The Dandy Highwaymen (Myk)

[Aaron Hunter]

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[Myk]

Silence was not golden. Silence was what came after the gunshot, and it was red. Myk watched the silence spray out of the back of the junkie’s head just before he hit the ground like a heavier, wetter sack of trash. It was peaceful after that and Myk thought silence was better when it was red. The colour was a lot more palatable too, even if Myk had never shown an ounce of disgust for that rich, glistening hue that silence was more commonly referred to. Myk loved gold, but he loved red more. Pewter eyes slowly distanced themselves from the spurting silence, from the pooling silence, and looked into his companion’s eyes. The sparkle in those brown orbs gave Myk a moment of pause, but more so did the lesson the Killer seemed to be providing. Aaron advised the Telepath that he shouldn’t have expected their junkie friend to remain silent following, what was undoubtedly, a subtle threat when Myk had choked the man. Obviously, the only way for anyone to remain permanently silent was to colour them red. Myk bit back a scathing laugh.

“It was worth a shot…” Myk croaked in return to the Killer, finding his smile made more noise than his voice could when the action tore his wound once again.

The screaming pain quickly made the Telepath wince, but, he was still so much more amused by his own joke that he continued to smile as the fresh blood dripped into the drying. The crimson streams were so haphazard and plentiful as they peeled down his white skin that it looked as though the Telepath was getting the jump on Halloween. A mixture of corn syrup and food colouring made for an adequate interpretation of one’s lifeblood, but getting the colour just right was a gift. Myk brought a finger to one quiet crimson stream, collecting some of the luke-warm liquid as well as some of the crumbs of the drying variety, before analysing it under the dull light. It looked less ruby-coloured and more obsidian in that light, also a little bit like flaked fish food. It was fascinating to him, pleasant. Only, the enduring pleasure on his mangled face was subsequently replaced with a look of shock and discomfort when the Killer promptly grabbed him by the waist and inelegantly slung Myk over his shoulder. The Telepath groaned when he felt the hardness of shoulder muscles stabbing into his stomach, into ribs that were still tender from some forgotten beating. Really, he should probably try to defend himself the next time something like this were to happen, but, then he remembered he rather liked the pain.

Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. Pain was not the part that Myk enjoyed, but the feeling afterward, the serenity when the aching and the stabbing and the pounding would fade away. That feeling was, in its own right, a sort of high. Myk could close his eyes and float on the feeling of not hurting, of no longer hurting. Of course, there was something to be said about the body’s reaction to damage, how it would flood the neurons with those feel-good chemicals: endorphins. Endorphins interact with the opiate receptors in the brain to reduce the perception of pain, acting similarly to drugs such as morphine and codeine. In contrast to the opiate drugs, however, activation of the opiate receptors by the body's endorphins does not – apparently – lead to addiction or dependence. Some would say it was healthier then to throw yourself into the jaws of lions and sharks than stick a needle in your arm for that fix. Myk, however, would say it was better to do both. He had no mind for taking care of himself after all, and had no survival instinct that he was aware of, so, why not? It was easier to smile then, easier to laugh.

“That’s funny,” the Telepath whispered into the Killer’s mind once more; his voice mirthful, almost laughing as they trudged out of the Slums. “That’s funny that you should say that. Trust a killer, but not a junkie… That is funny!”

Ordinarily, it would be safe to assume that the white haired man’s words were meant to goad Aaron, were meant to make him feel pity and guilt over his actions. That was what most people did to feel superior over others in any case, because everybody needed to stake their claim to being alpha in the hierarchy. There were levels of right and wrong in the world, after all, a measure of accountability to gauge your place in said hierarchy. Murderers were thought to be the worst of the worst because they opposed the idea of civility and mankind’s survival to such a grave degree. It was obvious just by way of the penal system: a killer served a longer sentence – sometimes a death sentence – when compared to a robber, a thief, and a drug addict. In society, it was also perfectly understandable to take people down who were in your way, to surpass the competition, to kill in order to survive, to slaughter for sustenance, and yet the life of man was somehow more precious than the life of all other animals and creatures on the planet. Myk had always found it so ironic, but far from becoming vegan, Myk had simply decided that man should not be spared from the dinner table. That was a thought he had had before becoming a Vampire, and now that he was one, he felt his actions somewhat confirmed.

Thus, he wasn’t mocking Aaron in that moment, more the piousness of the idea that there had to be laws in the first place and the irony that Aaron was reciting such given their circumstances. Myk really did feel for both sides of the argument, as it were. He knew what it was like to have that desperate, aching, want inside of him, the type of hunger that makes one sick to their stomachs but can only be sated by something just as foul. It was easy to forget the damage done to himself and those around him when his eyes rolled back, when the soul-sucking darkness fled, and that custardy warmth came over him in a sweet wave. As a matter of fact, the white haired man literally forgot what it was to experience the damage. Whether that was a result of the drugs themselves, his own will, or his mental illnesses was unclear. Myk was reflecting on the point as he watched the Slums retreat under the heels of his companion – through gaps of his bone-white tresses. His unique position gave him an equally unique perspective, which he used to also reflect on Aaron’s comment about junkies selling their mothers for a fix. He would do that too, wouldn’t he, though probably not just for a fix. Myk and his mother had a strained relationship; to put it mildly. She never appreciated his contrary nature and she certainly loathed it when he stole her outfits...

“This really isn’t how you carry your women, is it?” Myk chirped some moments later and directly into Aaron’s mind again. “I would say your charm needs some work if that’s the case. I am injured after all.” And Myk reminded the Killer that this was the case when he lifted his neck up, arched his back and attempted to make eye contact with a scowl. “This is hardly doing my ribs any good… And as much as I love a man with firm muscles, a strong back, and large hands… This is hardly what I had in mind when I asked you to carry me!” A pause after much griping, and then came the sigh, the acceptance of his fate before it seemed he had forgotten to emotional journey and quickly began to question it again. “Where are we going at any rate?”

It seemed appropriate to ask now that he was being carried along to the unknown destination – his rump high in the air and leading the charge so to speak. Aaron had made a mention of getting out of the Slums, but, he hadn’t said where he was planning on going. While Myk had simply invited himself along anyway, urging the Killer to pick him up and carry him – though in his mind he had fancied being princess carried and not slung over the muscular man’s shoulders like a pile of rope – Myk did still expect to have some kind of an explanation as to where they were going. It was just nice to know, plus, Myk needed to know on account of his showing up looking like an offering to the Gods. His attire needed fixing, he needed a pair of shoes, his hair needed a brush, he also required a needle and thread to sew that wound up for good. Most of all, however, Myk needed a ******* bath because the stench of death clung to him like a macabre perfume and it was making him feel sick. Or maybe that was just the blood rushing to his head and the shoulder in his stomach…

[Aaron Hunter]

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[Myk]

The Telepath clearly no longer concerned himself with whether his companion tolerated the invasion of dulcet tones within his grey matter. After all, Myk must have pumped the poor Killer’s head so full of his thoughts by now that they might start dressing alike at some point. Aaron, like most others, had been quick to voice his disapproval when it came to Mind Speak, regarding it with as much sentiment and hospitality as one might a flea-bitten feline that was both retching from one end and dripping from the other. Myk didn’t understand their outright hostility, not even when he came across as at least as charismatic and non-threatening as said cat with the addition of lipstick. Well, with that said, he supposed he could understand the disgust. Humans are hard-wired to reject that which they regard as unusual, threatening, and gross. So he would pat them on the head, refer to them as being little more than bags of DNA in pretty wrappers, and then go on his merry way with his merry motivations. He wouldn’t pause long to consider their feelings, and really, that time period was very much determined by how attractive they were to him in the first place. If Myk cared about the person in any particular format – say he found them useful to his survival, he found them exciting, funny, caring, or worth a quick tryst in some poorly illuminated venue or even a roll in the hay on some spit of land out in the middle of nowhere – he might curb his behaviour toward their desires.

Unfortunately for the Killer, Aaron’s attractiveness was not nearly worth enough for Myk to quit his telepathy. The cost and benefit calculation was not working in his favour in order to have it come to a close any time soon; Myk even decided to inject any chuckles, huffs, and various other inflections he might have made vocally into his psychic communications. He wouldn’t want for Aaron to miss out on the full experience! Despite what Myk assumed was a particularly sarcastic comment concerning his accent, he ultimately decided that he was doing the right thing. After all, if Aaron was being genuine, he could have the pleasure of hearing more of that mysteriously cool accent. Also, if Myk was correct and Aaron was trying to pick on him just a little bit, then this would be what Myk regarded as pay-back. Where it was true that the Telepath was rarely hostile, he was nonetheless a very vengeful spirit. If there came a time where he felt himself slighted, his vengeance would come swift and sharp. Granted, one’s perspective regarding his version of pay-back generally varied. For instance, Myk would find it totally appropriate to shrink someone’s underwear in a bid for vengeance while the victim would find it a mild inconvenience. The fact of the matter was, it was all about the white-haired man’s perspective, his feelings, and his justifications.

“I am from all over,” the Telepath informed without moving a single facial muscle. The tone of his voice had this flighty, frail quality to it like dandelion seeds pulled up on a breeze and abandoned to freedom. “If you like my accent so much, I could sing to you.” And now that voice was transformed into belladonna seedlings rather than dandelion, and was therefore most definitely a threat. It was accompanied by a witch-like cackle, shared from one deviant mind and to another with no delay and with no limit on volume. He didn’t wait for a response before he began to sing at Aaron in his best Tenor tessitura. “Toreador, en garde. Toreador. Toreador! Et songe bien, oui, songe en combatant. Qu'un œil noir te regarde...” After perfectly performing part of The Toreador Song’s chorus at the Killer, Myk paused to laugh. A Telepathic voice could sound like whatever he wanted it to sound like, of course, so there really was no reason why he couldn’t give himself the perfect singing voice. When he “spoke” next, his regular voice returned, a Parisian accent lingering. “Do you know what that means?” he asked, now sounding entirely drunk. “It means that you should be careful, Toreador. Consider your actions for dark eyes are watching you.”

Through the giggling and the subsequent mewling when too much of that action caused his ribs to rub uncomfortably against that hard ridge of a shoulder, and for his face to tear with blood, Myk remained vigilant of his own words and what they had meant. He had not forgotten his point from earlier, had not dismissed how ironic it was for Aaron to suggest that Myk trust him over some nameless drug addict. After all, those two distinct relationships were not miles apart in his eyes. For all he knew, the Killer’s status did not step that much further forward than the druggie’s. Sure, Myk shared names with Aaron and they shared a secret, but Myk did not know the man beyond that smile, beyond warm brown eyes that he could quite easily become lost in if he allowed himself to dream. If anything, Myk understood better what it was to have been the man on the floor, the man who had been bugging out. He knew what it was to be that fucked up as to believe that injecting poison in your veins would be a relief. In fact, he still understood it. He held that secret much more closely to his heart like a warm cloud, one that could smother him at last. Myk held it closer than the Vampire secret too because he didn’t consider it much of a secret at all. He wore Vampirism like a badge of pride because he was one of them; one of those dangerous freaks who thought that Humans should know the truth.

The assertion that there would be no need for any further killing tonight made the Telepath shrug a shoulder lethargically. In his experience, there was always an opportunity, maybe even a want, alongside a need to kill. You couldn’t promise such things unless you were able to read the future. And just when Myk was condemning the Killer to normality in his mind, to being unable to predict such things and offer a certainty, that Aaron suddenly stopped in his tracks. The white-haired damsel became very still in that moment, all the muscles in his body becoming tense as if he were expecting some swift, unfriendly action. He couldn’t see the grin on Aaron’s face, so his hands crept up to find the man’s shoulder, sitting directly under his stomach and giving him some purchase that he could actually do something with. His plan was to leap away, using the man’s body as a springboard. This would create enough distance between them so that Myk could vanish peacefully. He didn’t want to engage in any kind of fight, even if he had caused it with his singing and general lunacy. Still, Myk didn’t want to jump the gun either. He knew how limited his perspectives were, how little he could see from where he was and how partial his knowledge of the Killer was. So he remained there on that shoulder, tense and coiled like a snake, until Aaron spoke.

“What?” the word left him physically in a coarse gasp, very much like the sound someone would make when they had just woken from a full night’s sleep.

Although his ears were working, so he’d heard Aaron well enough, he just couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Talk about your mixed signals! Myk lifted the top half of his body, his back arching into a steep curve, his shoulders rolling back. It would have been your typical cobra pose if his legs didn’t dangle against Aaron’s body. Pewter eyes regarded the Killer beneath him carefully, a frown threatening to break through the doll-like structure of his features. Myk licked his lips, pursed them, parted them in the effort to speak, but closed them again.

“I…”

The Mind Speak flowed, but, that was when the Telepath went uncharacteristically quiet and that was when the crickets began to chirp. He remained like that for a few moments more, just blinking at Aaron. He couldn’t really understand why the man wanted to take him to a gay bar of all places, never mind this insistence for cash. Was he expecting Myk to pay for their drinks? Well, that was hardly romantic or chivalrous. Worst of all, however, was the idea of turning up to a gay bar looking like… well, like ****. It would be the equivalent of wearing a blood-smeared plastic bag at a red carpet event. Hell no. This wasn’t happening.

“I have an idea,” he decided, then he turned 90 degrees, dropped his hips to purposefully put himself in that bridal pose, wrapped his arms around the other man’s neck, and held him close. “Stay very still, my handsome friend,” he endorsed, his accent now something Eastern European.

One moment they had been standing there in the streets, darkness drenching every inch of their perceptions, and then they were gone. They could have blinked and missed it when someone decided to tear down all the buildings, blanch the skies, and erect a blanket of stars and the rocking of waves and boats in its place. Only none of that was true. Instead, Myk had teleported them both to the River Rock docks, to stand before his party boat. He hardly ever brought visitors home with him, but, given his options he couldn’t very well teleport them elsewhere. Myk remained latched to his handsome company for just a few seconds longer, to guarantee that the power was stable, that the world around them was stable too. It was difficult for him to understand whether or not he was imagining all of this: the Ganglands, the murders, and even the dark-eyed Killer he was latched to. None of it made a whole lot of sense to a normal mind, Myk suspected. Once he was satisfied, however, he dropped down onto the balls of his fist-net feet. Approaching the door, Myk called back to the Killer.

“Come on in. Watch your feet.”

As the Telepath pushed the door open, it became immediately apparent what he had meant by ”watch your feet”. The front room was more of an artist’s den, and because it looked like Mardi Gras had swept through recently, there were beads, paint, glitter, and feathers as far as the eye could see. Crepe paper streamers danced haphazardly from points of height, threaded from lampshades and bookcases and shelves like the web of spider on LSD. There were reams and patches of cloth too, their textures and colours as varying as the leaves of a forest, and hung just as elegantly about the corners and unfurled over the entirety of the couch. The space was cluttered and colourful and gaudy, but it was a place that Myk considered a sanctuary; somewhere safe that was his own, something like a nest for his insanities. It was one place he hadn’t bothered to trap because he suspected the colours and the mess would ward most people off. Entering the space and flicking on the lights, Myk recognised with a happy sigh that it remained just the way he had left it. By the time he was in the centre of the room, Myk turned back to Aaron. He shifted his weight onto his right then perched his hand upon the protruding bone, the other arm fell lazily at his side.

“Since I doubt you’ll be joining me in the shower… Make yourself at home.” He chuckled softly, waved his hands and upon the retreat, whispered, “I’ll be roughly five minutes.”

[Aaron Hunter]

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[Myk]

The average Human has between four to six litres of blood pumping through their circulatory system. Around one and half gallons of the red stuff delivers nutrients and oxygen to cells and also transports metabolic waste products away. Circulated through blood vessels by the pumping action of the heart, blood acts as a messenger function for tissue damage and disease and even repairs the damage by clotting or by sending in white blood cells and antibodies to combat foreign substances. This miraculous, highly productive substance makes up only 7% of the Human body weight and is very close to pure water in density. Hot tap water, meanwhile, is a lot less dense, causing the heavier blood to sink when mixed. Thus, the first few beads of water from the shower washed the surface blood and the fresher oozing away with little effort. At that point, there was very little difference in the tone of the water. It rushed away so quickly that pewter eyes couldn’t remark a speck of it bleeding down the plug hole. As it happened, the clots of dried, darker, and stickier blood took more convincing to come free. Hands were needed to chip away at their defences, to slide it free from shoulders, forearms, chest, and chin. The ceramic basin turned a muddy colour and heavier clumps –including bits of flesh – scattered like stones around a waterfall.

Over time, the streams of bloodied water thinned and warmed. Steam rose to his aching face, licked his wounds, made him both grimace and simultaneously relax. He had been bent away from the pounding hot spray for a while, but he turned slowly, setting his back to it and lifting his chin high. Wet heat pressed against his forehead and absorbed into his hair so quickly that the sudden, onerous weight tricked his mind into believing that he’d never had a choice in dropping his head back. It felt like he was being tugged down the plug hole along with his scraggly hair, the blood, the fibrous tissues of unknown origin. Pewter eyes were glued to the ceiling in that moment, gazing idly at the stark porcelain tiles through the haze. If allowed the chance to dream, he might very well stand there forever – a gruesome doll left to the charity of the rain. The white tresses would never get clean on their own, though. Its porous nature allowed the blood to seep right in, dying his platinum lengths a ghastly coral shade. It took several shampoos to blanch them again, return them to a pigment-free white. It smelt better too. Roses and honeysuckle could take away the stench of even a thousand fighting Vikings.

His toes twitched and he shuffled his feet as the soapy mudslide continued to run down the white of him. The horror show was slowly washing away and what remained would be stitched closed. The Telepath was a wizard with a needle and thread. The hobby, if it is to be called such, started when he was a young boy, spending time with his English grandparents. They had a cottage in the golden lands of Hertfordshire, and when Myk visited, his grandmother would often sit at her Singer sewing machine and hark on about the olden days as spools and spools of thread raced out of their bobbins. The woman had a charitable heart and producing clothing for the refugees of war had been something she had begun in her youth. Since she didn’t have too many granddaughters to teach her trade, she would ask Myk to sit with her for a few hours whenever he was there. If, that is, she could contend with her husband, who had the remarkably stubborn disposition that men should be men – this did not include dress-making. But, Myk was stubborn too, even as a boy, and rarely took a direction that he didn’t otherwise agree with. So, as he got older and his perceptions of gender stereotypes evolved, he began to get more and more involved in the art of dress-making.

Despite his military background, what Myk’s grandfather didn’t appreciate was the versatility of a needle and thread. These items had far more practical applications than applying a piece of applique to an otherwise drab ensemble, or patching that hole in a much loved jacket. The skin could be stitched together just like a piece of cloth. Watching his reflection in a digitally created mirror, Myk brought the sides of the lesion tightly together between thumb and forefinger, closing the wound in preparation for the suture. The pressure pushed out small rivulets of blood, nothing that couldn’t be wiped away later, so he continued to work as neatly as possible. Using a pair of forceps, Myk stuck the needle in at 90 degrees, close to the edge, but just far enough away so that the skin wouldn’t tear from the tautness of the tether. The needle was pressed in slowly but with force, enough to pierce the thick layers of skin, but cautiously enough to avoid damaging his face any further. Myk was considerate of just how it might look when those thick black threads had zigzagged across his delicate features. He wasn’t concerned with scarring, however, assuming that when his body felt like being less of a jack-***, it would heal as it ordinarily did and look as perfect and porcelain as ever.

As with any crafty sewing, the method used differed depending on the task in hand. There are interrupted stitches where the thread is cut and tied after each loop, or continuous stitches where one piece of thread does the whole job. Each has its benefits, but since Myk was low on time, he decided that the continuous stitches would be best. Skilled hands made short work of stitching that grievous wound back together. In place of a hideous, angry red crevice running from ear to ear and across his nose, Myk now sported a neat ladder of black stitches. He carefully wiped away the remaining blood with pharmacy brand antiseptic wipes; cleaned until the acrid stinging faded and the crimson smearing disappeared into a soft rose colour. He would leave the irritated skin to settle and blanch as he got dressed and tended to his hair – those bone-white tresses were themselves a wound to treat. In reality, it would take twice the time Myk had proposed to the Killer simply to tame those lengths and return them to a state of silk. It would also take that amount of time to prepare his face and body. So what started as a promise to be ready to leave in five minutes was turning into something of an unfortunate lie.

When those five minutes were up, Myk returned to the living room dressed only in a white towel, his face stitched back together, and his hair in soaking rivulets trailing about his shoulders. There was French blood and teachings mixed into English and Italian, so he wasn’t the least bit shy about walking through the room to the boudoir in such a state. He passed the Killer a curious look as he went, speculating just what the expressions on such a face meant. If Myk were to guess, he would suppose that Aaron was feeling torn. Like post-coital regret, the sourness of reality had started to sink into the sweet high, cumulating into something outright unsavoury. These thoughts might have presented much later if Aaron hadn’t been left alone to think, but, Myk didn’t think that was his fault. Besides, it was not a thing to condemn; allowing one to regret their actions. It was the Telepath’s opinion that everyone should take a moment to reflect on what they do. It does the soul good to recount the past, to smile on victories and learn from mistakes. It did make the white-haired man wonder over the perceptions of others, however. He marvelled over their own ideas of mistakes and victories. Was Aaron regretting the fact that he had taken so many lives tonight, or was he regretting the fact that he hadn’t killed more?

“Sorry to disappoint you mon ami,” Myk murmured once he’d found a place to halt.

He was stood in the doorway of the bedroom, located opposite the front door past the living room; a short walk from the bathroom. His back was set against the door frame, pewter eyes watching Aaron with dark humour.

“As capable as I am at dispatching our fellow men, I’m not quite T-1000 material.”

He paused, because it was still painful to talk even with his face stitched together. It didn’t help that his nerves were firing at close to normal capacity again, allowing him to feel much more than before – almost as if he was coming down from a numbing high.

“Now,” he continued. “I’ll have to go dress myself rather than shape-shift into whatever suits. Give me… another five minutes.”

Undoubtedly Myk was putting himself in prime position to be mocked for being very much like a woman taking too long to get ready for a night out, but, he didn’t much care. You can hardly take yourself so seriously as to be offended by somebody else’s comments. Besides that, Myk often wanted to be mistaken for a girl – that was part of the reason why he dressed the way he did. It would have been convenient and very pleasing to be able to change his physical form with such ease as the T-1000. Instead of just appearing like a female on the outside then, Myk might have been able to actually be one through and through – and for as long as he wanted. Unfortunately, the science represented something quite different from his imaginings. Being a robot would rid him of actually being alive and therefore capable of being any gender. As unfortunate as it might be to burst the bubble for all those Sci-Fi nerds and Mechanophiliacs out there, machines do not confine to typical Human sexual identities. A robot might have been designed with feminine or masculine features, but they were no more male or female than a toaster or a microwave. Fit whatever you like into those cavities, but that doesn’t make them right.

Retreating to the bedroom, which had no discernable door, Myk set about finding something he thought might complete his new Frankenstein appearance. His mind was set on wearing something black and fitting for the evening, because it would balance the white of his skin and hair, echo the black of the stitches across his face, and suit the rather monstrous vibe he was feeling trembling throughout his soul. Myk almost felt a touch insecure with this strange need to hide, until he remembered a certain favourite anime character of his who looked absolutely magnificent covered in scars and stitches. He marvelled at his own reflection then, remarking the similarities between himself and the Grim Reaper in question. Those nasty looking sutures running across from ear to ear seemed to tug him ever closer to that visage of death. Yes, black would certainly be best for tonight… as well as phosphorescent chartreuse contact lenses for the eyes. The funeral director even inspired Myk to style his hair just so; adding a braid behind his right ear within the layered platinum lengths. Yet, Myk did want to actually see what he was going to be doing, and so he manipulated a fringe into sitting just below his brows.

In the end, Myk judged his appearance as a very good interpretation of Kuroshitsuji’s Undertaker – albeit without the robes and top hat. The Telepath had already ruined one long gown tonight and didn’t fancy his chances with a second. Besides, Aaron had said that their destination was some sort of nightclub – a gay bar by all accounts – so it wouldn’t really work with the occasion. While it didn’t make sense to him why the Killer would want to attend such a… specialised venue, that mystery was what had Myk grinning and nodding, being more eager to attend the party than he otherwise would be. It was all about unravelling the puzzle that was Aaron, even though the Telepath assumed that Aaron’s true goal in all of this was to find fresh hunting grounds. Now that the Killer was done painting the town red with the blood of one strain of deviant, maybe he was ready to move onto the next. And maybe they would eventually work their way over to the rival religious house of prayer because that was generally how these massacres went. Wasn’t it always about religion? The absurd notion that there was ever only one right way to do something and that yours was the right way. As much as it made Myk sick with rage, it also enthralled him. Human behaviour could be so fascinating!

As if in defiance of such piousness then, Myk adorned his outfit with a band of rosary beads. The pewter droplets were so long that they wrapped around his neck twice; the first string sat above his collar bones as the last trailed near his navel. Silver accents were also present in his shirt, where a central zip of polished chrome descended from just under the chin to the waist line. The polo neck shirt was predominantly made of black cotton, becoming sheer in panels over the shoulders and around the neckline. The sleeves themselves were exaggerated, extending past the wrists to the knuckles where a small hole allowed for the thumb to poke through. Accompanying this skin-tight shirt was a pair of skinny denim jeans. Again, polished chrome zips accented against the black; two lines retreating diagonally from the crotch across the right leg. In contrast, the left leg was adorned with a pair of belt buckles that wrapped around the lower part of the thigh; they could probably double as handy sheaths if Myk was inclined to bring anything. He was not. Instead, Myk reserved all his killing power for a pair of high-heeled ankle boots. Chrome-plated metal spine heels and platforms made for a stunning display whilst retaining the propensity to stomp and puncture. The seams of the boots were also lined with silver rivets and buckles, harking back to the rest of his ensemble. The only thing that remained was preparing his face.

Injured as he was, it wouldn’t be terribly clever to apply a fresh coat of varnish over his skin. There was a chance the wound could become infected or make the healing process stall further – it wasn’t obvious what could and couldn’t happen with his form. After all, normal Vampires would have been able to heal this aesthetic wound by now and Myk had known through-and-through bullet wounds to take a matter of hours to stitch shut completely. Whatever was going on, it was likely a mental obstruction or a side-effect from whatever the hell had been pumped into him. Myk didn’t feel right, regardless of how much he pretended he did. He noticed how shaky his movements were, even if by Human standards he still floated with supernatural precision and elegance. Myk also couldn’t completely ignore the loss of time, feeling, and memories that he had experienced. He couldn’t forget that strange voice which had talked to him about some very personal matters upon his waking either. It was like some bad dream had latched itself to his waking mind and he had yet to shake it off.

After taking a very deep breath in and exhaling all his worries, Myk decided to go without any make-up. He skipped the foundation for the night, allowing his natural buttery complexion to become obvious against the white of his hair. He dismissed the use of mascara and fake lashes which would lengthen his already thick and fluttery lashes, making them look ostentatious. He also neglected to wear any lipstick, putting the final nail in the coffin as to which side of the gender spectrum he was standing on tonight (if you disregard the high-heels). Ordinarily, Myk would have felt plain and boring without all those beauty enhancers, but with a great big laddered scar ripping across his face, he didn’t have to worry about such things. He was unusual for different reasons tonight, which would still serve enough as a provocation for his tastes. The first person he was expecting to trial his new look on was the polite Killer in the living room. So, after being another seven minutes later than suggested, Myk returned to greet his guest.

“So, we go now, yes?” he said in broken English that sounded roughly Romanian. “There’s no point staying here unless you like playing Ker-plunk.” Not that the Telepath didn’t have any other games they could play – table-top or otherwise. “And since you were the one who wanted to go to… wherever it was you wanted to go to... I suggest you lead the way, Toreador,” he added as he moved toward the exit.

He set his back to the wall this time, one arm holding his midriff, the other pointing the way off the ship. If it seemed like Myk was hurrying the other away from his private abode in that moment, well, it wasn’t completely off-base. The Killer had had over twenty minutes to indulge his curiosities in where Myk had teleported them to, and considering that Myk had basically kidnapped Aaron, it wouldn’t be too surprising to expect some sort of revenge. Besides that, Myk had a tendency for booby-trapping random places and could rarely remember what was safe and what was not. It was probably best that they moved off to better distractions before something blew up in their collective faces.

[Aaron Hunter]

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[Myk]

Compliments can be like cancer. To those who are not accustomed to them – and that’s not to say these people necessarily wish for pity – it can be terribly disconcerting to come into receipt of them. For those inexperienced in the action of accepting such praises, there is an awful tendency to be weary of its existence, to be paranoid that such pleasantries might be there, unseen, unchallenged, and left to fester unreciprocated. Because what would that say about these unworthy people, those who couldn’t accept a small kindness? It would say to the world that they were so low or so high as to not acknowledge or show gratitude to someone who had made the effort to compliment them. It would put them on the back foot again, shun them from normal society, or it could make them a target for manipulation – gullible prey to be tricked into loyalty. And worse still, this very experience would ultimately ingrain itself in the naïve one’s belief system; provide evidence to the mounting accusation of their insignificance. It was an unfortunate cycle, one that could only be broken with patience, determination, and a desire to accept one’s self. Yet even so, it was a battle to be fought on a daily basis.

This rotten insecurity and this pitiful unfamiliarity to kindness was partially responsible for why the white-haired man stared so blankly at the Killer when an affectionate comment on Myk’s clothing and his ability to stitch was offered. In truth, few took it upon themselves to take an interest in what was an obvious passion to Myk – even to be polite. Far fewer would put themselves out of their comfort zones to do – what they thought – would make him happy. Those who did the unthinkable, however, received the unfortunate gift of being considered an actual friend to the Telepath, and by this definition, meant that he would soon smother them with his company. Sometimes his friendliness would be limited to a hug, a friendly word or two, or maybe a casual inspiration, but more often than not, the man would hang himself off them like a used beach towel; irritating, damp, and with a questionable odour. Aaron was in real danger of being placed in that friend zone, whether he knew the Telepath’s name or not.

As a matter of fact, that very confession made Myk break from his poker face and chortle like a tiny Asian lady. His amusement persisted as the brown-eyed beau continued to speak, as though the monstrous male was as experienced with sharp wits as he was with his blade. Aaron paced each punch line to gradually draw his crowd from one small chuckle at a time and into an outright screech of giggles. It was fortunate that Myk was the easy-going sort, hungry for entertainment. Yet, Myk had managed to restrain himself past a chortle – somehow – fixing instead to set his pewter eyes to follow the Killer’s movement. Despite the fact that Myk was grazing the height of Michael Jordan in those heels, he still shrank away as the leather-clad man moved past him and out the door. It wasn’t the memory of those shark’s teeth attached to the man’s back, which had come into focus at that point, that caused Myk to cower, but more the embarrassment for having his trivial scheme recognised. While Myk hadn’t exactly been subtle with his want to get the Killer out of his floating home and Aaron had been very polite – yet again – about acquiescing, that didn’t necessarily make the people-pleasing Telepath feel any better about the situation.

With a deep, yawning sigh, Myk stepped over the threshold and onto the docks, closing the door on the Mardi Gras parade as well as his worries. The balmy, salt-speckled air rushed in to replace the knotting in his stomach with a swarm of butterflies; their combined wing-power near lifting him off his feet. It was wonderful to feel lighter again, even if it did leave him with the unsettling impression that he had little to no control over any events that had and were to occur this evening. As the wind changed, tussling with his platinum locks, and attempting to throw them over his shoulders and down his front like spilt milk, Myk realised that it was also trying to carry him away in Aaron’s direction. The Killer had since begun his march to Newborough and the wind – enchanted by his handsome face and boyish charm – was seemingly compelled to pull the Telepath along. And perhaps because Myk was as equally enchanted, he didn’t fight the current. That wouldn’t mean he would stay quiet for any extended length of time, however.

“Ah, right,” Myk murmured with a sly smile pulling at his lips. “The Rainbow Rhythms. A great place to which I have never been and never heard of…” Not that he often paid attention to the names of the establishments he’d been to. Frankly, the Telepath had a habit of showing up to these bars already on the precipice of passing out.

“Why there, exactly?” he questioned, knitting his hands together behind his back and prancing along to the Killer’s steady gait like an adoring fan. “I’m not the type to judge, mon ami, though I am the type to ask. And you don’t exactly strike me as the kind that enjoys the full spectrum of frivolities that a gay bar offers.”

Pewter eyes did look to judge the Killer, however, despite what his lips had alleged. Albeit, for very different reasons than your average Joe would do.

“Heavens…” he gasped dramatically, his eyes narrowing further as if the brightness of his own idea was blinding him. He stomped closer to his companion to get a better view of those perfectly carved features, but also to cement the importance of his enquiry. Even so, he was careful not to let a single strand of his hair come in contact with the other male. “We’re not going there simply for my benefit, are we? How do you know I would like it there, that it’s my scene?” He stepped back into a comfortable proximity again, the air filling the space like rush of cold wave.“Come now, Aaron. We are strangers after all and you don’t even know my name…”

There was a bite to the end of those words, even if his voice held mirth in spades. Truth be told, the platinum-haired drama queen wasn’t at all offended and hadn’t been the entire time they’d been conversing. It was – in fact – a near impossibility to insult him. That wasn’t to say that Myk was rarely annoyed or seldom infuriated by the actions of others, only that he simply didn’t take what they did to the heart of him. The lunatic had a unique perspective of life and experiences, as it happened. He was wise enough to step back and accept the wider world as the chaotic, uncontrolled force that it was. He was prudent enough to know that each person did things for their individual reasons, reasons that might be easily misunderstood, misread, and mixed in to create a misinterpretation of who they really were. And yet, he was still rather unsure of himself and failed to be faultlessly sincere with anyone. Most people – and that included Aaron in this case – were unlikely to even receive his name, never mind anything remotely revealing. The Telepath was more willing to bare his flesh and nerves than to bare his soul.

“I suppose it does make sense, though. The more I think about it, the more it does make sense,” Myk announced after a few moments, his words and mannerisms portraying the action of letting go of a full balloon and watching the releasing tension rocket it into the heavens. “If this bar is the last place anyone would ever look for you, you will be perfectly safe there after tonight’s… infractions.”

And with that, Myk lifted one long index finger and brushed it across the tip of the Killer’s nose in a light “bopping” action, or as if to remove a dab of cream from there. It was something that a caretaker might do to a child, to express to them that they knew about their bad behaviour, but weren’t going to punish them for it – or at least not now and in some obvious display. In his own eyes, Myk still failed to express which side of the fence he was actually sitting on, though some would argue that to not condemn the Killer’s actions outright was to agree with them. That was humanity’s problem – even in death – that there existed a singular truth and to not accept it into your breast was to be against it with all of your heart. It was such a dull way of being and such a waste of life.

Myk brushed an unruly length of hair from his cheek as if brushing away the recent past, his eyes looking onward. His feet and arms swayed to a healthy and happy rhythm, mimicking the march of his once beating heart as they continued onto the bar. With each step the white-haired man took, he jingled like an approaching Christmas. The briny air dissolved into a mix of gasoline, grass clippings, and vodka the further south they went. The change in footfall was heard and felt before it was visible, however. Myk’s ears piqued to the sound of cat-calling and laughter and mania nestling against a steady hum of nightclub music. It was only once they’d crossed the street that the party atmosphere came into view and the sounds permeated him, reigniting a dead battery. He paused in place and mindlessly reached for the sleeve of Aaron’s jacket.

“Well. I think that whatever the case with your reasons for coming here, we should do what you say. Which is to play, of course.” Myk sighed as if dispelling a good dream and then smiled to his companion. “Oh, and, sweetie,” he cooed, an English accent growing over his words like a flowering vine. “The name’s Myk.”

[Aaron Hunter]

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[Myk]

Aaron soon divulged that he hadn’t met any other creatures that went by the white-haired man’s name, but Myk had thought that he’d known plenty of Aarons in his time. Not that it made the Killer any less unique or interesting to share his name with so many across a planet of 6 billion. Actually, Myk supposed that the only reason his own name was so unique was because his parents had simply made the whole thing up! And perhaps they weren’t as rich, famous, or as exciting as the Beckhams to be able to name their child any old thing and start a trend. The Telepath didn’t share his thoughts and only smiled at the Killer; the kind of dull, appeasing smile that an exhausted mother might give her child as he tossed spaghetti hoops around the kitchen. Myk felt that Aaron was trying a little too hard with him; trying to keep him interested and happy whilst also keeping him at arm’s reach. Their relationship was becoming all too familiar and that in itself was exhausting. It took the shine from the Telepath’s mood; a feeling that only persisted as Aaron explained how vibrant and colourful the denizens of Rainbow Rhythms were and failed to make a comment on any of Myk’s observations.

“I don’t feel all that vibrant,” the white-haired man crooned; his thoughts unconsciously transporting into Aaron’s and making his subsequent lie all the more obvious. “I’m sure I will.”

His stitches pulled as he faked a wide smile and he turned, ready to walk on again. If left to his own devices, the Telepath might walk on indefinitely and determine – once and for all – that the Earth was indeed not flat. He only made it three steps before he noticed that those heavier, handsome footfalls were not following him. Myk paused, his back to the Killer. Had he said something wrong? Had he not said enough? Had they both come to the realisation that each man was about as genuine as Facebook news? Chewing his bottom lip, the Telepath turned his head just enough to peek over his shoulder. What his pewter eyes relayed soon had his whole body turning around – as if it would somehow make a difference to the conclusion. Aaron was dancing back and forth as if the ground had suddenly been made of lava. Myk quirked a brow and the Killer made his apologies and excuses.

“Yes… I’ve heard the fairy tale,” the Telepath murmured in response, his brows knitting together suspiciously.

If this was a test of some sort then Myk could not understand the purpose of it. Still, he was fine to play along if there was a chance to learn. So far, he was learning that Aaron was strange. Of course, Myk was not one who was in a position to judge others so critically in such areas – though some might argue that he certainly had the expertise. No, Aaron was strange in ways that Myk couldn’t even fathom and he felt very much like a puppy tipping his head as his taller, more complex companion made gestures and noises that his tiny dog brain could not understand. The Telepath blinked slowly, staring in a way that might be considered rude for the length of time that they’d known each other. In fact, Myk looked at Aaron as if he was expecting some kind of snack and equally Aaron seemed to study Myk as if he was wondering if dogs understood people language.

When the comment was made about how they would get to the nightclub and if Myk’s boots would be able to make the journey, the Telepath hummed thoughtfully. Pewter eyes tumbled forward to Aaron’s indication. Slowly, he lifted one boot after the other, twisting his ankle side to side to properly examine the heels as though this was his first time trying them on. Moonlight glanced off each metallic rod, buckle, and rivet seductively and he equally admired the lightning bolt it painted down the sides of each PVC boot.

“I will be fine,” he offered with a smile, but something sinister inserted itself into his tone. “But if you’re feeling too precious to walk, I can always transport us there.” He paused to half-roll his eyes and then sigh, exasperatedly. “Or we can take the train,” he groaned. “Nothing gets me more excited than being on a fast-moving tin can full of witnesses.”