Grit (Every)

[Sullivan (DELETED 11708)]

The streets are quiet, but that’s to be expected. On this side of town, very few things move around but the dead. Sullivan has his hands shoved into his jacket pockets as he walks and surveys his surroundings. The riverfront sits to his north; empty vessels and tangled nets bob and sway with the dark waters. This must have been where the majority of imports came into the city; the smell of rotten fish is heavy in the air and he can make out the line of warehouses and commercial buildings where the goods were once processed. They look like they were abandoned in a hurry, but it’s clear to him that these treasures have already been plundered. He is only minutely aware of the fading light as the sun starts to settle down under the blanket of the horizon and the moon lazily chases after it.

He rounds a corner, adventuring into more domestic terrains where bricks are entangled with weeds. Sullivan stops walking when a hand grabs his arm and yanks back roughly. He turns with a scowl to see a woman holding his wrist. She has to be in her late twenties and her wiry frame shrinks under a long trench coat of a dismal grey colour; both it and her have seen better days. Short copper hair curls at the front, shading deep hazel eyes that stare at him desperately. He quickly notices that she has none of the typical modern-day necessities on her, so he assumes that she might be homeless. Not being one to dip into his pockets to help anyone, Sullivan is quick to shrug her off, but she snatches his forearm again.

“Please. Help me…” she begs; her voice in a mere whisper. “Please… You have to help me.”

“What the ****, lady,” he growls. Even he can hear how pretentious he sounds in that moment; like she’s just spilt his crappuccino all over an expensive suit.

“They’re eating him!” she whispers.

She lets him go and drifts away like fog into a nearby alleyway. Sullivan can still make out the gleam of her eyes even as she dissolves into the darkness. He’s in two minds about what to do. On the one hand, he could follow the crazy lady into a potential ambush and lose whatever valuables he has left. On the other hand, he could follow the crazy lady to the scene of a grizzly murder and just end up losing his lunch. If there’s nothing to be gained from rushing to this beggar’s aid, then why does he still stand there considering it?

Sullivan shakes his head and keeps moving. If they were already eating him, there isn’t much that can be done now - save a bullet to the head. This has become a gut-wrenching reality since the very first day he came over from Toronto. His brown eyes were opened to a world he didn’t think was possible; a world where the dead walk, sometimes talk, and feed on the living. The only reason he escaped that same fate was down to the pity of some old man. He took Sullivan in, told him the truth of zombies and vampires and other nefarious creatures plaguing the frost-bitten land of Harper Rock. He also granted Sullivan power, burning foreign symbols into his tattooed skin.

He never promised the old man anything in return for the gift, but his warnings float past Sullivan’s mind regardless and he comes to a stop. It only costs a bullet and there’s one less threat in the city. He checks back behind him; to where the lady had last been seen. He takes a deep breath, sighs, and then walks into the unknown.

With his intentions pure, Sullivan feels that it would have been fitting for a higher power to take it easy on him. So when he finds himself the centrepiece at a banquet of the dead after just exiting the alleyway, he starts to question things: like maybe this is a test. He draws his pistol, aims and fires. The sound is agony. The buildings lining the intersection make the echoes of his bullets shout back at him. He clasps his free hand over his ear and aims for a second headshot - no time to waste; they’re advancing on him like a mudslide. He pulls the trigger again and is deafened by it. He misses, his aim wide off the mark, and the bullet is buried in the burned out heap of a SUV.

“****!” he seethes; his own voice a patch of mist on a lake of sound.

Sullivan shoots again. He’s flinching just in time to see his target stagger backward then lurch forward again; green puss and black sludge flowing freely from the hole in her stomach. He takes a few steps closer and pulls off the perfect headshot; the zombie drops back like a drunk with her half-rotten skull landing between her own upturned feet. He strafes left as a cluster of the undead draw closer; their fingers claw the air to reach him. As he moves, he takes potshots; his bullets pulverise the meat and bones of several hands, elbows, ribs, and he even gets lucky with a shot to the jaw which makes the zombie’s teeth explode out of his head.

Sullivan’s own head is ringing at this point and he is painfully aware of how many bullets his handgun contains. On his last bullet, he counts that there are still half a dozen zombies scrambling toward him. The roar of gunfire is like a ringing dinner bell and there are shapes moving in the darkness all around him. He doesn’t have the choice to retreat, but he can get out of their reach by climbing that SUV; even slumped off its four wheels, the vehicle stands a good ten foot tall. He makes a run for it, popping off that last bullet into the face of a confused zombie as she turns to greet him. He doesn’t notice the ugly grey trench coat she is wearing until he’s stood on the roof of the SUV.

“Damn,” he mutters. “I guess we both shouldn’t have come back.”

It’s moments before he’s drawn a crowd rivaling a Sarah Silverman act. They make a deep moat of writhing, decaying flesh around his safety castle. He runs through his options and calculates his chances, but the best he’s got is leaping over the ring of zombies and making a run for it. The world’s record for a standing broad jump is 3.71m (12’2”) and Sullivan would have to nearly double that leap if he was going to make it past the hoarde. He is probably going to break both ankles in his attempt and since being eaten alive isn’t on his to-do list today, Sullivan stands back and curses that higher power.

[Every]

outfit

She traded between training in the labyrinth and walking throughout River Rock. It had become part of her routine, another piece of the mundane puzzle that she found that she was getting used to. There was no glory to it, no expected acknowledgement to putting down the creatures that had been released. The ears that she sold had their financial incentive sent into the numerous charities that went to those relocated from the quarantine zone expansion. With every footstep that fell against the concrete, she realized she had become numb to the deafening silence that became more and more apparent as her boots scraped along ice. Her hazel eyes took in the boarded up windows, the debris of faded newspapers on the ground. It hadn’t been something that had taken over instantaneously. The rift had taken its time and seemed to stop after a few months time, something that Every had noticed - it made her wonder if all the paranoia, all the hostility had been worth it among her kind. There was a shuffling down the way that had the shadow removing the pistol from its home at her hip, her fingers flexing over the design.

As a fledgling, she had always avoided firearms - she was a better blades user. Now that she was older, more skilled, it was easier to alternate between the two as she lined up her sight. The zombie looked as if it had been mauled by a bear, a few vertical claw marks visible among the decay. There were pieces of flesh hanging, but it was clear that the body hadn’t died recently. “At least you aren’t out of a Romero movie.” She thought with a mental frown; the zombie virus of Harper Rock wasn’t transferred from bite, but the spirits that take over the bodies of the recently deceased. “Still…” As it shuffled towards the alleyway, the brunette squeezed the trigger after letting out a singular, loud whistle. Just before her bullet connected, the mindless creature snapped its head in her direction. It wasn’t ever like in the movies - there was no flying back, but it jerked. She fired once more before it dropped to the ground with a mild thump.

With a sigh, Every made her way closer to the body. She kept her pistol pointed towards the ground, her finger resting over the trigger. Once she was close enough, she reached out and gave the creature a pointed kick in the ribs to test that it had died; it was a force of habit, she knew it was gone. Whatever spirit had been in there was gone once more. Upon closer inspection, she could see that he worked in a garage - the name printed upon his faded name tag read: Rodney. “Sorry there, Rodney.” She said, removing her knife before moving the blade to the curve of the fully present ear. Once she was done, she dropped the piece of flesh into the canvas bag she carried around with her. It was for NADUMA - she never kept the cash, choosing to donate it to one of the few legitimate charities for the families of the relocated or the deceased. One ear turned to two, two to four. She knew she was sitting on at least twenty from the past few nights. Lately, they had become less active and she wondered if it had to do with the cold weather.

Further down the alley, she could hear the telltale sound of gunfire. A common sound in Harper Rock, really. She returned her pistol to its usual place, wiping her hands on the denim jeans that she wore before using her sleeve to scratch at a phantom itch across the bridge of her nose. With a hum escaping past her nude lips, the woman began making her way towards the docks and could hear cheers in the earpiece she occasionally wore connected to the radios of soldiers - it had been hacked and didn’t like to work entirely. “We got the massive ****!” The crackled voice in her ear shouted, the massive ****** an indicator that they had likely killed a theodosian mooncalf. She’d seen one or two of Theodosia’s creatures earlier on in the night, always staring with an intelligence that made her uneasy as she preferred to kill their weaker counterparts - the titans. At least with them, they didn’t make her think the ancient one was watching. So, when the woman found herself hearing more gunfire, this time at a closer range, Every lifted an eyebrow. She heard one of the units contact the other, the staticky answer of “must be one of those kids we saw earlier” having her sigh. Her fingers curled around the button at her throat before pressing down.

“Don’t sound too concerned there.” She could hear the confusion as they began asking who she was just before she cut the power to the walkie. Removing the ear piece, she tucked it into her jacket pocket before zipping it up. “Safe keeping.” As she blew her hair out of her face briefly, the shadow made her way towards the noises. There was another shot taken and the sounds of groans soon reached her. Around her, she tugged for the cover of shadows and slipped out of sight. If it truly were teenagers stupid enough to get themselves caught, she didn’t particularly feel like getting shot - the hooded sweatshirt that she’d found in Mercy’s closet had been one of the few things she’d burnt of the woman’s clothing options and it fit well enough that she could fight without removing it, as it was. Rounding the corner, however, it was a safe bet that Every had come to a conclusion that she hadn’t expected to see the scene in front of her.

A hoard of the walking dead.

A man standing on top of an SUV.

As she recognized the aura that he gave off, Every could only find herself amused. Even from where she stood, it was evident by his reaction to the hoard that the man was still new to the life of the paladin. “Ha. Looks like their recruits aren’t as strong as they expected.” She thought, considering to turn on the ball of her feet and walk in the opposite direction. Invisible, the shadow knew the zombies hadn’t noticed her yet. However, as she caught sight of his reflection in a shattered window, a sigh escaped past her lips. He was standing back. Removing her blade from her sleeve, she stepped forward the nearest body before driving the blade downwards. At the same time, her action caused her to pop out of shadows. “You could be a bit less of a coward.” She called, moving backwards after she purposely gained the attention of the hoard, drawing them just away from the SUV.

[Sullivan (DELETED 11708)]

“Ok. Think,” he tells himself.

His audience shuffles restlessly at his feet like they’re waiting for the next punchline; dozens of bloody, grimy hands and fingers are reaching for him. He would feel flattered if it really is his charming personality they are after. He’s looking into their gaping mouths and how sharp those teeth look set in against their bloated faces. You never really think about how much it will hurt when a person bites you; it’s the furthest thing from your mind in competition with a punch, an elbow, a knee, and maybe even a headbutt. Sullivan once broke his nose on the side of someone’s foot when he was Judo-kicked in the face. It was stupid. The guy was showing off after an argument over a spilt drink. Similarly, he’s also been scratched, had his hair pulled, and even had someone pinch his cheeks in a drunken brawl, but he has never been bitten. It must hurt - especially when they don’t stop biting: he is a walking taco to them after all.

“You’ve got… what?” he continues and mentally checks his pockets. “A knife, an empty gun, a lighter, keys, wallet, and your bare fists against twenty pairs of teeth.” He shrugs. “Odds could be worse.”

Sullivan is struggling to think how his odds could get any better, though. There’s a chance that the earlier gunfire will get the attention of someone in the neighbourhood, but he’s walked the last twenty minutes without seeing another living person. Actually, the last living person he has seen in the area is now slumped against the passenger side door of the SUV; a seeping red hole in place of a pretty hazel eye. There’s no chance she’d have made it if he had just gone with her and if he hadn’t hesitated for those twenty seconds. There’s no need to feel guilty about it, even though his stomach hurts. It’s better to be practical with the time he has and think up a way to get out of here.

He’s considering his surroundings - the telephone post right at the bonnet of the SUV and the fire escape on the one side of the nearest building - when he hears a voice prickle the air. Sullivan hears the word coward and instantly grimaces. He latches onto her location before he even realises what he’s looking at. She’s a dot of colour against a blur of olive movement and then he sees it: she’s leading the hoard away from him. Right now he’s thinking she can call him whatever she damn well pleases.

“That’ll work.”

As the majority of the hoard breaks off into a waddling mass, chasing her shadow, Sullivan revisits the fire escape idea. The building is just eighteen feet to his right and he can see a clear path that will lead him into the alleyway. All he has to do is avoid a few of those biters and pull himself up the dumpster and he’s safe. The building’s bound to be empty so he’s not worried about breaking through into the middle of someone’s dinner time. He makes a run for it. The rubber of his combat boots squeak on the scorched roof of the vehicle as he pushes off and he hits the ground running with less than a thud. He’s running in the opposite direction to where the hoard are being drawn to and when he makes a clean getaway to the fire escape, he stops to check what happened to her.

[Every]

Their ears, when not being collected for cash to sell to NADUMA, were good for rituals. That was Every’s reasoning as she bothered with the stumbling corpses. Unintelligent, a husk of their former selves. They were good for new vampires to kill. Other than that, they didn’t have much use other than providing mild protection against intruders - and their summoner - after being trapped. She didn’t have a problem putting them down. The guilt had long since passed, although it didn’t mean that Every failed to check their wallets so that she could know the names of those that didn’t make it. Across from her, discarded trash blew along the concrete into the dirt; the date of a newspaper read recent. As grey matter splashed against her boot after a particularly weakened skull caved in the moment she hit it with the butt of her gun, the shadow made a face.

“Hell must have frozen, you’re saving a paladin.”

When her wraith appeared, Every didn’t quite know how to respond as she continued to move backwards. The numbers were dwindling. Even amongst the groans and growls, she notices the sound of movement against metal and glances up in time to see the man make his escape. It’s when his back is to her that she focuses on the shadows around her, willing them forward to catch a few of the deceased hoard that were closest to her before turning on her own heel. Once she was at a comfortable distance, Every reached for her firearm and flipped off the safety. She took a quick glance around her, summoning the shadowed creature that was her doppelganger to her side and ordered it to get to work.

It isn’t difficult for the two shadows to lower the crowd even further. A third of Every’s skill, the doppelganger still moved like her former body did; lithe and quick as it struck with a broken sword that the woman still had yet to replace. Her hazel eyes drifted to where she had last seen the man, making sure that he had a further clean break before something snagged at her ankle. Every glanced down to see discolored, bloody teeth headed for her pantleg and hisses out when she felt the tear, but shook her leg free.

[Sullivan (DELETED 11708)]

Sullivan’s wide brown eyes report what’s going down on the streets below him, but his brain can’t make any kind of sense of it. Not even in his nightmares did the shadows thicken and harden like black glass ready to strike people down, but it forms the shape of a woman and cuts them down nevertheless. It’s impossible for him to distinguish between magic and misunderstanding, but making sense of things doesn’t stop the reality that’s playing out as the waves of zombies are trimmed down like storks of grass against a lawnmower. The blades and bullets make short work of their flesh and bones; cutting right through their bodies and spilling their innards. He’s glad he’s not downwind because the stench would surely make him vomit, but something about his position is still giving him that sickening feeling. It’s hard for him to stand there and watch, especially as she’s caught by one of those zombies.

There's a cold chill chasing down his spine all of a sudden. He spins to see if there's something there behind him and the metal ladder pulls away with the movement. His whole body is tugged downward and he pushes toward the brick wall, pushing the ladder back into place. He hugs the metal hard enough to feel the cold of it through his clothes; it’s a stark contrast to his body heat and makes his body break out into a feverish gooseflesh. He can hear his heart in his ears and feel it banging against its cage of bone, making it so much harder to breathe. However, he’s quick to discover that it’s really the least of their problems. Something is being attracted to the noise; something big that’s chasing the scent of blood. Once again, Sullivan struggles to understand what he’s seeing as the beast comes into view behind the woman and her solid shadow.

It’s got the size and shape of Megalodon teeth squeezed into the mouth of a Great White. The teeth line the jaw in awkward angles and scrape together even as it breathes, shaving off layers of steel-hard dental enamel like paper. At the same time, there’s this angry, painful moaning gurgling up from its chest or stomach or whatever part of its malformed anatomy should be those pieces. It sounds like a wild beast wrapped in a burlap sack that’s taken a beating, but those agonised yowls don’t make Sullivan feel any better about the situation. With a simple gesture, it sends a commercial wheelie bin soaring into the air. The bin hits the adjacent alleyway wall with enough force to crack the bricks and leave a considerable dent in the metal container. Garbage bags and various food debris falls like disgusting confetti, but the beast is undeterred and goes into a full charge.

Sullivan doesn’t think about what he’s doing, not even as his feet hit the floor and he’s running in her direction. Somehow he bypasses the sticky appendages of the undead as he races past the SUV. He plants his foot down hard on the zombie’s skull, crushing the brittle bone into its grim, grey brain. This stops it from doing any further damage to the woman, but there’s already blood on her ankle, and her clothing, and steadily rising into the air. Sullivan takes an unconscious step backward, removing his foot from brain matter, as he realises that the woman who’s been helping him is actually a vampire. There’s this strange tide of emotion that sweeps over him; an irrational assortment of fear, panic, displeasure, and guilt because it doesn’t make sense to feel anything but gratitude that this woman is even helping him at all.

A bull-like howl pulls Sullivan’s head out from drowning in introspection, reaffirmed by the rhythmic tremble of the ground as the malformed creature draws near. He glances in its direction for half a second before he thrusts his hand out to the woman on the ground. There’s no way on Earth that she needs his help getting to her feet, but he wants to help more than he’s considering practicalities. He doesn’t even have a plan, but running seems like a good option.

[Every]

Her doppelganger didn’t seem to mind having something other than to do than watch. In fact, the living shadow looked almost pleased to the woman that had summoned it. She didn’t know if the creature even felt emotions, let alone could properly project them in its featureless form. Above her, she could hear the clinking of shoes against metal - she didn’t bother looking as she moved. It was as she took an involuntary breath in when teeth sank into her flesh that Every was relieved it wasn’t something required to her body to live. There was a jerk of her ankle that caused her to fall, the gun in her hand skittering across the ground into a nearby sewer drain that had her scowling against the ice. Her attention remained focused on the immediate issue at hand, but Every becomes aware of something larger coming her way.

“One thing at a time, Weave.”

Her sire had always thought she took on too much at once, his words coming to her as she kicked herself free brief enough that the next bite sank down on the rubber sole of her boot. It’s as she started to push herself back up to her knees that Every became aware of the missing blade at her side and a curse falls from her lips. She could already hear that lecture again, but the blood soaked ice had the shadow slipping back into the creatures grasp. Her hand grasped at a long piece of glass that bit into her palm as she tightened her hold around it and another came too close for comfort. The large crash of metal had her looking up, the piece of glass being driven into a nearby head without looking for accuracy and Every scurried backwards, her hazel eyes focused on the reality of what was headed for her. “Fantastic.”

She never did like big, stupid things and there was a chance Whether it was a conscious or unconscious decision to summon a sidhe, she wasn’t entirely surprised when the demifae appeared and cackled at her, vanishing in the next second. It was always one of her powers that didn’t always prevail and she really wanted to shoot the next one that cackled. “Why you little…” She growled, throwing bloodied snow in the direction before she felt another tug on her boot. Her growl fell short as she heard the sound of feet pounding on concrete and the telltale squish of brain matter having weight applied to it ever close to her. Her hazel eyes stared up at the paladin in partial disbelief. She’d been shot, stabbed, burned by his kind, but never saved in her time in Harper Rock. He had to know what she was, didn’t he?

Every could see the emotions shifting in his face as she reached for the piece of glass again, watching as he stepped back. There was no fear registered in her, she knew her talents and she knew she could make herself invisible in the blink of an eye. But rather than attack her, his hand is thrust forward and its the loud howl that had her attention snapping from the hunter in front of her to the approaching beast. “Devil you doubt.” She said, making her decision to deal with the one with the beating heart as she grabbed his hand and pulled herself up. She didn’t hesitate to say, “Move it.” as her feet are planted, the wound already healing itself as she knew she wouldn’t be able to run on it, and shoved him forward before taking off. She was unarmed and even if Every knew she could tussle with the best of them, she could usually at least needed a wooden sword, “This way!”

[Sullivan (DELETED 11708)]

Their feet hit the ground like a shower of rain; each footfall pounding the crooked cement one after the other without end. They weave through the stragglers and Sullivan narrowly dodges the shoulder of a zombie with his own, sending him into a spin. She hisses at him and lunges, but as he pirouettes out of reach, he gets a good view of her grey skin pulled tightly over high cheek bones as her mouth opens wider than he’s ever seen a mouth do. Her teeth are unnaturally white and straight, her lips red from what he hopes his lipstick, and she’d be attractive if she wasn’t reanimated flesh with a jaw dislodged from one of its sockets. Her blonde hair, long and artificial, is pulled into a ponytail and she’s got the look of a fitness fanatic; the luminescent pink Nike leggings and matching sports bra give it away. She’s only got one of her white running shoes left; her right leg drags bare-footed behind her having been snapped just above the ankle. He can’t tell, but he hopes it is a post mortem injury that’s only slowing her down now.

Sullivan puts their interaction behind him - literally - as he races to catch up with Every. He’s always a step behind her, following her lead and watching her back. That little voice in his head that warned him off from helping the homeless lady is suspiciously quiet; gagged and bound by the brothers Chivalry and Chauvinism. It’s interesting that they choose to show up here, now. He’s got no right to feel all that powerful and knightly when he’s running for his life. Furthermore, there is nothing stopping her from leaving him behind and making her own getaway. He tries not to think about it and just watches where they’re going. Each pulse of his heart is a drum beat inside his ears, thumping in time to their footfalls. Despite the winter chill, his clothes are sweat-soaked in minutes and cling as tight as his ribs. The cold air rasps his throat with every breath, but he’s not going to stop running. He can run for miles because he can’t fight an elephant sized sack of flesh and teeth with his bare hands.

Their pursuer doesn’t stop running either. The monster covers the uneven ground with a great lolloping gait that suggest his ankles are made of tightly coiled springs wrapped in sinew and bone. Each one of its mighty strides are worth at least two of theirs. With the slightest effort, it outruns the zombies and every once in a while Sullivan can hear the cracking noise like bone on wood as it bulldozes its way through obstacles to reach them. This beast is neither lithe, graceful, or blessed with night vision, but it comes after them like a raging bull and they’re dressed in red capes. Sullivan makes the mistake of checking the reflection of a passing window as they round a corner; what he sees is a comet-like projectile of cement come flying up behind them. It makes impact with the earth just seconds after his shadow chases him around the corner of a building.

“Now it’s throwing things? What the hell is that?”

They aren’t safe out in the open like this, but shock and anger ground him to the spot. He looks at Every with a face full of questions. His head moves slowly from side to side like the answers are out there somewhere if he just looks hard enough. His lips are parted to bring in more air to his lungs and slow down his circulatory system because he needs to think. He’s seconds from pressing his back to the wall of the building when the howl of the beast stirs him, bringing him back to the present danger.

“Where can we go that it won’t follow us?” he asks, catching his breath. There’s an open manhole just a metre to their left.

[Every]

Her attention is focused on the sound of his heart pounding in his chest combined with the sound of their shoes on the cement. The steadiness of a drum creating a drumline beneath the twisted howls created from the creature behind them. Mooncalves. The shadow didn’t typically have a problem with the dumb creatures, but even she wasn’t thrilled with idea of trifling with something that large. Her childe, Nishaa, had a nasty habit of being killed by them, too. As the zombie leapt towards the man, Every didn’t fail to miss the pirouette and made a mental note to make a remark about it later. She summoned Zachary to her side, the wraith going up ahead to create a map of the route that would lead them the fastest route where she could decide what to do with the paladin that was falling behind. If she’d felt like he’d be able to survive, she would have left him in the dust. But, he was young and given the predicament she’d found him in, even if his death wouldn’t weigh on her conscious, she’d never hear the end of it from Silas. Her wraith, a former cop before she’d fed him her blood, had always been a goody two shoes even when they were teenagers.

“Short of breath, there, paladin?” She could hear the rasping. She thought about teleporting him to safety, but she doesn't because she doesn't know what all he knew vampires could do. There were some things to keep as a surprise until the last minute, a fail safe plan that worked best. “Damn well glad I do this for fun.” Every thought bitterly as she kept a steady stride, even as she cut a corner and waited for a short moment for the male to catch up the same time she searched something she could use as a weapon. “Definitely not telling Cali about this sprint through town.” There was a tire iron that was within reach, but it’d require to backtrack and she didn’t have time to contemplate it as the human is there and she starts running again. Her hazel eyes glaze over briefly as she switches over to her Doppelganger’s mind, the shadowy conscious almost clouded as she leapt with ease over a fallen bin. Her shadowed thrall was already retreating with a gleeful quality in her mind and she snapped back to her senses at the crash of cement.

“That is why I think you paladin having a stick up your *** about vampires is moot.”

Every didn’t care about the bitterness in her voice. It was a clear truth that she thought there were worse things in the city focusing on both species. Her foot slipped on a patch of ice and she skidded, catching her balance by throwing her hand down. There’s a brief thought to trip the man and book it, but she could see that he’s lost when she glanced in his direction. His confusion isn’t something that she knows what to make of and if it’s a ruse as he stops, the shadow already can think of several ways to kill him without going straight to his jugular, where she could see his pulse beating rapidly. From where she stood, Every focused on the creature as it charged in their direction and cursed it, watching as it stumbled so that she could buy them time.

A switch to Zachary's mind led to nothing, he was heading northwest. Shaking her head clear, Every began to think on her feet. Her hazel eyes dart upwards to the fire escapes - she didn’t like heights, even for someone that lived in a large treehouse for the majority of her time in Harper Rock. That wasn’t going to happen, no way in hell. She didn’t even like elevators. There’s a few broken windows of boarded up businesses that she couldn’t remember the layout of, whether or not they would lead them to alleyways or into a dead end, much like the situation they’d found themselves in. Had he been leading them there, she’d be more suspicious but the man seemed genuine enough. The moment her eyes fell to the manhole cover, her mind was made up and she moved automatically. She didn’t have a flashlight and he didn’t seem to, but she had a lighter in her pocket. “Down here. You first, damoiseau.” There was no humor to the comment as the french word rolled off her tongue, that she felt he was a damsel in distress. When another piece of cement went crashing their way, she crouched a bit and could feel a cloud of debris washing over their clothing before she hissed, “I don’t have all night.”

[Sullivan (DELETED 11708)]

They’re peppered with stones, dust, and asphalt chippings as the first concrete asteroid makes impact with the dirt. Sullivan leers at her as he waits for an answer; his brows pinch when he doesn’t get one. The cloud of dust settles, but that weird feeling in his gut doesn’t. It feels a lot like juvenile, tribal anger; an impulsive and instinctual hatred that defies logic and fairness. The feeling seems to get stronger - or maybe he just notices it more - the longer he’s near her and it’s got nothing to do with what she says or what she does. She’s sniped at him a few times, but words bounce off his hide like bullets against Superman’s chest.

“Laisse béton,” Sullivan mutters under his breath, but he knows that she can hear him.

There was a lot of talk after the ritual was completed and after the agony melted into a numb bliss. The old man waxed philosophically for a while - maybe hours - with Sullivan very barely conscious. The monotronic drone of the man’s voice was only making things worse, but Sullivan strayed from sleep long enough to understand the basics: monsters like vampires really do exist and it’s his official job to eradicate them. They talked for a bit longer the very next morning when Sullivan could open his eyes without lances of pain shooting into his eye sockets and skewering his brain. The old man talked more about the capabilities of vampires: increased speed, strength, durability, and their enhanced senses. He also told Sullivan about a few of their weaknesses: sunlight, fire, and a stake to the heart, but then he also mentioned that they can’t really die and that for some reason, even a vampire that has been put down before, can find a way to come back.

Sullivan never mentioned his motivations to the old man, even though he expected their paths to never cross again. He wants to mention them to her, though, even if she doesn’t believe him and it doesn’t make her snide remarks come to an end. If it’s bothering him at all, it’s because - like that sour feeling in his gut - it’s ignorant and pointless.

Their common enemy reminds them that they still have bigger things to worry about when a second cement projectile plummets into a building behind them. The impacted wall drops inward and the roof comes skittering after it; tiles fall into the cavity like a sheet of black ice. The sound is tremendous, challenging the roars of the beasts that haunts their steps. It’s coming closer; the ground trembles as it pulls its weight up and slams it back down with every hulking movement. The second dust cloud can cover their escape.

Sullivan notices that his vampire companion has barely flinched. He cracks a smile as she motions to the manhole cover and tells him to hurry, adding on the word damsel. This is when the two brothers, Chivalry and Chauvinism, tap in and he dashes to her command to pry open the iron lid. Normally you need an actual key or crowbar to prise the cover off, but he improvises. Set into the handle of his knife is a concealed flat head screwdriver - the kind which just so happens to be perfect for opening locked doors. With the right application of strength and leverage, the lid pops up and Sullivan drags it out of the way.

“True. You have an eternity,” he says.

It’s a gentle reminder of their differences and he smiles to her once again; a cheeky grin that suggests no bitterness and acknowledges her help. He takes out the lighter from his jacket, flicks back the lid so that the flame burns bright under his chin, and peers over the hole. The smell is about what he expects from an open sewer, but, the heat comes as a bit of a surprise. He can’t see much as the ladder burns into the darkness not a foot past his light. The sound of running water echoes through the cavernous depths; the occasional pop of water droplets tells him that it’s shallow and that there’s plenty of room to walk without having to hunch his six foot figure. There’s a pause in him before he climbs down. Sullivan looks back up at her as he throws his legs over the maw of steel and into the darkness, hooking his boots on the rungs of the ladder.

“Age before beauty,” he says. “We’ll pretend I’m older.”

Rust bites at his palms and a wave of warm stench teases his gag reflex as Sullivan climbs down the ladder. The tangerine glow from his lighter flickers with every movement and casts eerie shadows on the walls. It’s not enough to light his way; he listens and feels for each step as his boots clatter against the rungs of the ladder, guiding him down into the pitch black. It takes a few metres before he feels solid ground and steps onto the slick yet rough surface of a raised ledge that was out of the grey water. Holding the lighter at arm’s length, he takes a look around.

“If there’s mutant crocodiles down here, I am done.”

The thought rolls off his tongue and bounces around the polished walls before being swallowed up by the sound of running water. It makes sense to him to walk upstream, but he waits for his companion to join him before he goes anywhere.

“I appreciate your help,” he says flatly. “Merci bien. But let’s agree that neither one of us is a bigot and move on. I don’t hate vampires the same way I don’t think all Asians are terrible drivers. I’m a person, same as you. I’m a person called Sullivan. And, you are?”

[Every]

Any other day, she would have teleported him - briefly, the action is considered but the decision against it is once again, that he may not know what she can do. It’s not often that Every bares her fangs, and she acts impulsively when her lips are drawn back to show the sharpened canines. An animalistic response to indicate that she was in no mood to do just that. After the action, she retracts them, a subtle pop felt through her gums a discomfort she had long since accepted over the years. She doesn't further conversation as her hazel eyes dance from the paladin to the approaching mooncalf. As she breathed in, the dust traces through her lungs. His scent lingers in her sinuses, pleasant in comparison to the decay of the creature that drew closer to them and she knew it’d be something she would be able to track later on, mixed with the aura that surrounded him.

As the second piece of cement crashed down, Every lifted her hand and focused.

She cast rigormortis, watching as the mooncalf began to slow before she hurried after the nameless man. It isn’t lost on her, the irony of a vampire and a paladin working together to escape another creature of the undead, and she can already hear her sire calling her an idiot. At that point in her life, really, she had begun to expect the comment more often than not. “You had a knife this whole time?!” The glint of the metal is familiar as she crouched, she normally carried a similar one. Before Every can think of another thing to snap at him, particularly something along the lines he won’t have a minute left if he doesn't move, her words are lost as another chilling growl ran down her spine. She nudged the lid further away, waiting until he had moved to grip the ladder to look over her shoulder.

Her immortality isn’t something that she’s entirely come to peace with and her hazel eyes glitter with suspicion at the cheeky grin.

Every’s lips part at the comment.

She then pressed them shut, shifting to rest her heels against the metal rung as she pulled the lid back towards her. She’d never seen a mooncalf down in the sewers before, but Every had accepted a long time ago that her luck was ****. It wasn’t something that she’d risk.

“Before sunrise.”

The harsh tone wasn’t entirely intentional. Once he’s out of the way, she moved down until she could crouch and pulled the lid securely over her. There’s a roar and she felt the vibration ringing through her fingertips against the metal. “Ha.” She thought, waiting for the sound of his boots to stop connecting with metal before she could see proper. His words have her rolling her eyes - mutant crocodiles would be the least of their worries, really. “You’re more likely to slip on a dead hunter, chemical waste or sewer fungi.” She muttered, her hip pressing against the metal rung just beneath it before she watched the light move off to the side as he looked around. Rather than climb, Every pushed herself off lightly and jumped.

It was something that had she had done a hundred times, something she imagined she’d do a hundred times more. Although her ankle was sore, she landed with a graceful and mild thud before straightening up. She’d put more force on them in the past. Her hand lifted, blocking the flame from her gaze so that her eyes could properly adjust in the darkness. Looking around on her own, Every quietly gathered her wits about her and tried to place her location. As he began to speak, her hazel eyes glanced towards the man that introduced himself as Sullivan. “Unconscious stereotypes hardly make someone a bigot.” She ran her tongue over her teeth, folding her arms in front of her chest as she shifted her weight from her left foot to her right. “Every.” Or, Ee-ver-ee as the word left her lips.

“Speaking of, what kind of moron traps himself where zombies roam without a gun?”