair of black eyes, concealed by sunglasses, lead the movement of his head to the blond. Head canting to the side, though his hands go into his pocket to find the life-jacket of a weapon in his sea uncertainty. At any moment the waters could become choppy, but right now they’re rather calm. Calm enough for him to answer, “Think it’s under control, thanks. Just a misunderstanding”, a lie. A fairly good one.

The sound of a metal clasp being unclamped is heard next to him, this is enough to draw Axel’s attention away from the blond woman. With any luck she’ll walk on by and let this happen. It’s not that Axel doesn’t like company, it’s that if this is going to turn into a murder-feed scenario the less mouths to feed the better. That and the honors should all go to Jesse should it come to that to decide how he wants to handle it. Axel keeps this all to himself, eyes moving to the dog to see what it does. The command was to go home, but that doesn’t appear to be what it’s doing. It sits there almost defiant of any outside will.

Jesse moves forward in an almost attack-like motion, and a small grin cracks over Axel’s lips. It’s not the cheshire cat grin that his fangs would give him, but it suffices at the moment. The struggle hasn’t begun yet, and Axel doesn’t know what the intent is. His sire wouldn’t do it here on the street. He may drag him away, make it look like something else was happening, maybe even catch him later. So, knowing Jesse it’s not going to happen here. A little scuffle may happen here, but not some display of the beast. Not the animal beneath the skin itching to come out and begging for the wound to be scratched with razors. Not here.

It does appear, though, that Jesse is going for the man’s mouth for some reason. Maybe it’s something that he missed when he was looking at the blond that had come up and decided to play street patrol. The two black pools of oil that lie in his ocular cavities are looking for something in that mouth that would stand out of place. He can’t place it though, maybe he can’t see it or maybe it’s just not there and Jesse’s gotten to a point where he’s delirious. He’ll just wait and see, grin ever present ready for this to at least get physical if not bloody.

[Charisma]

When will you ever learn? You can’t save everyone, Melody.

The soft spoken voice carried across the wind, bringing with it a hollow pain that centered in her chest. The desire to snap her attention from the trio to the open road was pulling at her, but she knew the moment she looked away – all hope would be lost. I have to try, she countered instead as she pressed her arms to her abdomen. The panic had subsided, and in its place, resolution reigned. She was an intelligent woman, a woman that prided herself on her selfless ability as well as her quick thinking. She knew just by casting a quick glance at both men, she would stand no chance in a battle. She was barely a week old, and her inability to control herself was a threat to not only her, but the very human she had somehow found herself trying to protect. With a resigned sigh, the blonde flicked her hair over her shoulder and straightened her spine. The tears that had threatened to fall had evaporated, and her eyes held a steely resolve as she narrowed them on the animalistic male.

“Perhaps you should go,” she said quietly as she stepped closer, her voice carrying towards the man and his companion. This is no place for someone like you, she wanted to say, though she had to remember herself. She didn’t wish to send him screaming into the nearest building, shouting off delusions of vampires attempting to rip his throat out. ****. She shouldn’t have thought that. The second the image filled her mind, a low sound thrummed from her throat. It was too quiet for the human to calculate, but she was certain the others would. She had to prove that she was in control. They couldn’t possibly tell she was a fledging from simply seeing her. At least, she had hoped not. Lifting her hand, she scraped her nails against the smooth flesh of her jaw, her head tilting as she took another cautious step.

She could practically feel the hostility as it pulsed from the man. It washed over her, and she knew in that instant, he was not going to go quietly. Or easily. Something inside of him had given in to the darkness, and as the other male spoke, she studied him. It seemed, for a brief moment, as if he was studying her too. She caught a flash of something unknown in his expression, and for a single, solitary second, she had sworn it was… jealousy? The observation confused her, as she couldn’t tell this man from Adam, and yet, something tugged at the back of her mind. He was dangerous, wicked. Knowing better than to try to discern the thought process of a mad-man, she briefly took her attention from him as the other vampire spoke. Something in his tone caused her to bristle, and she narrowed her eyes even more. “I do not tolerate lying. It is an unhealthy habit. Perhaps you should cease in your attempts to frighten this man and go work on your personality.”

The second the words tumbled from her lips, she wished she could take them back. The filter between her mind and her mouth had never worked, and it had gotten her into some bad situations in her past. Of course, nothing could be worse than her facing two large, male elders on a dark street. Just run, Melody, please. You’re not going to like what happens here. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… The voice was back, and the urgency in it nearly sent her running in the opposite direction. Wonderful. Now, I’m giving into voices – and talking to myself. The thought had only just formed – it honestly couldn’t have been longer than second from the moment she spoke to the vampire – then the first had moved. No. She couldn’t allow him to hurt the human. Not only for his safety, but for everyone else as well. She knew if a single drop of blood were to spill, all hope would be loss for him and for her. It couldn’t happen – she simply could not allow it. When she saw him shift forward, his hand outstretched for the other’s jaw, she growled quietly. “Enough!” The single word came quietly as she lifted her own hand in an attempt to stop him. As she did, the moonlight reflected off of savage claws, and her eyes widened.

What in the hell is happening to me?

[Grey Weston]

Grey's reflexes are quick, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He'd braced for the lunge; anticipated it. For one brief, desperate second, he allows himself to react, breaking free of his rigid posture. He feinted to the left, hoping to distract with the seemingly directionless movement. Long enough to push past and sprint. Where didn't matter. Just...away. The rational part of his mind knows it won't work, couldn't possibly, but another, subtle part of him--the self-preservation he'd ignored for so long, screams inside of his veins. A shrill, hoarse voice of guidance, desperate to work its will. He doesn't want to die, he realizes in the split second before Jesse's fingers close around his jaw. Not here. It's...strange. A distant clarity. Jesse's fingers are cold to the touch, devoid of warmth as fingertips bite into the curve of his jaw. The grip is jarring, forceful enough to dredge up some perverse measure of relief. If he died, at least it would be an end to it. An end to the thin panic that always gripped him with every press of the plunger. This time?

Death never quite took. Whether because of dumb luck or something else. At least it would be one thing--one genuine thing--that wasn't his fault. For a brief, frantic second, he struggled, attempting to twist out of the hold. Reluctant to expose that smooth expanse of skin, his pulse thundering, a visible kick against the pale skin of his throat. His head snaps back and up, fingers forcing a lip to peel back, exposing the off-white of those unnatural fangs to the root. Not parasitic, entirely. More a subtle evolution. It's a catalyst. Stoker's lunge mirror's Jesse's own, a heartbeat behind. Grey can feel it, the way that the dog tenses, prepares to spring. His fingers reach blindly, desperately, for the thick leather of his collar. Nonono. ****! The dog skirts Jesse, circling behind him, powerful jaws gaping wide before moving to sink into calf muscle, hind legs bracing, centering his weight. Preparing to drag Jesse back and down with vicious shakes of his head.

Desperation and anguish war with each other in a subtle play across his face. He's seized by a sudden urge to bite down, sink his teeth into questing fingers until he hits bone. Instead his head jerks, his hand lifting, aiming towards Jesse's face to deliver the sharp crack of a backhand across the other man's cheek. His arms stiffen, palms rising to shove hard against his chest, right shoulder dropping. He moves, then. Twists away, half-stumbling. "St--" The sound is cracked. Broken. There's a pause. The dog's head lifts, alerted by the change in Grey's tone. He retreats a step. Two. His gaze is focused. Unwavering as Grey starts towards him, moving with limbs heavy with the peculiar sensation of being underwater. "Just go!" The words are thin. Hoarse. A borderline scream that dies on his lips. Pleading. There's a fleeting, tense moment, the tongue's growls resuming, tongue flicking inside the cage of its teeth.

And then it wheels, skittish. Breaks into a run. Grey nearly staggers with the relief of it. Good dog. Good dog. Good-- The words are a listless mantra inside his head. And then he remembers where he is. He starts to run, then, steps stumbling and graceless, at first, but picking up speed. He doesn't hear Charisma's murmured command, doesn't hear the drumming sound of pursuit in his wake. Doesn't hear anything beyond the shallow rasp of his breath and the noise of his pulse, almost deafening in the way it roars in his ears.