Red. Amber. Green. [Open]

[Jesse Fforde]

Wearing || Location: Slums
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The slums aren’t a quiet place. Standing on the street one can hear the world as if it’s pouring out of a thousand windows all at once. Especially if one is a vampire. Jesse stands in the middle of the intersection. The most immediate sound is the subtle hum of the electricity powering the traffic lights. The hint of an electric click when the lights change; first from green, then to orange, then to red.

It’s late. It’s past midnight. A quick glance at his watch tells Jesse that sunrise is in four hours. Plenty enough time to distract himself; to hunt for the diamond teeth that he doesn’t need. Because he has no tomes to make. Restricted from siring himself, he knows that he hopes the others will. There’s a massive lair built into the wilderness to the East of the city with the Fforde name attached to it, but barely enough members to occupy it. Maybe he shouldn’t have rushed into it. Maybe he should have waited. But it’s a pressing preoccupation. One that he doesn’t completely understand, but one which bothers him, regardless.

The gathering of diamond teeth can be one of two things. Or maybe both. It’s hope for a busy future. But also an excuse. The blood is a preoccupation, too. The thick, hot, red giver of life that he can’t get enough of. The sharpened state of his teeth is nearly a constant, given his unquenchable thirst. He feeds the thirst more as each day passes. As the months pile up. Like an injured human slowly becoming addicted to the drug that helps to ease the pain, Jesse is going to find it difficult to give up the blood. Amongst other things.

What Jesse likes about disappearing into the slums is the anonymity. Every now and again he runs into people he recognises, but he bows his head and moves on. If they don’t see him, all the better. He pulls the hood up over his head, the fingerless leather gloves complaining a little as his fingers clench and unclench. His bright blues close as he focuses on the sounds; as he reaches out with his senses, searching for his next target.

From behind there sounds a horn; an impatient driver pissed off with the fool standing in the middle of the road. Jesse’s eyes lazily blink open. He turns to face the car; to narrow his eyes past the glare of the headlights. To stare into the windscreen, beyond. To seer the driver with menace. The car rumbles, and Jesse hopes that they feel fear. He hears the satisfying clunk of the locks sliding into place. The smirk that stretches his lips is sadistic. Inhuman. He takes his time to turn away, sauntering toward the pavement, trajectory North. Somewhere, North, there’s the sound of guns being cleaned; of general mumbled conversation. The hiss and sniff of drugs being snorted. A den of disillusionment. A gang of petty thieves and drug dealers who probably don’t deserve death. But death will find them early, regardless.

[Andrew Shedim]

Drew had spent another night in his haven that was the slums, a section of the city most denizens seemed to loathe. The humans of Harper Rock often did their best to avoid it, the vampires using it only as a hunting ground but this is where the Killer felt at home. It definitely wasn't his native New York streets but the gangsters were definitely his people. When he had left his penthouse suite in Wonderland he had let Satine know that he had another delivery to make, the cocaine he had imported seemed to move extremely fast in the crime riddled section of town and he was working hard to earn the loyalty of the mortal gangsters, at least from the ones that weren't after his head.

The streets were quiet as he made his way to the rundown crack den, the large bag of cocaine nestled safely in the lining of his Yankees windbreaker. The only sounds reaching his ears were the occasional rumblings of a car no doubt on their way out after landing a score. Every time Drew came with a delivery, whether he was bringing guns or drugs, every one of his senses were alert. Occasionally some desperate junkie or young gangbanger looking to score some extra cash would foolishly try robbing him, the smart ones ran as soon as they saw the fangs that were constantly showing, the stupid ones finding a bullet in their skull. Tonight no one seemed to be out, all the better for the blue eyed gangster.

He made his way into the den without a word, the guns that had been drawn were quickly lowered when they saw his face. "You bitches are always so jumpy" he laughed, removing the large ziploc baggie of white powder and tossing it on the table. "About time you showed up" one of the men that called himself an enforcer teased "thought something might have happened to your ***." Drew was not exactly fond of mingling with the mortals but if he was going to earn their loyalty it never hurt to spend a few hours with them once in awhile. His presence alone always seemed to make the men a little uneasy, he had that effect on people, but the more time he spent with the men the more that effect dissipated. Taking a seat at one of the tables he removed one of the baggies that were his own personal stash and cut out several lines, making one disappear instantly before offering one of the boss's underlings a sample. While he waited for his cash to be delivered he removed his pistol, cleaning it with the mindless urgency the coke always brought about in him.

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse doesn’t walk through the front door. Instead, he circles the building. He peers through whatever windows he passes, ducking into the shadows so as not to be seen. The debris around the house could have been an obstacle, but Jesse sidesteps, his footsteps mere muffles. The only thing he disturbs are the tiny particles of dirt, hardly loud enough to be heard by the gangsters inside. The building is single level, so he doesn’t have to worry about any surprises upstairs. On the first level, he estimates maybe eight main players; the majority are gathered in the front room.

The back door is locked, of course. These crooks, though they may appear it, aren’t all stupid. They have the common sense enough to try to lock their doors in a neighbourhood like this. Unluckily for them, however, Jesse is a master lockpick; he crouches at the lock, finding his streamlined tools and using them to swiftly crack the lock. The door now open, he puts his tools away and arms himself; he chooses his sword. Its silence is efficient.

The room that he enters is a laundry. The machines within it look old and rusty. There’s a pile of dirty clothes in the middle of the floor. Whose? Who knows. There’s a hallway just outside; there’s a guy pacing, talking on the phone. Jesse takes him by surprise; when the human has his back turned, Jesse’s blade slices between his ribs, angled upward. A hard shove and the blade squelches through his chest, protruding, glistening, from the other side. The heart is missed, but Jesse does that on purpose. The lungs are pierced, though, which helps. The guy can’t scream. The neck is bared, the veins stark against the oily, stubbled skin. Canines sink deep into the flesh, slicing open the vein. The body is held aloft by the blade, and Jesse takes his fill. He gulps the hot blood down, one full mouthful after the next. For those few minutes, he is satisfied. The thirst disappears, as soon as the blood gushes against the back of his throat.

Soon, there’s no more blood to be had. A quick readjustment, and the guy’s body slides to the floor with a dull thud. Jesse steps over it; whoever was on the other end of the phone is shouting to be heard. Jesse slams the device with the heel of his boot. There’s a satisfying crunch.

There’s no swift and subtle way to take on the group gathered in the front room. So Jesse just walks on in as if he belongs there; the hood still shadowing his eyes, though the menacing bright blue can be seen, if one looks closely. There’s a drop of blood that had escaped the corner of his lip, which he’s in the process of licking up. Blood drips from the tip of the sword.

And there he waits. Waits to be noticed; waits for the gang to make their moves. Whatever the cost, he won’t let a single one of them escape.

[Andrew Shedim]

The pistol almost seemed to glisten in the Killer's hand, having been wiped down perhaps a little too much. His focus, thanks in no small part to the repeated lines of cocaine, was like tunnel vision on his weapon, he was stuck in a loop: polish, eye the gun from every angle, repeat. For a moment he thought he caught a small sound from the kitchen but a drug den in the slums one would expect an entire assortment of random strange sounds. Krepsi was quick to dismiss the small disturbance, inhale yet another line of his favored white powder and was back to cleaning his weapon.

The kilo he had delivered earlier had nearly been completely cut and placed into the smaller baggies, ready to be slung out on the streets but the money owed to him was still yet to surface. No matter, he'd worked with these gangsters long enough to know they were smart enough not to try screwing him over on a deal and they had certainly worked with him long enough to know what would happen if they were dumb enough to try. Still, the hours had dwindled away and he was more than ready to return home to the apartment above the Wonderland Bar; even if he was to leave after sunrise he would be able to make the trip but a man smoldering as he walked through the streets would garner far more attention than he ever cared to have.

Something all too familiar suddenly caught the gangsters attention. The mortals all around him seemed oblivious as they worked the kilo down to it's final few grams but the scent of blood startled Krepsi back to a fine awareness of his surroundings. Instinctively he switched the safety off as his eyes slowly lifted to scan the room, right away locking on to the one figure he knew did not belong. The tall, heavily tattooed man was like a ghost in the room, somehow sneaking into the den and by the bloodied sword in his hand Krepsi could only assume that he was the source of death for at least one of the men. A small grin slowly crept across his face as he sprung to his feet, the gun instantly pointed at this newcomers head.

"Who the **** are you?" the words leaving him in a slow heated breath. It made sense now that he observed the man in more detail, only another vampire would have been able to make his way into a crowded place without drawing any attention. His scanned the man from head to toe, not someone he had encountered before. The other gangsters had finally realized what was happening and they too made to grab their guns. It was the sword in the man's head that was putting Krepsi slightly on edge, whatever happened to these men was inconsequential but he was rather low on bullets so would not exactly be up for any extended fight. He glared, his eyes refusing to even blink as he waited for whatever would happen next.

[Jesse Fforde]

This is what Jesse likes about anonymity. A question is asked of him, but it’s not a question he’s forced to reply to. Plenty of sarcastic responses come to mind, but none of them roll over Jesse’s tongue. These people do not have his respect. They do not have the privilege of hearing his voice. Several guns are aimed in Jesse’s direction, but they all made the mistake of waiting. Waiting for a reply. Waiting to see if they’ve made some mistake – whether they’re all too ******* high to realise they missed some kind of appointment. They’re waiting to find out that Jesse’s supposed to be there, so that they can all laugh and put their weapons down.

Or maybe they’re excited, to have someone to shoot at. Who knows? Whatever the case, Jesse uses the pause to his advantage. Although he knows that by the end of this fray he’ll probably have a few bullets lodged beneath the skin, it’s something that he relishes. Maybe it’s a need for punishment. It’s getting to be that time, isn’t it? That he pushes people’s buttons on purpose, wanting them to lash out? Maybe that’s as much the purpose of this visit as the need for blood.

Beneath the hood, nestled against Jesse’s skin, is a Salamander – black and bright yellow. A creature that looks normal, but which isn’t. A creature that fuels Jesse’s pyro tendencies. One that relishes Jesse’s current, destructive state of mind. As if the violence of Jesse’s nature feeds it. He’s seen the Salamander set someone on fire, before. He’s seen the Salamander burn the hand of any other who dares touch him. The hot skin of the amphibian is a comfort to the Necromancer. The little claws dig in as Jesse finally launches into his attack.

Stamina, dexterity, and skill – coupled with Jesse’s penchant for parkour – all combine to give him a bit of a head start. His body twists in a tight circle, left foot out to bring him swinging toward his closest opponent. The blade of Jesse’s sword thrusts upward, skewering the flesh of gangster’s gun-wielding hand. Not the one who’d talked to him – that guy is across the room, somewhere. The sword twists, causing the thug to scream in agony; although he was able to pull the trigger, the bullet whizzes past Jesse’s ear. After which, the gun is dropped.

Jesse manoeuvres the sword, another twist and arch. Tangled up in the sinews of the man’s arm, the sudden movement causes bones to break. The guy is soon on his knees as Jesse pulls the sword clear. Like an executioner of old, he swings the freshly bloodied blade down upon the fallen man’s neck. His is the first head to roll.

[Andrew Shedim]

The Killer could only watch in a mixture of frustration and amusement as the stranger was a blur of sword strokes. How he was going to collect and move the product now was a question best saved for later. Drew could always appreciate a fine display of murderous rage and the man was certainly more than skilled with his blade.

He fired a single shot into the air as his foot stopped the rolling head, nudging it aside as the icy blue eyes took in the full spectrum of the room. The fact that the blade had spared him did not cause him to relax any, in fact his concentration seemed to grow, his sights perfectly aimed at the stranger's chest, his voice full of his own growing aggression "now that you've made complete mince meat out of these boys, who exactly sent you?" He could only imagine that a killer this skilled and efficient had to be contracted "you just cost me a **** load of money my friend. I can tell you ain't Lionelli and none of these mortals would possibly know where to find someone that can pull the **** you just did."

A small creature seemed to rest behind the man's neck, now that Drew's focus was causing him to see the man more clearly, but he wasn't going to question it as they were last two in the room with all their limbs intact. The amount of tattoos seemed to hint at some sort of affiliation but he couldn't make out a single mark that would place the man with any gang Drew could think of. If Drew could fathom exactly what fear was he might have immediately fled the building in a blur but he was more curious than anything. His hand remained steady as he took a step forward "if you plan to kill me you've wasted some valuable time." The room around him fading as his tunnel vision grew, ready for the slightest threat to expose itself as he asked again, this time slower "who are you and who the **** sent you?"

[Jesse Fforde]

There’s only one other vampire in the room and Jesse doesn’t leave him to last on purpose. He doesn’t do it out of any kind of camaraderie, or because he assumes he owes any kind of respect to those of his own kin. No, for some reason the other vampire does nothing to avenge those he is with, or attack of his own accord. There’s a procedure to follow when throwing oneself into chaos like this; you kill those who are the worst threats, first. Those who are closest, those who are more frenzied in their own attacks.

The humans are not hard to dispatch. Within minutes, they’re all lying dead on the floor, blood pooling around them. It’s such a waste, really, but Jesse doesn’t quite like feeding when being watched by another of his kind. Unless it’s family. In fact, he doesn’t associate much with anyone outside of his family anymore. It’s highly likely that he just doesn’t like anyone outside of his family.

The Necromancer barely feels the tingle of the bullet in his shoulder. One might have grazed his torso, too, but he’s too full of adrenaline to care. The wounds don’t hinder him. They don’t bother him. They’ll be gone by the next night, so what’s the point in complaining about them? Besides which, the pain helps him to focus. It’s not so much that he finds pleasure in it, but he enjoys it none the less.

A sneer colours Jesse’s blood-stained lips as he takes a step forward and raises his crimson-tinged blade, the tip level with his fellow vampire’s throat. The questions he asks go through one ear and out the other; instead Jesse focuses on that one, single sentence. He laughs, the sound eerily calm and completely bereft of any kind of mirth. Mandy shifts, crawling from one side of Jesse’s neck to the other; the tiny fae is restless, and Jesse understands why. Now that the killing is done, it’s time for the fire. But he has to deal with this joker first.

”Is that a threat?” he asks, his voice dry.

”Are you some kind of coward? Barking at me to save yourself some time? I have no qualms killing my own kind…” he says. In fact, it’s been quite some time. If this guy proves to be a challenge, it’ll be a challenge well worth it.

[Andrew Shedim]

Each second that passed felt like an hour as the gangster stared into the blue eyes of the stranger before him. The smell of blood, the destruction that lay around the two only heightened how tense the situation was growing. Drew felt nothing for the dead men, they were nothing more to him than dealers and dollars, but when the assailant finally spoke Drew could almost feel his blood begin to boil.

Gripping the blade that pointed steadily at his throat, the metal sinking deep into his palm as moved it aside “If I was threatening you you would have a lot more wounds than you do now” he moved a little closer to the man. Drew felt the urge to follow up on his statement, the tattooed stranger was definitely feeling more like a threat than he had only a few moments ago but his curiosity still stayed his hand. The blood now completely covering his hand as well as running down the smooth surface of the man’s blade and leaving an ever growing pool as the dingy hardwood floor.

“You think I'm barking ******** to buy time?” he laughed humorlessly as his eyes fixed on those that seemed just as steadfastly locked on him. “I've never wasted breath trying to run or hide from anyone in my life but you Bruce Lee your *** up in here, take out my dealers like they were nothing” a small smirk quickly flashed across his lips “nice ******* job by the way” his voice instantly regaining its seriousness “and call me a ******* coward?” Drew slowly drew the pistol back up “I have no idea who you are or what you came here for friend but I wanna know right ******* now if you and me have a problem.” His bloodied hand released the blade, forcing him hard to ignore the pain “you may whip my *** but I guarantee I'll give you something to remember me by.” Again the Killer smirked “so what's it gonna be?”

[Jesse Fforde]

There was no reason why Jesse wouldn’t attack. In his current state of mind, his own well-being didn’t much matter. The guy even said it himself, though – Jesse may whip his ***. Which only allowed Jesse a cold smirk. Had he just admitted to his own weakness? What exactly could he give Jesse to remember him by, if all wounds healed? It was the wrong thing to say. It had Jesse curious, beyond anything else. The Necromancer was not interested in word games. He was not interested in volleyed conversation. There was nothing in the other vampire that interested him much at all. There was nothing he could gain by keeping the guy alive. Or, in the very least, on his side. Maybe Jesse didn’t need any enemies, but he certainly wasn’t looking for any friends, either.

Maybe it’d be a healthy training session. Maybe this would be someone who could actually hand Jesse a challenge, for once. That was the thing about haunting the slums – the gangsters and their bosses were too easy. But the loot was far superior than what could be found underground, so Jesse continued to slaughter the humans and rack up his own notoriety. At this point, he didn’t give two flying fucks.

He didn’t say a word as he took up the offensive. His gloved fingers curled a little tighter around the blade’s hilt, which he had dropped lazily to his side; without a roar, without a grunt or a growl or a groan, he lifted the blade in a backhanded arch. The aim was to slash his opponent’s chest, to rip through the clothing, to find the cold, dead flesh beneath. It felt like hunting all over again, back when he was a part of Tytnoidae. Except there was something more satisfying about being alone. One on one with his opponent, rather than a part of a group.

Sure, this guy might not have done anything to deserve the attack. But Jesse was under the influence of blood; it hung in the air, thickening the atmosphere with its scent. And he just wanted more.