Sad Prayers for Guilty Bodies [Jesse]

[Mickey Macintyre (DELETED 6484)]

A job. Mick fuckin' hated his job. The owners were mean as hell, and always thought he was stealing **** -- which was understandable, because he did. It didn't help that he was ******* the owner behind his wife's back. Yeah, that didn't help at all. At least he was of age, this time, unlike the first time he'd pulled the same stunt. And it didn't help his wages, but it sure as hell helped him get off, so that was that.

But this guy was terrifyin' as hell and Mickey got weird vibes from him. His offer sounded sincere but that made the Chicagoan distrust him on principle. He had, after all, just seen Mickey eyeing the place and tryna get a feel for when he should come back and rob it blind. This guy was probably straight, to boot, so no extra benefits.

"I dunno, man," he said, trying to sound like he was considering it, when in reality -- **** this dude. He'd just pulled a gun on him five minutes prior (Mick would have done the same). "I really like m' job, ya know? They real nice. They pay me okay." The owner lets me top. The list went on. He scrubbed a hand against his jaw, tried to look at the door, see if he could make a run for it.

Then he had a brilliant idea.

Get the job.

Appease this crazy ***********.

Then run for it.

"Actually," he said, turning to look at Jesse again, a big grin pulling at his lips, dimpling his cheeks. "I do need some more cash. Pretty strapped fer it, y'know? I ain't never been a bartender before, but I drink like a fish 'n' I'm sure I could handle it." That's it, Mick. That's the way to do it. Reel him in. Hook. Line. Sinker.

"So when can I start?"

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse smiles, too. A broad, clinging thing that shows a little tooth and which definitely reflects in his cold blue eyes. At least, they might appear cold upon first glance, but they’re the same blue as the very heart of a fire. The hottest part of a fire. The blue of a destructive welding gun, blinding if you stare for too long. He can see the way Mickey keeps looking toward the front doors, as if he can’t wait to get the **** out of dodge. Jesse has other plans, however.

He’s only done this once before, but he’s pretty sure he remembers how it goes. How had he done it to Bradley? Jesse’s pretty sure he’d beaten submission into that scrawny ******, but actual physical violence probably isn’t a requirement.

Instead, Jesse would use the force. Or something like it. He would use that innate vampiric charisma; a remnant from the days of Dracula. If Dracula ever ******* existed to begin with. Maybe he did. Maybe that’s not all a farce. Except the whole aversion to holy relics, and such. But this? This is a brilliant leftover from bygone days. Except, he supposes, it’s not exactly the same, is it? Thralls aren’t exactly devoted. They just have no other ******* choice.

Jesse places his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, one for each. He turns the guy, makes sure that he’s looking Jesse straight in the eye. If he tries to look away, Jesse won’t let him; his fingers would find Mickey’s jaw and force him to keep looking ahead.

”Except while you’re working for me, while you’re on the clock, you won’t drink like a fish, will you? You’ll do exactly as I say when I say it, won’t you? You’ll be a ******* star employee who won’t take advantage of his all-access keys or his extra knowledge on the building’s security, won’t you?” he says. There’s heft to his tone. Where before it had just been a regular husky drawl like a man who’s either screamed too much of smoked too much, now it has a bit of weight. Smoother, somehow. Laced with unnatural power, as if home to a thrumming, humming subliminal message that can’t be completely heard by the human ear, but which crawls in through the facial orifices to bury deep into the human’s brain. To trigger something, there. That inability to resist.

”Do you hear what I’m saying, man? Do you understand?” he says, narrowing those eyes. Making sure something hits home.

[Mickey Macintyre (DELETED 6484)]

And then, just then, hands held Mickey's shoulders and he was trapped like a rat against a wall. Like a dog with his tail between his goddamn legs, held by some abusive owner. ****. Mickey tried to look away but fingers grabbed at his jaw, bruisingly tight, made him look at the other man.

And he spoke.

And something twisted.

Something broke in Mickey.

The words weren't fuckin' normal. They asked questions but they didn't expect an answer other than no. And Mick opened his goddamn mouth but the words dried up, and his brain refused to cooperate. Say no. Just fuckin' say it. You say no all the time, but his tongue was thick and heavy and he thought he was gonna hurl and the word, that simple no, N-O, wouldn't spill out. He wasn't gonna drink like a fish on the job. He wasn't gonna abuse the power given to him. Couldn't. Why the **** couldn't he? Why the **** couldn't he shove Jesse away, right then, right there, and bolt for the door? It was like the other man had a gun to his head all over again, but there wasn't one. Mickey Macintyre felt the weight of those words deep in his belly, heard the click of a safety that didn't exist.

All he could do was nod. Stammer out, like some fuckin' invalid, a terrified school girl. "Y-yeah. I understand." Did he? Naw, he didn't. How could he understand what was happening? It was beyond him, so far beyond him, this power curling like fingers around his throat, strangling him. Cement blocks held his feet, made 'em heavy, and Mickey sunk down. Drowned like some mob boss hit. Taken care of. Just take care of it.

He didn't have a choice. Would he ever have a choice again? "Yeah, I get it, boss." Boss. The words came out without him even giving them a thought, pulled by whatever fear Jesse had lodged in his heart, like a shard tryin' to weasel its way into his veins. That voice was different, smoother, and Mickey's trembled, useless, stupid, dumb. And he couldn't look away, could only look into those blue eyes that burned like the hottest part of a fire. Mick got burned by them, took the immolation because he'd been doused in alcohol by that grip. Too deep to stop the damage as it destroyed him.

Mickey gulped. Got quiet. Silent as the mouse he'd been forced to become. Something like hate met that fear, amplified it, and his mouth twisted, ugly, into a grimace, but he didn't look away. Didn't fuckin' dare.

[Jesse Fforde]

The smile that breaks over Jesse’s features is hard and sharp as glass. A gash of something that should just be triumph, but there’s something else there, too. A hint of something manic. Enthralling someone is absolutely nothing like turning them. The take and give of blood is an addiction that cannot be compared to anything; no high from drugs or alcohol, no vibrant or violent kick in the guts. The triumph, Jesse supposes, has nothing to do with succeeding in enthralling the poor ****** in front of him. It has more to do with the fact that he’s managed to enthral the guy rather than rip out his throat. This is what’s called trying. And Jesse has taken one large step forward.

But, he tells himself, it’s all for a solid purpose, until this place is up off the ground and more trustworthy staff can be found.

The Necromancer slaps his new human slave’s shoulder; the grip there is the firm grip if someone who is completely in control. It’s not something that Jesse can deny. He likes to have control, and he does like it when people listen to him. When people, for whatever reason, choose to respect him. He doesn’t get so much of that, these days, but what does it really matter? He’s not a god, any more than any of the rest of them are. There are times that his ego needs a good ******* slash, to cut it down to size. There are certain decisions that he has made and in doing so, had done away with despotism.

Perhaps there is a vision in the back of Jesse’s mind, of what he’d like his family to be. Not one with a solid leader, but one where everyone has equal footing. Like the gangs he’d drifted between as a youth. Sure, they had someone who seemed to be in the lead but there was never any process and no crown was ever given. And that person listened to everyone else’s opinions as much as he listened to his own. That’s what Jesse wants. A rough-and-tumble group of lost boys and girls who have a loyalty to a lifestyle rather than to a person.

But none of that is entirely clear, just yet. Although Mickey’s future blooms in front of Jesse like some vague imagined dream, he doesn’t focus upon it. Instead, he turns toward the bar, and gestures for Mickey to follow him.

”C’mon. I’ll give you a tour,” he says. He’ll fill Mickey in on the rest of it. Maybe now, maybe later. Doesn’t matter. For now, Mickey has to do as he’s told.

[Mickey Macintyre (DELETED 6484)]

Mickey remembered the first time he'd been arrested.

He's fourteen and hissin' mad, arms pinned behind him and cheek against a hot police car hood, and the man behind him is an officer and he's putting cuffs around his wrists, a little too loose, because he feels bad for doing this, because he has to. "Just relax, kid," the officer says, and reads him his Miranda rights, because he doesn't want to hurt this poor kid with the bloody face, with the tears in his eyes, as he screams to the other police car where his father was getting the same treatment.

Patrick Macintyre yells over the sirens, and he's hissin' mad, too, and drunk off his ***, and furious, and hateful. "I didn't raise no goddamn faggot! I didn't raise no goddamn ****-sucker! I'll kill ya, Michael Murtagh Macintyre, long before I ever let you suck dick in my house!" And Mickey's crying, because he has so much hate in his heart, and his teeth and mouth are bloody, and his eye is swelling shut. "You DID raise a faggot, you dumb ***********! 'm right here! And ya know what, I fuckin' like it. Your son takes it in the *** and fuckin' loves it, you stupid sonuvabitch!" Then they'd shoved both son and father into their police cars and drove away.

Mick hadn't gone home for a month after that, terrified his daddy would make good on his promise to kill him dead. And every night, he prayed for the balls to either do it for his pa, or kill his pa, instead.

Two years later, Mickey's prayers came true and Patrick Macintyre's ****-for-brains had sprayed all over their living room. He'd had to bury two bodies that night, in their backyard, and scrubbed the entire house with his siblings, the smallest one sobbing, hating Mick for what he'd done, and all of them hurting, unsure what to do. That night, Mickey and his brother, Connor, got higher than they'd ever been or have been since. It didn't full the ache, not fuckin' really. Mickey still felt it, to this day, hangin' 'round his shoulders like a favorite leather jacket, too worn and full of memories for him to ever get rid of it, even if its sleeves were too short and the color faded, and it was too heavy, in the summer. It was just another thing he wore.

And now, he felt cuffs around him again. Cuffs, or a collar, a leash, and Mickey Macintyre was tugged like an overly-obedient dog, surly, but unable to stop the innate desire to please.

Mick wanted to spit in Jesse's face, but terror and somethin' else entirely kept him still.

"S-sure," he tried, instead. Head down. Be an idiot, Mick, don't let 'em know you ain't. Whatever the **** was happenin', he wasn't gonna look it in its ugly face. Maybe it was a sex thing, being bossed around. But even though Jesse was attractive, Mickey didn't feel arousal, right then; hell, he didn't feel much more than anger and raw, ripe fear. So why the **** was he listenin' like a dog with its tail between its legs? Mick's hazel gaze dropped, to scan the floor, and he grit his teeth. "S'a nice place ya got here, boss."

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse nods.

”I think it’s pretty fuckin’ great, yeah,” he said. Mickey had already seen the basement, which is to be the gym. Aside from the storage room, through which Mickey had come, there’s not much else down there. Well, there’s a lot down there, what with the foam and the bars and boxes all resembling a mish-mashed pixel jungle. That’s not where Mickey’s needed, however.

”My fiancé and I will be taking care of this place. The problem is that neither of us can stay here during the day,” Jesse explains. He doesn’t explain why, just yet. Jesse himself could stay during the day, but his mobility would be limited. He’d have to stay out of the sun. It would just be too dangerous to even try it. At this stage, he’s leading Mickey through to the tattoo parlour; the lights flick on, and in front of them is the checkered parquet floor and the 50s style get up; the benches shiny and red, the stools leather, the frames with the art in them gleaming as they hang on the walls.

”She runs the garage. I’ll show you that next. I run the tattoo parlour,” he says, gesturing to the space in front of them. There’s a proud gleam to his eyes. It’s like giving birth to a new baby, this establishment. Jesse has no idea of the kind of failure it might turn out to be.

”You’re going to take care of it for us, aren’t you Mickey? During the day, when neither of us are here. You’re going to book in appointments and keep the customers happy and informed. Serve them alcohol, if they want it. And you’ll keep your trap shut about anything you see or hear. You know nothing about what we are and what we do, if anyone asks, and you will tell no one about your predicament. You will seek no help. You will do your duties,” he says. Jesse shoves his hands into his pockets and saunters back out through the bar, separated from the parlour and the garage by glass. Lots of glass between the two, surrounding the bar and keeping the dust and toxins out. One could stand anywhere in Gresse’s and be able to see the other parts of it, keep an eye on the other parts of it, no hassles.

”I’m sure someone will have to clean this glass every day, too…” he says, tossing a wink in Mickey’s direction.