Slings and Arrows.

[Hamlet]

-


Tuesday October 24, 2012
12:25 PM
First encounter with Elliot Lancaster; North Catacombs.


Hamlet came back to the Catacombs, just like he had been doing before anything, before any incidents and before he had a plan. Hamlet went back to stalking around corners, testing his muscles and making sure each hit he attacked with, actually landed. (Because now, Hamlet played the good little boy. Because now, Hamlet had to.) Occasionally, he saw faces he knew or thought he knew, but he didn't really talk to them. He kept his lips down and his eyes focused on his targets. (And every time he pictured a different head in its place.) When he rounded a corner, he saw a sword just laying there. It was rusted, but he still wanted it, he couldn't resist the urge to just pick it up.

‹Lancaster› It wasn't often that Lancaster found himself in the dank depths of the catacombs, harbouring no grudge and venting no steam. The sword still clung inconspicuously to his back; he had not yet brandished it. Through the corners and around the halls he crept, doing his best to avoid drawing attention to himself. He'd come to enjoy collecting the old weaponry that could be found; even the swords that HAD to be more modern, maybe dropped by felled foe. Around another corner, and there it was - another rusted old relic. Lancaster strode toward it, only to be intercepted. Someone else had seen the weapon first. Lancaster stopped, and mumbled an apology. The other could have it - Lancaster had enough of the rusted kind.

Hamlet --like the greedy asshole he was--swiped up the sword despite its decay. He even tucked it away somewhere so that he wouldn't lose it--because dammit, he saw it first. "No," he said. "I'm sorry. I almost walked right into you," he added. (This was really starting to make him sick. He wasn't built for nice. He wasn't meant to play nice and every time he had to, he went home and screamed. Or he tore deeper into some innocent person's throat. He ripped and he pulled and he lashed out. Now, he'd even taken to killing animals out in the woods, daring one of the Fae to come after him again.)

Nyla she'd been playing with the demi-fae all day. They were fun to play with - a challenge. She'd only had one escape so far, and the wound from it had already healed. She was starting to get tired from constantly screaming at the jerks to listen, and figured it was time to call it quits. The catacombs were a good way to release tension. Monsters to kill - people to chase around when they stole her kills. No blood spatter to get all over her clothes like in the QZ or HG. Even so, she found herself just walking through the catacombs, not engaging anything – just watching. She turned a corner just in time to see a stranger stoop down to pick up a sword – a sword that another had obviously seen as well. That face looked familiar, and she found herself studying it, trying to remember where she’d seen it before.

Lancaster had been ready to move on. To walk straight past the stranger and continue on his meandering way. The way the guy swiped the object from the ground, however, with such haste, gave him pause. As did the guy's voice, his apology, so at odds with his harsh movements. Lancaster stopped to actually look at who he'd nearly run into. He'd never seen the guy before. But something...something was familiar. Like he'd seen that face painted in words, somewhere. The long hair - "I'm sorry but...I could be wrong. Hamlet?" he asked, tentatively.

Hamlet was probably going to keep going in the other direction, but he didn't. He stopped. He came to a full stop and slowly, started to stand taller. "Who's asking," he retorted. Just like all the times previous--with practically everyone--he didn't say his name, he didn't give out personal information and all he did was take.

Nyla lifted a brow at the two talking. She was close enough to hear, but with the craptastic lighting down here, they hadn't seemed to have seen her yet. A mischievous glint went through her aqua coloured eyes as she sheathed her blade, grabbing her water balloon launcher instead. Stooping down onto one knee - she took aim at the one she recognized from before. With a wide grin, she fired - launching a water balloon at the male.

‹Lancaster› And just like that - it didn't take much - Lancaster's mood swung from content to irritated. What was it with this goddamned place? There was no point in trying to be friendly. No point in greeting anyone with any kind of genuine curiosity. Sure, Lancaster knew that, if this were indeed Hamlet, the guy had had some problems lately. But there was no need to be so ******* rude. Lancaster was verge of telling to forget about it. Never mind. **** off. At that point, however, there was a whooshing sound, and in the next second he was saturated with ice-cold water - the blue, button-up shirt that he wore covered in a dark stain of water from the shoulder down, hair sticking to the side of his face. For a second, he was shocked into motionless silence. He stood straighter, eyes narrowed into the shadows. He could see a crouching figure, but could not see a face. "Alright. Who did that?"

Hamlet had (luckily) just been missed by the flying bulb of water, but just incase, he took another step back. If he wasn't the target, that meant less chance for him to be hit again. Getting wet really wasn't his thing.

Nyla had to resist the urge not to shoot again - choosing instead to put the launcher back up. Standing up to full height of 5'5, she took a step forward so she'd know they'd be able to see her. Her blonde hair was all over the place, with a dozen braids in random places. Her sweater and jeans had random tears in them from her fighting. Smirking at the drenched look of the male, she lifted an eyebrow again before answering in a quiet, sweet sounding voice. "That look suits you."

‹Lancaster› Hamlet had done nothing but step back. The crouching figure moved, came closer to reveal a petit blonde. And, just like that, Lancaster's irritation was set aside - washed away by the water that still dripped from his cheek, down his neck, into the fabric of his shirt. He wasn't about to fly off the handle due to a little water. He wasn't THAT unhinged. He may have been, once upon a time. Not anymore. "I think it would suit him, more," Lancaster said, gesturing to Hamlet - urging the blonde to saturate him, too. Just to see how he'd react.

Nyla grinned at the answer, wasting no time to pull the launcher back out. Pivoting on her heel, she was back down to one knee with the weapon aimed in the direction of the other male. One more second and she was firing - another balloon aiming in the direction of the person - Hamlet? That was the name she'd heard, anyway.

Hamlet gave a laugh, just one 'Ha' and waved his hand. "No thanks," he said, keeping his distance. He had bent over to pick up a sword that wouldn't even give him a fair payoff and now this. (THIS.) When he saw what's-her-face start to crouch back down, he waited, and then moved (Thank god for Celerity.) to the other side of the small room. He wasn't about to leave entirely, not when his name was floating around between faces he didn't know. "Watch it," he said from across the room. (He wanted to bark out a threat, but he was playing the good boy now, so, he didn't.)

Lancaster would never claim to be a psychologist, or even a mediocre philosopher. The way that Hamlet reacted to getting drenched, however, was a curious thing to witness. He avoided it, at all costs. And was unwilling to really have a laugh about it. There was a small, barked laugh, but nothing with genuine mirth. Lancaster offered the smallest of smirks, before turning back to the blonde. "Oh well, you tried," he said. He flicked the wet hair from his eyes before offering the blonde a hand in greeting. "Elliot Lancaster. And who might you be?" he asked. That was better - a person willing to offer a smile upon a first greeting, rather than hasty rudeness.

Hamlet was right to freeze as he did, because of who that was. He took that information with him when he turned around the corner and left that area of the catacombs.


-

[Hamlet]

-


Phone logs; Echo Meridian
Friday October 26, 2012
8:00 PM

Echo Meridian: *text* It's Friday...
Jameson Hamlet: [text] lol. i was just about 2 txt u. meet me outside necro in 5 min?
Echo Meridian: *text* Be there soon. Dress code?
Jameson Hamlet: [text] w/e u want



Friday October 26, 2012
8:04 PM
The Necropolis


Echo she slipped out of the shadows, fidgeting nervously. She was dressed in all black, an elegant cashmere sweater, fitted black slacks and heels that added three inches to her 5'3" frame. She'd left her flame red curls to hang at her waist and the smile she aimed at Jameson was nervous, her steps slow as she got closer.

Hamlet told her to meet him out in front of the Necropolis in five minutes, but time wasn't really a restriction for him. He stood in his apartment staring at an empty mirror for three minutes, waiting to see if his reflection might show up, but it didn't. It wouldn't. It was impossible. Hamlet only had to blink to find himself outside of the new Necropolis. (He hadn't lied to Pi when he told her he'd see her there every night, not counting them as part of his limited three days with her. Next friday would mark the first day.) He hadn't brushed his hair or smoothed it out, content to let it do whatever it wanted, which is usually what happened anyway. He had smelled her before he'd seen her. He'd felt her way before he'd seen her, even before the shadows gave way and birthed Echo Meridian. When she walked up to him, he didn't even say anything, just smiled and offered his arm. Tonight, they'd be that young and hip couple going out for a drink. (Tonight, they'd get to play someone's nightmare.) When they walked in, Hamlet's ears exploded with the sound of the live band, steering he and Echo to the right away from where the music was blaring. Hamlet bent down and whispered into her ear, over the bright red hair: "Tell me when you see them."

Echo linked her arm through is and tried to relax, but nerves made a faint tremor slide through her body as she paced beside him. The blair of the music caused her to press close to his side, flinching away from the noise, she tilted her head slightly to hear his whisper and her lips frowned down slightly. "See whom?" she whispered back.

Hamlet wanted to laugh, but he smiled instead. "Someone you want," he clarified, parading her through the cluster of people that were already there. Eight in the evening struck and Necropolis found itself full of willing customers. (After all, wasn't that a service that they provided?)

Echo crinkles her nose and presses closer, the crowd was suffocating to her and she kept looking around. "You mean... you want me to choose... like they are a side of... of... beef?"

Hamlet had more work to do than he thought. "Not a side," he mumbled back. "The main course," he said, finally leading her over to a booth. He took her hand out from his arm and held it until she was sitting down. "You've got to have a preference," he said after he sat down across from her.

Echo slid in to the booth and looked around with dark, hooded eyes. "I don't... I've never really done this before..."

Hamlet adjusted himself so that his left fist held his head and the elbow of the same hand slid right up against his right hand. He smiled across the booth at her and then looked out. People were walking around, dancing, singing from their tables, laughing from their booths, oblivious to their fates. (Whoever was lucky enough.) "Use your instincts," he coached.

Echo watched him, then the crowd, nails tapping lightly on the polished wood surface of the table they sat at, eyes roving over the choices. "It's... there's so many people. How do you whittle them down?"

Hamlet looked away from the crowd and back to her. "It's the same process of finding someone that you're attracted to. If you don't have a preference, just pick one," he said, lifting his hand from the table so he could gesture out.

Echo sighs quietly and narrows her eyes, finally pointing to a young man who looked to be in his late 20's with short dark hair and a clean shaven face "That one I guess."

Hamlet sat back in his seat and dropped his hand down to lay flat on the table. "Go get him," he said, lacing his fingers together.

‹Echo› Go... get him? How? I'm not an allurist.

‹Hamlet› No, but you're a predator. You're a woman and you're beautiful. Go get him.

Echo stares at him and blinks "I.. uh... thanks?" She mumbled and slid quickly from the booth, bustling away towards her target, unsure of what to say or how to do this.

Hamlet watched her from the moment she stuttered in the booth to when she got up and started to walk over towards her pick. The guy was human, which was a start, but Hamlet hadn't been expecting to work with a virgin.

Echo talked to herself quietly as she approached the guy "You can do this..." she whispered softly "You've turned people... you can do this." She blinked and it was like a mask slipped over her face. She flashed a bright smile at her intended target and touched his arm as she approached, offering to buy him a drink.

Hamlet ignored everyone else in the bar except for Echo and whatever poor chump she picked out. Whether she went through with it or not, Hamlet was going to see that she had that guy, but he really wanted her to do it. He really wanted to see what she would be bringing to the table, his table.

Echo touched the man's arm, engaging in small talk, she smiled so much her cheeks hurt and leaned in to him as they spoke. Business tricks she'd learn to lull some one in to complacency and make them relax.

Hamlet kept staring and waiting, watching and counting the seconds that turned into minutes.

Echo finally tilted her head and invited him to the table, the human following rather willingly and she was surprised that she had managed to lure him back with her.

Hamlet pushed his tongue hard to the back of his teeth, watching as the two of them approached the table instead of going off. He had been ready to follow, but for now, he wasn't moving. "Hey man," he said when the guy got closer. "What are you drinking," he asked, grabbing the attention of one of the waitresses walking around. Hamlet ordered them a round of whatever the **** what's-his-name wanted and then went silent again. This was, after all, Echo's show.

Echo's eyes darted to Hamlet's, silently asking for help as she slid in to the booth with a guy who's name she didn't even know, giving a nervous smile as she waited, clueless. She hadn't fed yet, but nerves were making her appetite vanish.

Hamlet couldn't coach this part along. He was a firm believer in struggling through to learn your own way, so he sat there, smiled and watched the pair of them across from him. "Well," the human said, clearly grateful that their drinks had arrived so that the silence seemed less awkward. Hamlet almost laughed.

Echo cleared her throat and glanced at Hamlet before looking at the human and smiled warmly "I'm um... not sure what to do, really." she said it to Hamlet, though she was watching the human.

Hamlet didn't mess with his drink, just like Echo left hers alone. He nudged it to the side and leaned in towards the guy. "My girl really likes you," he said, then laughed. "Asked if we could have someone join us," Hamlet added, raising both of his eyebrows. The guy was silent for a minute, glancing between Echo and Hamlet. "Yeah man," he said, hunger written clear across his eyes. (It was too bad the guy had to die, Hamlet needed someone with hunger.) The human downed the rest of his drink, grabbed some of Hamlet's and then stood back up. "Lead the way," he said, which made Hamlet laugh. Hamlet didn't grab Echo's hand or arm, just started walking back out towards the entrance to Necropolis, but he knew that Echo and the human were following him. He knew that they followed him outside and down roads until the crowd dwindled to hardly anyone. That's when Hamlet started to slow. "Not too much further," he assured the guy.

Echo was startled when Hamlet took the lead, not so much that he took the lead but with what he used to tempt the guy. It was a great ploy and she wished she'd thought of it herself. Following quietly, her shoes made a rapid stacatto on the ground, eyes trained firmly on the human's back as the little group started to slow down.

Hamlet turned around and still, Echo hadn't taken the initiative; still, she did nothing but watch and wait. This wasn't Hamlet's lesson, this was hers, but he grabbed the guy anyway. He pushed him face first into the facade of a building and looked over at her. "Do it," he commanded.

Echo was startled by his actions and moved almost automatically, standing on her toes to reach the humans neck, she sank her fangs in to his flesh, trying for gentle, and she succeeded until that first fresh drop hit her tongue. She made a sound low in her throat and a hand moved to the humans hair, jerking his head to the side so she could dig her fangs in deeper.

Hamlet watched the monster take over--finally!--and when it seemed like Echo had a good hold on the guy, he let go and stepped back. He wasn't going to do this for someone again. He wasn't going to hold their hands while they jumped, but just this once, he gave it a try. "Keep going," he mumbled. He was waiting and waiting for that final drop, for her to take it all, for her to really lose it.

Echo fed hungrily, the blood flowing freely down her throat, she forced the human to his knees and dug her fangs in deeper still, growling low in her throat as she clung to her meal. She couldn't think of him as a human any more. He was dinner and she was savoring every drop as she pulled it from him, feeling his heart rate begin to slow.

Hamlet watched and waited. He was still hoping that the monster would be born, that maybe she'd go again, that maybe something magical would happen.

Echo pulled away and let the human slump over, he was dead and soon the body would begin to cool. She looked up at Hamlet, her eyes pitch black and she licked the last of the blood off her lips, watching him intently.

Hamlet smiled. Finally, he moved towards her, crouched down in front of her and then held her face. He smoothed the back of his hand over the top of her head, then caught a few drops of blood on her chin with his thumb. "Another," he asked.

Echo turned her head slightly and caught his thumb lightly, licking the blood clean of his skin before looking at him again with a small shake of her head, her hands linking behind his neck to keep him from moving. "No thank you."

Hamlet pushed his thumb over her lips, smiled and then stood the both of them up. "Pick me one," he said.


-

[Hamlet]

-


Saturday October 27, 2012
11:25 PM
Second encounter with Robert Pratt.



‹Robert Pratt› "Evening Hamlet. How are you tonight?" He smiled at the man, banking the cash he'd robbed.

Hamlet counted the rest of his money, handed it to the machine teller and then watched the numbers on the screen. "You tell me," he said.

‹Robert Pratt› "I'm afraid I'm not a telepath, so I don't know how you are. Are you having an issue knowing your own mind?" He took his banking slip and thanked the teller before looking back to the man with concern.

Hamlet still stared at the screen. ('Do you want your receipt? Yes No' Hamlet picked 'yes' and then waited for it to print out. He glanced at the slip of paper, then tucked it into his wallet, which then went into his back pocket. When he turned around, he had a smile already on. "No, no. The book you gave me to read is really--" he stopped, using his hands to explain. "Eye opening," he said.

‹Robert Pratt› His face immediately brightened, despite the statement making no sense with regards to the rest of the conversation they'd just started. However, he didn't care - they were onto The Illuminated Texts and that made him happy. "Oh! You read it! How's it going and what do you think?"

Hamlet moved out of the way of the machine teller so that the woman behind him could get to it. He crossed his arms over his chest and started to walk away, moving slowly until Pratt got the hint to follow. "I'm about halfway through. Took me awhile to put it down," he said, when in truth, he hadn't even given the book a second glance once it landed on the coffee table in his living room. Mick had stared at it, made some noise with her throat and then it was forgotten. "I've never read anything like it," he said, honestly.

‹Robert Pratt› He'd followed the man automatically, because you did when you were conversing with someone. He grinned as he heard what Hamlet said about the Texts and nearly did a gay man clap over it all. "Tell me what you thought - what spoke to you and what could you relate to?"

Hamlet had expected this to come up, but he already had an answer prepared. "All of this," he gesturing around them. "This heavy, heavy darkness. Killing, turning, it's wrong. I don't know how to repent for it," he said. "For turning Mick or Lydie," he said, stopping then. "How do you repent for turning Madison," he asked--because he only knew about Madison.

‹Robert Pratt› He frowned at the man, not sure where in the Texts it made mention that turning people was wrong. Sure, they were open to interpretation and he racked his brain to think of what Hamlet might have interpreted in such a way. "I wouldn't say I was wrong for turning Madison. I was saving her from the Darkness she was enveloped in from before - I see that now even if she might not. I do not regret turning any of my childre.... But it is interesting that you regret turning yours. Tell me, how did their turnings happen. Was it in anger and Darkness?"

Hamlet stopped walking. He even uncrossed his arms. "You don't think it's monstrous to DAMN someone else to this," he asked. His voice had dropped down from a normal talking level and his eyebrows had gone up to his hairline. "No, no," he said, as if his world was starting to shatter. "You have to see that as an act of just pure evil, pure monster, pure -darkness-," he said, rubbing his chin. "How many times," he asked, as if he were afraid to hear the number.

‹Robert Pratt› "Not at all. This life could be amazing, could be so beneficial to so many people. The aid we can give, the knowledge we can impart, the skills we can utilise. It is the Darkness within and around people that causes this life to be so hellish. It is the Darkness we fight against and try to lift people out of so they may feel the joy and enlightenment while realising their potential. Don't think about the chains that Mircea has bound you with, the things you have seen and experienced. See the potential of what we 'could' be!" He smiled and then shook his head in confusion. "How many times what?"

Hamlet couldn't believe it--both outwardly and inwardly. "Huh," he said, making sure to bookmark that information for later. He knew--he just knew!--it would be important later. "How many have you damned of course," he said, practically exhausted already. (Only exhausted from holding in the laughter, from a mini celebration at getting an entire leg into the door.) Again, he rubbed his hand over his face while his eyebrows worried themselves.

‹Robert Pratt› "Ahhh. I have turned 7 people through various means and one who turned herself. Though as I said - I do not believe it is damning them."

Hamlet's hand fell down to his side. "Seven," he repeated, one eyebrow rising higher. "Maybe you should study the text again," Hamlet said. "I have to go. I can feel my child. She needs me," he said before Celerity sent him home, just outside of his apartment door. He keyed in, opened it and then stared at Mick.


-

[Hamlet]

-


Tuesday November 6, 2012
7:36 PM
Third encounter with Robert Pratt.



Robert was, quite frankly, rubbish at tracking. He'd attempted it a couple of times but to no avail so he'd decided to use logic instead and just went round to the man's house. He reached the door and just as he'd done last time, he knocked firmly on the door, stepping back to wait for an answer.


The television was on. It was almost always on. What was playing didn't matter and never mattered. Mindlessly, Hamlet (And sometimes Mick.) sat on the sofa with the view of everything Harper Rock behind them. The television blinked blues and bright whites on the window and their faces.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Hamlet stared at the door. Mick didn't knock because she had a key. He refrained from calling out and asking who it was, sliding his weight carefully onto his right foot.
Soundlessly, he made it to the door, closing just his left eye so he could look out the peephole.
He practically laughed.
Hamlet gathered himself, stepped back, unlocked the deadbolt and the door knob and opened the door enough for his body to casually stand between his apartment and the hallway.
"How can I help you," he asked, his lips pulling up in a smile.


Robert didn't fully smile, just offered a slight pturn of his lips that in no way reached his eyes. "What's going on Hamlet? I don't understand. Why are you 'transforming'" His hands went up to either side of his head as he made bunny rabbit ears with his fingers, having not actually heard of the power to transform into another until an hour or so ago "into me, Lancaster and Mick to attack a human caled Jeff? Who is Jeff and what's he ever done to you?" He stood there waiting, obvious hurt and distrust on his face as he stared into the man's eyes, studying his face intently.


Hamlet's eyebrows furrowed like he was confused. His lips pushed out and he leaned harder onto the doorjamb.
"What do you mean," he paused so that he could make air-quotes too. "'Transforming'," he asked. His right hand returned to the doorknob and left up to the doorjamb.


"I.... don't know. I've been told it's a power...." He tried to think of the name she'd said, his face furrowed in a frown as he thought it over. "Changeling maybe? Does that mean anything? I've been shown your memories, but I don't understand."


Hamlet's bottom lip nudged up into his top—still in confusion. He shook his head.
"No. It really doesn't," he said. He was quiet for a second, even glancing down towards their feet—Robert's shoes and his bare.
He looked back up quickly, his eyebrows arched and high. "Is it possible for someone else to plant fake memories," he asked. "Or a—" he struggled for the word. "Telepath to manipulate minds like that?"


"I....." He frowned a little and shrugged. He REALLY should get to know the other powers out there and not just go with the ones he had experienced himself. He thought about it for a moment and then smiled. "I know a few people I can ask, certainly. So you're saying you don't know a Jeff and you never changed into me?" He frowned, thinking of Mick as well and wondering if he should send her a text to let her know what was being said about her sire.


Hamlet nodded.
"Ask about that first," he suggested. "If that's not the case…" he said, his sentence falling off. "Is it possible for me to be going around and doing things without my knowledge," he asked. "I don't ever remember doing that," he said. "Changing," he added for clarification.
Then, as if a sudden thought had struck him (A thought he had clambered onto almost instantly.) he looked Robert right in the eye. "Has anyone else been hurt? By the same circumstances?"


"I've got a few more messages to send and questions to ask. I'll certainly add that onto the list to see if it's possible for telepaths to do. But what do you mean anyone else and the same circumstances? I don't understand."


"To 'Jeff'," he asked, adding air-quotes around the name. "Are there anymore 'Jeff's'," he asked.


"I.... don't know. Why don't you contact Kainai? She's the one who told me this - she's working for Grigori and Wendigo I think. Searching memories to see what's what. And as she's a telepath, perhaps she can help with your questions too." He grinned widely, thinking he'd helped. Afterall, the man had seemed quite clueless.... or more so than usual. So Robert didn't suspect him for a second.


Hamlet pushed his hair out of his face, hanging his head like a scolded child. He nodded, took a step back into his apartment and then stopped.
He looked back up at Robert.
"Can I ask you a favor?"


He saw the man stepping into the apartment again so had stepped back, as if to head for the lift when the voice had come again. "Mmm?"


"Could you—" he paused, shoulders slumping. "Could you see that no one talks to Mick before I do? I don't want her to worry," he said.
Hamlet rubbed his throat.
"She's all I got," he mumbled, as if he were a drunk father afraid to lose his little girl.


He nodded his head, reaching out to give the man's shoulder a squeeze to comfort and reassure him. "Of course. I'll make sure she doesn't worry about anything. It's fine." He nodded and removed his hand, making the sign of the Light to him before turning and walking into the lift that someone else had just exited. "Take care Hamlet. It will all be fine." As the doors closed on him, he pulled his phone out and sent Mick a text to tell her what he and Hamlet had just discussed so that she wouldn't worry and all would be well.


Hamlet shut the door after the elevator doors closed and even after he knew Pratt was down in the lobby, he didn't move.
That ****** couldn't have gotten out. So, how'd they find out?
Hamlet slowly turned towards the computer room door that was at his right. Mick wouldn't be home for another hour at least and in the meantime, he was going to show Jeff how hard he—JAMESON HAMLET—could punch.



-

[Hamlet]

-

Alert: Kainai sent you a telepathic message:
"What is your relationship with the human called Jeff?"


Phone logs; Kainai
Tuesday November 6, 2012
7:53 PM

Jameson Hamlet: [text] do u speak n minds??
kokothehunter: *to his mind* Yes. *she remembers him from when he was alone with Nix in the catacombs that night.*
Jameson Hamlet: [text] i dont. did u just do it?? 1 min ago
kokothehunter: Yes. I asked you about Jeff the human.
Jameson Hamlet: [text] just talked 2 robert. told him all i know.
kokothehunter: You may want to tell me too. You changed into several vampires and attacked Jeff, but you both shared your identities with one another as well. This puzzles me.
Jameson Hamlet: [text] share ids?
kokothehunter: Yes. You exchanged identitites, and then you used Changeling to turn into various vampires, after which you attacked Jeff.
Jameson Hamlet: [text] 2 much 2 repeat in txt. ok 2 call?
kokothehunter: Yes. My number is *gives him her number through telepathy*


Phone conversation; Kainai
Tuesday November 6, 2012
8:04 PM


Hamlet stared at his phone for awhile because, he already had her number. He had been texting her. (Maybe that was the thing with 'Telepaths'. They couldn't tell up from down.)
He scratched his scalp, found her contact (Which he had already saved into his phone.) and dialed.


Hello. *she sounds reserved and shy over the phone.*


"Hey," he said into his phone. He was still staring at the door that Robert had been behind just ten minutes ago.
"Robert told me to ask you—because he doesn't know—is it possible for fake memories to be added into my head? Or, things manipulated," he asked.
He didn't sound so strong and sure as when they met back in the catacombs, he sounded legitimately confused.


"I don't know," she admitted quietly, confused by his confusion and a little concerned.


Hamlet was silent on his side, moving his lips even though no words came out. Then, he found it; his voice.
"I don't remember doing those things," he whispered, like he was afraid.


Ruth was quiet on her end too. She had never been good with phone conversations or men, so combined they almost made her want to run and hide. "...Oh."
"And yesterday you did not use your changeling power to change into Lancaster?"


Hamlet was still silent. He was even furrowing his eyebrows despite the fact she couldn't see his face.
"I don't remember," he whispered.


"That's impossible," Ruth said, sounding slightly alarmed.


He shook his head. "But I don't remember," he said again, but he was speaking to a dial tone.

[Hamlet]

-


Tuesday November 6, 2012
11:43 PM
Mick and Hamlet's apartment.


He would be there, and she knew it. Every pore of her skin, every fine hair on her body told her so with little crackles of energy the closer she got.

It was the first time she didn't actually want to find him. The pads of her fingers curled against the cellphone's screen until she thought it might break. When she slid the key of the door into the lock, she paused before twisting it and letting herself in. It was always locked, anymore. Even if they were inside, it was locked.

For two nights in a row, about three weeks ago, he'd said, "Lock it behind you." And his look warned that she'd better.

Blood matted her hair, dried to her skin, and stained her clothes, making it difficult to 'blend in' the entire walk back to the apartment. As if she cared. As if she did anything but walk, zombiefied, to where Hamlet was.

The door didn't close behind her, even though Mick weakly nudged it to do so. "Hamlet..." She started, staring at the carpet of the living room and the blurry shapes playing across the window from the television screen. He was there on the sofa, lounging and not paying attention to the screen, as usual, and she could see him in her peripherals, but refused to look. When she did, finally choking up that reoccurring anger, her eyes deadlocked. "What happened to him."

Hamlet knew she would come home and he preferred sooner than later. Some sick part of him wanted her to catch him beating in her human husband's face. (Actually, more than just a little part wanted that to happen.) But he knew she wouldn't come home until hours later. He had plenty of time to dish out punishment to the guilty, lie to more than one idiot and take Jeff back home.

Maybe, the thing that made him the most gleeful was some sort of twisted notoriety he gained from this. Someone--more than just one--had been watching him. 'Good,' he thought.

Hours had passed by before Mick even got home and when she did walk through the door, he was ready. He was ready the minute Pratt came knocking on his door about it. He hadn't expected this to happen, but he was ready.

Hamlet stretched both of his legs out until his bare toes curled, then, he pulled his legs back and sat up taller, moved towards the edge of the sofa.

"I don't know," he said, both of his eyebrows worrying towards the center. His lips bunched up and pursed, like he was concerned and truly, he had to believe that he was.

"He said I attacked him. He said I HURT him," she asserted. She couldn't hold the heat of her anger. It was gone the moment her voice cracked for the first time since leaving Jeff.

"He said that we fed on him?!" Her voice hitched in tone at the end, dimples forming above her eyebrows as they creased. The stalks of her legs felt as though they were trembling, even though she'd just fed [and fed, and fed]. She'd never seen someone so physically beaten before in her life. The swell of his face made her want to puke just standing there, thinking about it.

Hamlet moved towards the very edge of the sofa. The television, though on, was going completely unnoticed. Hamlet's shoulders started to hunch and his elbows met the tops of his knees, then, his fingers laced. Not once had he dropped that concerned expression or even closed his mouth. (It was a gesture to show that he was speechless and in just as much shock as she was.)

"That's what Robert said," he replied when she stopped talking. In contrast to her near guttural yells, he was speaking softly. He held the voice of a broken man. He even broke eye contact with her to survey something just to the left of her. And when he looked back into her eyes, his bottom lip remained hanging from his top.

"I told him I didn't remember. Kainai was talking in my head," he added. "You remember her," he asked--he knew she would. "She asked questions and I told her the same thing. I don't remember," he said.

His arm had been broken, cradled against his ribs at all times. When his free hand had to move away for anything, she could tell it hurt. The expression in his face, the way his eyes reflected the pain of it...God, she could practically feel it herself.

It must have been the anger to kick up the adrenaline. The anger, or the emotional pain. He screamed at her, he moved as though his body was fine, but it wasn't. The heel of her shoe kicked the door behind her, slamming it shut.

"Did you, or didn't you." She demanded. He was only human. He was only one man. Jeff's body could only accept so much before it finally just...gave out. Jeff couldn't heal like she could. He couldn't perform like she could.

"Because I didn't. That's not something you just forget! I would remember feeding on my own ******* hus--" Her voice gave out, made her release the ragged breath that it previously carried on. "...My own husband."

She could have collapsed, therefore she didn't move at all. In that one moment, her rage plummeted to give way to something else entirely; something desperate. "...I wouldn't do that to him. I stopped. I didn't go there. I was doing so good and not...going there. I didn't..."

Hamlet waited until she had finished everything. Somewhere, in the very bottom of him, buried under all the overpowering and overwhelming confusion he was 'feeling', a match lit and happiness exploded. When her anger flared up for the second time like that, he was gleeful. And when she dropped her anger like a anvil on her foot, his throat tightened in pure ecstasy.

"Mick," he said, still in the voice of a man who had lost everything. "Mick," he repeated a second later, waiting for them to lock eyes again. When she did look at him, the corners of his lips fell.

"You know I wouldn't. Jeff has nothing to do with Robert. At all," he confirmed. "Robert is the only one we want to hurt--the only one I want to hurt. I swear to you," he said, worrying his eyebrows inward again.

The living room was off limits to her body. It was as though an invisible field prevented her from crossing a certain line and getting too close to him. But, that would have been anyone. Jeff, Lancaster, Hamlet, her mother or father. Anyone could've been sitting exactly where he was, and she would've wanted to be anywhere else.

Instead, she moved into the useless tiny kitchen and stood over the sink, setting her hands to either side of it, just as Jeff had when she first saw him [his back all stained pink and brown with a small shirt covering bruises she knew where there].

"Would you...Would you transform into me?" Not once had she heard that before, in her life. Since when could vampires mimic other vampires? She'd seen him grow fur, though, and stalk around on four legs with a snout. The cut in her shoulder had healed, but her clothing was still torn. "Why are you being accused of transforming into people, Hamlet."

Hamlet didn't move except for his eyes to follow where she walked. With her back to him, his eyes hardened for a single second. One moment and then they were back.

"They say I did it," he replied honestly. "But I don't remember being you or Lancaster or God forbid, Robert Pratt."

How could Pratt have known that, anyway? Who exactly was accusing her Maker of turning into someone else, and how did they come to that conclusion? What proof did they have to suspect Hamlet, specifically? They hadn't talked to Jeff, except that one woman [the same woman that would walk away missing half her face if Mick ever caught her sniffing around Jeff again].

He gave plenty of reason for her to suspect. Jeff was so certain it was her, so someone had to be doing it. Why were they saying Hamlet? She just stood there, staring into the metal belly of the sink that was never used.

Hamlet waited for her to respond, whether physically or with more words or yelling. He still hadn't moved from the sofa and he didn't bother to mute the television or turn it off; that would show that his entire attention wasn't on her and the serious nature of what she was coming to him with, so, he left it alone.

"Can we really do that?" She finally spoke up, but didn't move. She just stared at the open drain and the complete dryness to the surface. The crest of her nails were dark with grit shoved under them, fingers flattened against the counter.

"Can we even transform into people?..." The sudden thought that struck her almost made her stomach bottom out. Her expression shifted from a bothered confusion to a sickening suspicion, but she didn't look at him. And god forbid she'd have to speak, or she'd simply break apart and shatter on the tile floor.

"I don't know," he said in that same, smooth voice.

"They said I did," he repeated and paused, as if the words were stuck in his throat. He stared at her back for a long time until he finally spoke up. "But I don't remember. I would have told you," he said.

"If it just happened or if I found out a way," he added.

Hamlet was the only other vampire to know about Jeff. She never said his name to anyone else. No one else even knew she was married, since her wedding ring was moved to her right hand instead of her left. She never mentioned it to the whole of two people she's spoken to.

No one knew...Except him.

No one else knew that she even knew a human named Jeff, or would think to transform into her...

Her knuckles tensed while her fingers curled. That anger came back, tenfold. It was on her tongue and in her mind, that blantant 'You're a ******* liar, Hamlet.' The other half of her refused to believe it, and would fight to the death about it.

Mick just ******* stared. He wouldn't lie to her. She was his child...She was the one he slept beside, every day, and the one he asked to go with him, even when he didn't need her. She was his Mick, and Hamlet wouldn't lie to her.



-

[Hamlet]

-



Thursday November 8, 2012
10:07 PM
South Catacombs; Kainai



Kainai saw him in the catacombs and nods.

Hamlet held his head like a beaten dog.

"Are you alright?"

He rubbed the side of his face and stood close to his wall. "Got tired," he said.

"Me too," she said and leaned against the wall beside him.

He cut his eyes over to her several times in the span of long, silent minutes before he spoke up. "Where are you from," he asked.

"The Blackfoot Indian reservation," she explained, knowing she looked different in bone structure and skin tone even if she usually dressed like a normal woman.

He nodded his head. "Plains Cree," he said. "From Perth," he added. Maybe that's what didn't flare up the hatred in him so quickly, that they shared a common link in something.

She nodded, their ancestors had fought but that was all meaningless now. If her grandfather was here he would have said something to that effect, anyway. Meeting another First Nation vampire created mixed emotions; she was gladdened but homesick. "You must miss your family."

The left corner of Hamlet's lips twisted up. "I just saw my mom," he said. "About a week ago. She's still in Perth," he offered. Nearly a week ago, he had gone on his first of three free days with Pi to see his mother. It didn't even feel like a week had almost passed.

Ruth had a feeling that she should keep that to herself. She had been traumatized as a fledgeling by a murderous vampire, now gone, who had assured her he would make her suffer if she ever went to visit her family again. Some vampires were militant about the masquerade. It must have been beautiful, though, to be reunited with his mother. "That must have been beautiful," she repeated out loud.

"It was magical," he said. "Pi came with me," he added for random, blissful information. Under no circumstances did he know that Kainai had any relationship to or with Pi. He didn't even know that Kainai was Grigori, somewhere down the line of his own Maker, Mircea.

Ruth nodded again. "Some would call that dangerous," she said carefully, wanting him to be mindful of who he told. "They are afraid of humans."

Hamlet's eyebrows furrowed and he turned full to look at her. Not even his hair got in the way of looking at her. "Who is," he asked—genuine confusion.

"Nobody important." That man was dead now. "But there are others who say we mustn't reveal ourselves to humans. It's called the masquerade. It is dangerous to consort with humans." That was the most sentences she has said in a long time.

The masquerade, Hamlet knew about. He remembered talking to Mick about it, telling her that she couldn't go back to Jeff, but he was just trying to use it as a scare tactic. He didn't want her to go back. Even at that early stage of their bond—the earliest—he wanted to keep her as his only. "Oh yeah," he said, his face relaxing again.

"I won't tell," Ruth assured him. If he was good with Pi, he was good with her. Pi was her only sister, there from the beginning, and they were sireless together.

'I won't tell,' she said. It made Hamlet look at her, really look at her. His hand reached around towards the back of his pants and pulled out a knife, one of the small ones he had just picked up from around the catacombs.

"Swear on it," he said seriously. After all, she was the one who was going around telling people he was attacking a human as Mick, Robert Pratt and Lancaster.

Nodding, she carefully took the knife from him. She had never sworn a blood oath before even though she was from the Kainai-the blood faction of the Blackfoot Tribe."I, Ruth Tabitha Sorrel Mare, swear that I won't tell anyone that you and my sister went to see your mother.." The woman's brown eyes closed and she winced when she cut into her palm and let some of the blood drip down her wrist.

Hamlet watched the blood bubble up and drip down her arm. (It wasn't black.) He watched her face when she spoke and then, he took the short knife back and cut a diagonal line across his own palm. He wiped the blade off on his jeans, stuck it back in the little sheath hanging from his jeans and then held his hand out for her to take.

She took his hand and shook it, staring into his eyes honestly like her father had taught her to do whenever an oath was to be made. It was her very first blood oath and she intended to honor it. Her palm sure did sting against his though.

The muscles in his jaw tensed when their palms met—he felt that too—but he gave her hand a good one-two shake and then pulled free. Soon enough, it would heal back over anyhow. A few hours at the most and he'd be good as new.

"Good," he said. "Thank you," he added, taking a step back to his spot on the wall. "I'm going to rest a little," he said.

Ruth nodded and leaned againstthe wall beside him, closing her eyes and resting as well. In the distance an ancient zombie roared, but she paid it no mind.


-

[Hamlet]

-



Monday November 12, 2012
11:27 PM
Second meeting with Lizzie Llewellyn.


She had a long stressful few days. Robert and his rituals were being to weigh on her and now this new threat to their relationship made her plan ahead for the 'what if'. She was scared that the Demi-Fae would chose her and make them start over. With a soft sigh, she slipped out of the apartment at Solace without waking him. She needed to hide more of her copied journal around and give them to people that she trusted. She pulled out her phone for the first time in ages and found Hamlet's number. She refused to send him a telepathic message this night for some reason, though she wanted to see him. Maybe he could help. 'Hamlet...it is Lizzie. I was wondering if we could meet up. I could use the company of a friendly face.'


The days had gone by and he hadn't heard anymore. Not from Robert. Not from Madison. Not from Kainai. Even he and Mick moved out of their old apartment after he found a cabin tucked away in the woods for them.

Every passing day he grew more and more paranoid. Now, not only had he put a security camera—points for finding the auction!—in their cabin, but a rigged one in the old apartment and a hidden trap.

He sat on the floor of the cabin—because he had yet to furnish it—and thought. He was slowly spinning his phone around in his hand, staring at the door across from him. Occasionally, he'd get up and go sit on the floor in front of the computer and browse. (He was learning.)

[Text from: UNKNOWN] Hamlet… it is Lizzie. I was wondering if we could meet up. I could use the company of a friendly face.

Hamlet couldn't stop smiling—then laughing—when he responded.
[Text from: Hamlet] Sure! Great to hear from you. Was starting to think you weren't going to call. ;)


he had just reached the transit station when the reply came through. She smiled at the bright and happy words on her phone. Quickly her fingers moved across the keys, occasionally fixing spelling errors as she was not used to actually using her phone. 'I am sorry that I had not called sooner. Things had gotten busy with buying a new place in West Tower and the construction of the Solace building. Where would you like to meet?'


[Text from: Lizzie] I am sorry that I had not called sooner. Things had gotten busy with buying a new place in West Tower and the construction of the Solace building. Where would you like to meet?'
—
Lizzie lived in West Towers? He definitely didn't like that. Hamlet was more than glad his paranoia was actually living up. He was glad he listened to his own inner dialogue and from now on, this only strengthened anymore thoughts he might suffer from paranoia.
—
[Text from: Hamlet] We can meet anywhere. I'm out and around.
—
He had lied. He was sitting on the floor of his new cabin without his shoes on.


She thought for a moment and came to a conclusion. Without thinking, she replied with a telepathic message this time out of shear habit. "Fantastic. Umm...we can meet at the Necro like he had last time. If I remember correctly, there are a few booths. Maybe that was the Met...bollocks...I do not remember now."


Hamlet grabbed his head and quickly dropped his phone. It clattered against the floor and bounced around until it settled. Lizzie wasn't exactly yelling, but it surprised him—and he hated it. He hated Telepaths.

When her voice stopped echoing in his head, he carefully picked his phone back up, opened it up to her message and started typing.
—
[Text from: Hamlet] That's fine. Be there in a second. 
—
He stared at his feet, shut his phone and forced himself to stand. Mick wasn't home yet. He just barely stepped into his shoes, started to walk towards the door and then disappeared. He moved too fast. The Necropolis smiled down at him with it's warm light and happy vibe. He hated it.

He walked back towards a booth that she talked about, didn't see her yet and waited.


Smiling at the reply only to frown when she realized that her message was missing. She forgot to send him the physical message. She groaned silently as she hoped that she didn't cause him harm. Rushing off the train, she was just a few blocks away from the Necro and she ran. Slipping in the door and looked around. There he was in a booth. Nodding her head politely to those that she passed until she slipped in across from him. "Hello. I hope I did not keep you waiting."


He smelled her the minute she walked in the door. He heard her, the way she moved, the way her bones practically creaked; the way he could taste that smile of hers.

His head turned the second he knew she was there and he smiled. He put on his best show, he put away all the negativity and he smiled. "Noo," he said, waving his hand at her. He adjusted how he was sitting on his side of the booth and laced his fingers on top of the table.

"How are you," he asked.


He looked just as stunning as he did the first night they met and that brilliant smile. It was good to see that he was doing well but her made sure to keep her abilities in check. There was no need to use them anyway, he was always genuine with her. "Oh I am glad. I missed the first train and had to wait." She rested her purse next to her and slipped off her jacket before she turned her attention to him though she replied to his question. "I actually have been well. Well at least for the most part anyway." She let a soft frown show for only a mere second, she had to keep her thoughts positive. "I have been working with contractors for our home in West Towers. Now, I just need to track down decorators after compiling all the ideas for each room." She smiled and looked him in the eyes. "How have you been, Hamlet?"


Hamlet thought a little longer on this, on how to answer. He wanted to give her the right answer, which was just the answer she wanted to hear.

"Worried," he said, glancing away from her face to his linked fingers on top of the table.

"I haven't heard anymore about whatever mixup happened a week ago," he said. "I guess that's a good thing," he asked.

He was going to save her troubles for later, when he could really bite into her throat and drink from the fount.


Her eyes tried to read his emotions but without her using her abilities, she was just as good as that of a human trying to guess what is going on in anothers head. As he spoke, he looked concerned. Carefully, she placed a hand upon his as he looked away from her. "I actually think that is fantastic news. It means that you and everyone involved is safe. There is nothing to worry about now."


Her hand felt like fire on his, like he had just dipped his skin in acid and now it was peeling away, but he didn't move.

"I hope so," he said. He let the silence hang there, he let it fill up their booth and the air around them. He waited for it to get thick and heavy before he carefully looked up at her.

"Tell me about you instead," he said. "For the most part," he repeated what she said earlier.


She felt concern and worry for him. There was much that had happened and yet he was here with no incident since or at least from what she had heard. A soft reassuring smile was given as she squeezed his hand at his words before pulling her hand back to rest in her lap with the other. One must always remain proper and polite. The silence was odd and it gave her an uneasy feeling but then again it was possible that it was because she was on edge about what Robert had told her the other night with his rituals. She thought over his words for a moment and then smiled. "What would you like to know? I will tell you anything."


That was just too good to be true and Hamlet knew better than to bite the hand that was feeding.

Hamlet smiled, pulled his hands slowly back across the table towards him, near the edge and rolled his shoulders back. He sat up taller, less hunched—the confidence she had given him from her encouraging words!

"No, no," he said. "Not everything. What's the new apartment all about," he asked. "Old one smell funny," he asked, trying to make a joke.


Her mind had began to slip. Thinking of Robert and the fact that she really ought to have left him a note in case he woke up. No, he would be fine as he trusted her and she would talk with him later. She mentally shook the thoughts from her mind as she shifted to get a little more comfortable. She began to play with the fringe on her scarf as she shook her head at his playful joke. "No...nothing like that. I still have that place at Beta. It is a great place and I have had it for well over a year. It is close to my sire when I want to be close to her but I have taken a significant other and I wanted a place that was fresh, free of any past memories of dreadful Ex's that I shared my home with. This new place is huge but well worth it. I love it."


"Your Maker," he said almost fondly, latching onto that. "I bet she's a great woman. Very strong," he said and smiled.

Of course, he tucked away the information on 'Beta', assuming she was talking about Beta Towers, but he wasn't sure. He never said anything that he wasn't fully sure on. Never, ever.


"Absolutely. Serendipity is an amazing woman and I hold a lot of respect for her. Her emotions are a little much but she is an Allurist so it is difficult for her sometimes to keep them under control. Her home is only a few floors down from mine at Beta Towers so I do not believe that I will sell my home. It is cozy, so it is good for when I want time to myself." She smiled up at him as she drew her attention away from her scarf. "I bet we could say the same about your sire. To find and take on an incredible man."


"To find and take on an incredible man," Lizzie said. It echoed over and over in Hamlet's brain. He didn't like that. It was too much, almost like him when he was trying to grab anyone—everyone—by their throats and make them dance.

He let it fill his mind and he laughed. He didn't trust her for one second, not a single ******* second.

"Mircea," he asked, one eyebrow raised. "He's a really great man," Hamlet said.


She nodded her head once. Her eyes searching his features only for her to continue down a path where she trusted him. His words were genuine. It was refreshing as there was so much deceit in this city. "I have heard of him. I used to belong to a family that had altercations with Grigori in the past but I am no longer a member of that family. I have never actually spoken to him personally."


"You should meet him," he said. "Or maybe my real mother," he added carefully. He remembered what Kainai said to him a few nights ago, but he tested the waters again. (Hell, he knew before Kainai told him.)

"She's still alive," he said. "We talk on the phone a lot."


"I would not mind meeting him." Her eyes lit up as she listened to him. "You are still actively speaking to your mother. I think that is fantastic. I would love to meet her." She felt butterflies in her stomach as she thought about meeting his mother. She was good at posing as a human and making those around her feel comfortable but this was sweet and a show of trust that he had in her. Slowly she nodded her head. "I think that is amazing to keep contact with her. Is she doing well?"


"I just went and saw her a week ago," he said. "Before all the stuff," he said, stopping there. Truthfully, he didn't want to talk about it. It really did make him angry, but not for the reasons he was trying to say it did.

"Pi came with me," he said.


"I am glad that you had gone to see her when you were doing well. I think I would have been a little concerned if you went while the issues arose." She tilted her head. "Pi is a nice woman from what I have gathered in my short meetings with her. Are you close to her?"


Hamlet shrugged—which was actually another truth. He didn't know how close he and Pi were, but he figured, not very just yet.

"I won her in that auction The Necropolis had," he explained, taking that moment to glance around the bar for her. (He was a little obsessed.)


Nodding her head once at his explanation. "I heard about the auction a little late but I heard that it went well. I do hope you enjoyed your time with her." She tilted her head and smiled as he looked around. Maybe he liked her a little more than he expressed. A small shake of her head was given as she began to trace the groves of the table. "Have you done more research on Solace?"


Hamlet gave up on his search for Pi. Either she wasn't there that night or she was coming in at a different time. Either way, he hadn't seen her.

"No," he said honestly. He even shook his head when he answered and looked back at her. "Guess I've been a little busy," he said.


"No worries. I thought I would ask in case you wanted to talk about it but a little night without it would be nice." She bit her lower lip and sighed lightly. "Look...I feel that we are developing a friendship. You have been nothing but respectful and kind." She looked up at him until their eyes met. Ocean blue orbs looked at him with concern while bordering on sadness. "I feel that I can trust you and yet I feel that this is a naive feeling...not entirely sure just yet but I am going to take a leap of faith and pray that my instincts are not about to hurt me..."


Hamlet took that and ran with it.

"Well—" he said, catching the word with a smile. "That's pretty forward," he added, as if he was shy on the subject, as if he was new at friends and he cherished every single connection.

The noise in the bar was getting louder as more people filed in, but he put his full attention on her, he showed her that she was his only interest and that he was there for her.

"If we don't have faith and hope, we have nothing," he said, smiling.


His words were hopeful and it gave her a bit of courage though she was not normally lacking in that department but she was about to fully put her heart out there and that scared her to death. She was always so concealed with how she felt especially when it came to others. Maybe it was the paranoia thing or that she had been hurt so many times in the past but one last attempt at trust. Slowly she nodded her head as she gave a soft smile. "I know and I am sorry for that...I am not normally this forward." She thought for a moment and then reached into her bag and pulled out the small book of copied pages of her journal. "Faith and hope..." She bit her lip as she thought and smiled softly as she placed the pages on the table before her. "I potentially might have a problem and I am asking those that I can trust to help."


Hamlet didn't trust her for one second, especially not when she gave herself so fully to him like that. He didn't trust that she told him she trusted him. He didn't believe her. He was more than paranoid, but he smiled anyhow. He tried to show—in his smile—that he trusted her too, even though he didn't. Not for a single mother ******* second.

"What's this," he said, focusing on the papers, the thing that she had brought out. The thing that was now the center of their attention.


She knew that she trusted to easily. It was what got her hurt so many times but then again, if she would actually use her abilities, she might know a person better but she refused. She hated hurting others especially when it came to her powers. No...this was her last attempt in trusting those around her that were not close to her. Looking up at him as he asked about the pages before she pulled out her leather bound journal. "They are this..." She placed the journal on top of the copied pages. "I need to keep these words as safe as possible. Robert has become heavy into rituals and he is doing a ritual that will make a person at random forget him. This creates an issue because these rituals can cause me to forget him..." The feeling of dread suddenly hit her and she placed her right hand upon her stomach as she tried to will the feeling and pain away. She had been doing well so far but it was starting to finally get to her. "I am looking to those that I can trust to help because should this happen...I want to remember him and I will need help doing so."

Hamlet's left thigh muscle twitched under the table, but other than that, he didn't move. He held still as if it was a terrifying thing for him to think about, Robert losing all memory of Lizzie.

Hamlet could potentially forget Robert and forget everything he was doing with Robert—he could forget all the destruction he wanted for Robert, but he wouldn't let that happen. He was going to make sure if he did forget, he'd remember.

"How do I help," he asked in a low voice, but it didn't matter. He knew she'd still hear him.


Her eyes looked at him brightly. He was willing to help. Maybe her instincts weren't wrong about him. Carefully she lifted the leather bound journal from the pages and slid them towards him. "Please do not read them as they are of course private thoughts unless you want proof of the authenticity. Robert wants to try and make me fall back in love with him should this ritual affect me as he will remember me but I will not remember him...or at least that is the current understanding as we do not have much information on it just yet. We will not entirely know until it happens." She rested both of her hands upon the leather bound book. "I am recruiting those that will help should this happen. Help me remember him or at least help him win me back if he has to start from scratch. I know that he has enemies so I made copies of my journal and I am hiding them or giving them to friends and family to hide in case such a time comes that we will need the copies. His enemies could clearly steal and destroy my written words if they are determined enough making this endeavour that much more difficult."


Hamlet wanted to laugh, he wanted to kiss her and he wanted to tell her that she had just handed the baby sheep over to the wolf. But he looked at her so seriously! His eyebrows were knit so seriously! He was so upset for her.

Hamlet didn't reach for the copy yet, didn't look at it anymore, made it seem like it wasn't the most important information he was getting.

"Why doesn't he just stop the ritual," Hamlet asked. "I don't understand why he would want to take that risk."


She leaned back and shifted in the booth once again. The original journal was pulled off the table and hugged to her but in her lap as she looked at him. He was serious and his attention was no longer on the pages. Her instincts were having a joyous moment and she was glad that she had met him even if it was to talk about Solace for their first meeting. She furrowed her brow and shook her head at his question. "He has an addiction of sorts to rituals. He can not get enough of them but this Unknowing ritual will be beneficial for him. Protect him against his enemies. Just friends and loved ones can be affected by it as well so I am taking precautions since he decided to continue."


Hamlet also sat back. He stretched his arms out on top of the table and looked at her with a confused face. "Isn't that kind of selfish of him," he asked.


She shook her head at his question. "Not at all. Most would think so unless they truly knew him. He knows how it affects those around him that care about him when he is sent to the Realm of Shadows. He is trying to protect us from having that pain or even worry of when his next death would be. He is doing this for his family and myself. I do not feel that is selfish at all especially when it protects us in the long run as his enemies at anytime can change direction and harm those that he cares for because it would hurt him the most."


Hamlet practically frowned at that. "That's sounds really great and all," he said. "But do you see the risk he's taking? Potentially, he could make everyone who is his friend or who is close to him or cares about him, forget him and leave only his enemies. Then, they could kill him freely and he wouldn't have anyone there to pick him back up, to be there for him. Sure, maybe he can convince one or two to remember him or believe him, but everyone," Hamlet asked skeptically.

"I think that if he's willing to risk love for that, there's something wrong," he said.


She thought over his words, rolling each one over in her mind carefully as she processed it all. He was right. That dread feeling moved through her again as she silently groaned. Placing her leather bound journal back into her purse as she nodded her head. "I have expressed this. I do not like that he is doing them but he feels that it will be better over all. He wants to try but maybe he will think differently should Pi, myself or any other that he is close to out of his family or childer forget him. He will then have to make a choice but where it comes to me...he has already decided to try and get me to fall back in love with him. I just dread waking up next to him in our home at West and panic because I have no idea who is laying there next to me." She thought for a moment and shrugged softly. "Hamlet...I can not think of anyway to explain it to him to stop doing the ritual. He thinks it is far too important to continue."


Hamlet watched her for a long minute—if a minute could actually extend longer than it physically could. He tapped his fingers to the back of his hand and looked around, as if he didn't want to be the bringer of bad news.

"Lizzie," he said—gently, like she was his friend, like he cared so much about her. "Lizzie," he said again, just like he had said to Mick when she came storming into their apartment.

"What if," he paused, drawing it out. "He wants you or Pi or anyone else to forget?"


Her attention was completely on him as he spoke her name. Canting her head as he continued. Instantly she froze at his words and it took her a few moments as respond even after her eyes dropped to the table as she began to think over his words, quickly reading Robert's mind while he slept and then she shook her head. "No...that can not be his desire. He has a good relationship with his sire and he loves me. He would never lie about that, I see it in his thoughts and memories."


Hamlet watched her from across the table. He tapped his fingers on it and then said, "I hope you're right."


"It has to be right, Hamlet."


Hamlet shrugged and tried to smile a little. "Well, I'm sure you know him much better than I do. I'm just an outside perspective."


"You could get to know him better. He really is a good guy. I will give you credit where it is due though...your thoughts are logical and in a normal sense it would be something I would need to think long and hard on but Robert is different. He is not like he is for everyone to see when he is behind closed doors. I believe him when he said that he will will try and win me back. That fight is a hope that I cling to and cherish."


"I just don't want to see you get hurt," he said and he half smiled. "I'll do what I can," he said, gesturing to the papers.


I do not want to get hurt either but I love him, Hamlet. I have to do all I can to make sure that we make it through this." Nodding once as he gestured towards the papers, smiling softly. "Thank you for your concern and thank you for helping. I will mail you new additions to the journal to keep everything up to day. The day you do not get pages will be the day that I do not remember." She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear as looked up at him.




-

[Hamlet]

-



Thursday November 15, 2012
3:17 AM
The Cabin



Hamlet still hadn't bought furniture for the cabin. Maybe it was because he refused to. Maybe it was because he thought it was pointless. (Just ******* pointless.) Whatever the reason was, he didn't do it.

The door opened and Hamlet didn't jump. He didn't react with his blade or a gun. He already knew who it was. 'Come home' he texted minutes ago to Mick. 'Home' wasn't what they called the cabin or even what they called the apartment. 'Home' was what he was calling himself to her. 'Home' was how he planned to all but brainwash her.

He turned the pages of Lizzie's journal over and over, staring at them. He didn't look up until Mick was standing closer.

"Sit down with me," he asked, but it was a command. It wasn't a suggestion.

Mick didn't need to be told twice before she did something Hamlet told her to. The command was more than just a verbal punctuation, but one he always put his body into. She could feel him say it, she swore. Like the dull static energy naturally on his skin sparked to action. Besides, he was messing with those damn papers, again. She had to look interested, intrigued.

He gave them to her to look over, before, but it was all heads or tails. It might as well have been written in another language because of how little she cared about Pratt's apparent attempt to coax people to forget him. So long as it didn't happen to her, Mick didn't really care. Her whole head was filled with Pratt, these nights.

Pratt, Pratt, Pratt, like an annoying faucet that would never completely turn off. In the Necropolis? Pratt. The walks home? Pratt. Just before she forced herself to retire for most of the day? Pratt. Too bad her reasons differed harshly with Hamlet's, elsewise Mick probably would've been more inclined to try harder for the greater good of both.

"What is it?"

"What is what," he asked directly after her. He didn't look up from Lizzie's journal. Lizzie told him not to read it, but of course he had. (How stupid was she, really?)

Hamlet didn't wear shoes much anymore, especially not when he was wandering around in the cabin, pacing from the computer to the front room where Lizzie's papers were. Besides his weapons--or Mick's--there wasn't anything else in there. (Except, of course, the book of Solace.)

"The reason you called me home before dawn," she answered, but it sounded more like a question. Hints of uncertainty played in her voice, as though she might've asked the wrong thing (or, maybe, she wasn't seeing a bigger picture that was splayed out before her).

Hamlet stopped messing with the papers except to pile them together and put them to the side. "I missed you," he said--he played, he lulled. He kept his feet flat against the cool wood, but he thought about moving closer to her. (No! He'd make her come to him.)

There were a million other things for Hamlet to say. A million and one, even. He talked to someone, he had an idea, he was cautious of this person, he was wary of that person. He could've told her her mother died in a mysterious animal attack, and she might've expected it more than, "I missed you."

Maybe he could feel a shift happening inside of her as clearly as she could see the one happening inside of him. Maybe it was her not coming back the night before. Maybe it was because he had to wake up utterly alone. Mick suddenly thought to apologize, or to explain that she'd been busy. She had a man to find, one that could give her insight. She had another man to protect, but that one could never know she was within spitting distance. Why did he miss her? They didn't talk unless it was business. They didn't really do anything except exist in the same place, at the same time. She finally took that shift, where her body could relax a little more where she sat beside him, but she couldn't say anything.

"Don't you miss before," he asked. He was speaking low, hardly a mumble, but she was close enough to hear. Her ears were good enough to pick up the little sounds his tongue and teeth made.

Of course she could hear him. As clear as a church bell, he spoke. His lowering of pitch only added to the fact that she could better hear him, as though he did it especially to make her pay attention and listen (as if she wasn't before).

She didn't know how to say it, when she stared at her Maker sitting there beside her. When his paranoia started acting up two-fold, she thought it was strange. Now that there wasn't a single whiff of air about him that screamed he was anxious, she could only think that was strange. Abnormal. After seeing a veil for so long, it was different to actually see the shapes of his face (figuratively speaking).

"Yeah. Yeah, a lot." Because, once upon a time, 'before' was the only thing that was solid, an anchor.

"Me too," he said.

Outside, the crickets chirped in the early hours of the morning, just before the sun went up. The cabin was settled and excessively quiet. There wasn't a sound of the heater kicking on to keep the chill of the night out. (The night air didn't bother them.)

Hamlet's hand hung limply from the perch of his knee. His jeans were stretched tight over his knee and his bare toes were splayed against the cool wood floor.

She was sitting so close to him and he wanted to know (Wanted to know how far she would go. He wanted to know if she was still loyal and how loyal. He just had to know.)

His pointer finger jerked and with it, his hand rose to cup the side of her face. Tenderly, he stroked her cheek.

There wouldn't have been a 'before' if something hadn't significantly changed. It would have been a 'always has been,' instead. The feeling of his jacket being pushed around her shoulders should've carried forward as much as her insistance to pull the trigger in Robert Pratt's face every time she saw him.

That deep rooted feeling in her gut to shun any person (every person) that claimed to love him as she and yet refused to follow through with their word should have still been there. Considering Mircea and Habren fakes should have still been in Mick's mind, an obsession she couldn't have let go of.

And it had been, until Jeff got attacked; until Jeff attacked her, until Jeff accused she, Hamlet, and others of being everything next to gutter trash. Maybe it had actually happened sooner, like when things stopped being so real the minute he asked her to put on a fake smiling face.

Mick had never been known to cry. Not in her life, 'before' or 'after.' When her cat died when she was ten, she stared at her sobbing mother. When Jeff's father died, she kept her tears to herself until she was alone. The only exception, in the 'before' was when Timbo died. Her stomach tightened against her backbone and her lungs collapsed upon themselves at the sight of that dog lifeless, then and forever.

So why was she throbbing, now? Why was her chest constricting and her eyes dimming in focus? Why was the tip of her nose active with heat as her nostrils flared to catch the scent of his skin so close.

Hamlet said he missed before as much as she did. Mick told him, then, "It shouldn't have changed."

"Things are always changing," he replied back, pushing his fingers past her cheeks and over her ears until they were buried into her hair. He could have sworn there was a heartbeat—loud and thrumming—between the two of them. Maybe hers, but certainly not ever his.

Hamlet leaned in when there was a second of silence and put his lips to the high arch of her cheek.

'We just learn to live as they do,' she heard him finish in her head, but she wasn't entirely sure Hamlet could be as philosophical. The matter-of-fact stance of his entire being suited him, as much as the vampire thing suited him.

Hamlet as a human was a far reach for her mind to try and make, one it never attempted. Like her Maker, she had a tendency to see things as they just were. And they were just vampires.

His striking bluntness suited him as much as the blood seeking, as much as the perfectly healing skin that never scarred.

Her shoulder, like his beside it, was flawless in its smoothness where Jeff slashed a knife at her. But that wasn't the only thing Jeff did. His enraged scream about how she and her boyfriend couldn't stop until they got just what they wanted sometimes echoed in her head.

She wanted to laugh at him, then. Laugh at his blatant ignorance about how so little the wonderful Jeff knew about the real world. Oh, yes, he was real good with numbers (treated them like a mistress), but the real world? Where Hamlet's lips were cool against her comparatively cool skin? He knew nothing about that. It was much more than what he accused it of being. It went deeper, than that. Farther than his well educated brain could comprehend.

Farther than even his experience could grasp.

Mick closed her eyes and bowed her head, made Hamlet's (her Savior's, the Maker's) lips drag across her skin. No. Jeff knew nothing about this praise.

Hamlet's lips drug right up to her temple and he swore he thought the crickets outside were holding their breath. He swore that in any second, the door was going to be bursting open and Pratt would come stumbling in—or maybe someone else. Maybe it would be Kainai. Maybe Pi would track him back down and asked why they hadn't spoken since he dropped her back off in front of the Necropolis.

Someone had to be coming for him. When he did something wrong, someone always came.

There weren't anymore words he could think of that might overpower the current situation, all of his power was held in his action, held in the way his lips trailed down to hers and met. His power was in the way he made her lay back with his lips. His power was in the way he hovered over her.

Jeff couldn't make her feel like that, like a child told not to worry with a hand petting back her hair (not when she was always the one hugging him to her breast like a needy babe). Jeff couldn't kiss her like that, like the space between her and Hamlet's upper lips was acceptable (even worshipped in the process).

When Hamlet kissed her, there wasn't a desperation. It wasn't heat seeking and what she condemned as 'passionate', but prodding. Her tongue rushed up to the inside of her bottom lip, providing a plushness to the full skin so that the purse of her mouth didn't completely give way under his.

How forbidding and perfectly natural at the same time.

How strange to think that she wouldn't have it any other way, being manipulated to her back by the support of his hands under her head.

Mick exhaled as quickly as she took the breath in, nudged her chin until the hair dusting his darker skin was flattened between them. The start of her spine relaxed when her shoulders were laid against the cold floor. Her knees (already drawn) stretched to push the heel of her foot against the surface, scooting herself up where his body (all electric fluid) bowed over hers like a sort of roof.

Her eyes didn't close, that time. Not when she wanted to see the sharp angles in the nose looking to butt back against hers, or the sag of raven black hair down either side of his face by the gravity of leaning, or the sternly set mouth that was coming back for her face.

Hamlet stared at her staring back at him. They didn't touch for milliseconds—actual seconds, minutes, maybe an hour. He sat himself by some way of support and tied away all of his hair, then pushed hers away from her face just before his body dipped back down.

His mouth met her collarbone and his hands pushed up her shirt. It was more than obvious where this was going and it was more than obvious that she wasn't going to stop him.

Hamlet could have stopped there. Her loyalty had been tested and she passed. He could have stopped and let it go, but he didn't. (He wouldn't. He had a claim to make.)

(As if she would've let him just stop. As if she would've been able to keep her hands from grabbing at the front of his body like an untied anchor sinking in the water.)

Her stomach caved when she sucked it in at the contact of his hands (Hamlet's hands, wide and long) pushing up the sides of it. She froze in their ascent, battling the fact that she couldn't look down to watch the crawling shapes of his knuckles creep up under the bunching fabric of her shirt.

Though, really, she didn't have to. She didn't have to see to know who was touching her, who was crawling all over her skin and finding places in the stretch of her body to position himself against (on, around, in).

With her elbows on the floor, moved away from either sides of her body, her hands remained suspended in the air with the granted permission. She held them there as though she could say no, or could counter his exploration with pressure keeping him exactly in one spot.

Maybe it was best decided when her right hand snuffed out the shape of his left against her ribs. She could feel the pressure of his touch on her bones. When she curled her fingers around the side, capturing her shirt between the grips, she lead his hand up. Up, up, up against the shape of her bra where the swell of her breast was, where the muscles, skin, and organs were long since healed from the first time he had her on her back.



-

[Hamlet]

-

Tuesday November 20, 2012
11:12 PM
East of the Buddhist Temple
Robert Pratt ft. Tempest, Jule and Judias Holms



Hamlet looked away from the nothingness of where he thought Pratt's voice was coming from. (It was all around him.) "Jeff is Mick's human husband," he mumbled, furrowing his eyebrows. He stopped spinning, he stopped searching, he dropped his 'guard'. "I have no idea how or why I was changing. Have I done it lately," he asked, 'hopeful'. He lifted his chin, back up to where he thought Pratt might be.

‹Robert Pratt› He watched the man and his reactions carefully and blinked in surprise. "He's Mick's husband? And you were attacking him?! Why would you do such a thing?" His shock was genuine as he stared at the man.

Hamlet rubbed his hand over his jaw. "I don't know," he mumbled behind his hand. "We haven't figured it out--Mick and I," he clarified.

‹Robert Pratt› "You.... don't know why you attacked someone and you claim to have no memory of attacking them?" He eyed the man, folding his unseen arms over his unseen chest. It didn't sound right in the slightest and he was beginning to believe the people telling him the worst about the man instead of the good he wanted to believe.

‹Hamlet› "None," Hamlet replied. He lifted his head a little more and took a small step to the left, turning his body in hopes that this time, he'd turn and see Pratt. Darkness ebbed around him, but it didn't scare him. It didn't feel like hot flames licking against his skin.

‹Robert Pratt› "How?" He stepped aside as the man turned, keeping out of his reach and ensuring that the shadows were wrapped around him tightly so that he couldn't be seen by any. "I don't believe you" There it was. It was said. It was out there for all to see and hear and deal with.

Hamlet stopped spinning and dropped his head. "I don't want to believe me either," he mumbled. "I don't want to believe that I'd do that to Mick," he said, rubbing his forefinger over his bottom lip. He was quiet for a second and then, "Someone has to be setting this up. I've been trying."

‹Robert Pratt› "You've been trying what?" He was still eying the man suspiciously. Though his reactions and tone of voice were really very believable. With all that had been going on with Sophia and Lizzie and everything - his head was such a mess and he didn't know which way was up. So he just watched the man. And waited.

‹Hamlet› "To be good," he stressed. "Lydie died and--" he stopped and pushed his bottom lip to his top hard, as if it really upset him. "I don't want to lose Mick too because of me. I'm trying to be good," he said again with so much sincerity--so much pain.

‹Robert Pratt› Yup, that did it for him. Robert stepped out of the shadows and embraced the man, patting him on the back in a friendly manner - hoping to help the man somehow with such a simple action. "You'll be fine Hamlet. You'll get through. We all do."

Hamlet almost stepped back when Robert practically burst from the shadows--directly in front of him, at that. He had learned not to tense up when people did this, so, he relaxed and played his discomfort off as surprise. "I hope so," he said, bending his elbow so that he could pat Pratt's back in return. (The lamb was right in the lion's mouth and the lion did nothing. The lion lay there with his shaggy mane and let the lamb rest.)

‹Tempest› Tempest kicked the dirt on the ground as she wandered back across the city lines. Not once, but twice that week, she'd camped out somewhere on the edge of town. Just pitched a tent and spent an evening under the stars. Getting out of that dilapidated old apartment seemed to improve her health and spirits some, although the drug use just brought her right back down all over again; the memories... they brought her back down too. It was with those thoughts that she'd returned to do business and get on with her life, with the daily (rather, weekly) business that she ran. It felt awkward travelling on foot, when she so often used the railways to get around, but the night air felt good enough to bask in. Rounding the corner, she stumbled upon two men hugging and pinched her lips together to keep from saying anything; instead, she just stopped and stared. They must have been lovers or something.

‹Robert Pratt› Robert pulled back, slipping his hand into the man's pocket and removing his wallet deftly - not knowing yet that he'd grabbed $31 from him. He pocketed the wallet and clasped the man's shoulder reassuringly as he smiled. "You will. I have faith" It was then he noticed them being watched, stared at in fact. He smiled at the woman and nodded to her, speaking loudly enough for her to hear. "Good evening, how are you?" He noted the way the woman looked - as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders and couldn't take much more.

Hamlet hated the way Pratt yelled like that. Yelling didn't make you sound smarter or nicer or more handsome. His right eyebrow twitched when Pratt's head was turned and his jaw tightened, but other than that, he changed nothing. And then, he too smiled. Not once did it ever meet his eyes.

‹Tempest› She stared for a long time, no true expression on her face. What could she express? Glee? Disgust? Relationships were as foreign to her as contact with people, so she rightly didn't care what they were doing. That didn't mean she wasn't curious on some level as to what they were to one another. Her shaggy, dirty appearance probably didn't do her any favors, but she'd been caught, smiled at, greeted. Tempest didn't know how to greet back, at least, not in the way that was proper, so she just settled for one word and more staring. "Okay."

‹Robert Pratt› Hamlet didn't say a word and that made his eyebrow rise in curiosity. He looked at the smiling man and knew that it seemed not quite right but he couldn't put his finger on why. However, the woman was more concerning. He took a few steps towards her to close the distance and expected Hamlet to come too. "Miss. Are you sure you're ok? You look..... ill?"

‹Judias Holms› Holms came around the bend walking to find something to get his mind off of his past. He looked up seeing a woman an man pair. Wonder if I should just turn around...

Hamlet didn't move, mostly because he didn't know Tempest and he (maybe) didn't want to know her. So, he waited where Pratt left him. He rubbed his jaw a few times and then just ended up crossing his arms over his chest.

‹Tempest› Tempest took a few steps back from the advancing man, not out of fear, but out of a need to just escape the situation. Dealing with people had never been her specialty, and when she felt like she was cornered, she almost felt... feral. Her hands tightened into balled up fists at her sides, a certain sort of fire flaring up in her eyes; the blue of them seemed to grow brighter with the edgy emotion she felt inside as she snapped back. "I'm perfectly fine." It was the drug use, she knew. They had disintegrated her body and health, leaving her looking as if she was severely unhealthy. Which, she probably was. But it wasn't their problem. It wasn't their body to worry about. If she was going to die from using too many drugs, then she would die from using them. Maybe it would be suitable, a gift. Then she wouldn't have to live such a wretched life absorbed by guilt and a need for absolution..

‹Robert Pratt› He held his hands up in a surrender type of stance and kept a disarming smile upon his face. He glanced around for Hamlet and saw him back where they'd been moments before. A look of disappointment was cast in Hamlet's direction and he shook his head before turning back to the woman with that smile on his face. "I'm sorry if I offended. That was not my intention at all. I simply wished to offer you help, a place to stay if you need it - an ear to listen. Whatever you need Miss, please - just ask."

‹Judias Holms› Nope... stayin out of it, he turned the next corner an got out of the way.

Hamlet thought it was his turn to come to the 'rescue' now. He waited, always waited, for the best opportunity for entrance into every situation and now, here was this one. "Don't scare her," Hamlet said, taking just a few steps forward, enough so that people walking around them would know he was part of the group. "A strange man just walking up and offering assistance like that? She's right to be cautious," he said. "Too many bad men in the world," he added, putting his hands in his pockets instead. (He opened up his body. This said, 'I'm harmless.')

‹Tempest› When Robert held his hands up in a non-aggressive manner, Tempest attitude lessened some; she didn't trust people easily, and rightly so. If they offered her something of worth, something that might have been valuable to her life, her situation, then she would take the chance. Not that she didn't carry some form of protection, because she did; the knife in her pocket, the one hidden, waiting to just tear into flesh and rent it from someone's body, was what she had. And she would use it if she needed to.

‹Tempest› His apology irritated her, the offer of (what she saw as pity) a place to stay or someone to talk to making her somewhat irate. She absolutely -hated- when people took one look at her and offered her these things. Didn't they know that she lived like she did for a reason? Tempest was about to open her mouth when the other man took a few steps forward, telling the first to not scare her. Boy, did he have it oh so wrong. She wasn't scared; she wasn't scared at all. "I'm not afraid. I just don't like you." When Hamlet put his hands in his pockets, her guard remained up although his body language spoke of him being harmless; his words, sounding believable in the thickness of Robert's unbelievable offer, seemed to ring more true. "I apologize for stopping whatever... romantic moment you were having, but you are right. No one offers such a thing without a price." Her voice was thick with sarcasm as she stated that  "apology".

‹Robert Pratt› Robert frowned and looked between the two, huffing a little. "There is no price. It's just who I am and what I do. I will help anyone who needs it. You know that Hamlet, right? I did it with you too"
‹Hamlet› "But not everyone does. Trust doesn't come easy. It's earned," he said. He looked away from Pratt and right at Tempest. (There was a sweet little pulse pounding away at her throat. He could smell her a mile away. She was divine.)

‹Jule› Juliet lingered. She wasn't hesitant. She didn't care enough to be. Her job was to be an observer. (Self-appointed job, of course.) His smell was strong. She barely remembered his face but she recalled that alluring (Ha.) scent that had enticed her from the get-go.

Hamlet felt it in his belly. It was the same feeling, the same line that brought him back to following Ekusa--though he didn't know her name. It was the same line that brought him to Miles every now and then, and it was the same one he had felt to Lydie before she was gone. (That's how he knew she was gone. His stomach didn't pull anymore.) Hamlet's toes curled in his shoes, carefully turning just his eyes to try and find her. He was looking for a beacon of blonde. (This was the perfect lesson for his new child; his little, alluring child.)

‹Tempest› Tempest seemed almost amused that Robert huffed himself up a little, like a peacock showing off and not getting their way with a female. "There is a price for everything, no matter what it is, no matter if anyone says otherwise." She was a pessimist, truly believed that there was a price someone paid for everything they got; it was a karmic payment, whether it was physical or not was another thing entirely. It could have been emotional. In Tempest's case, it was both the physical and the emotional. Drugs and guilt. She stared right back at Hamlet as he stared at her, completely undaunted by the look he'd given her as he went into a spheel about trust being earned. "Then there are those who find that trusting others is worthless, because trusting someone puts your life in their hands. Trust and greed are the downfall of man."

Jule smiled to herself. It was a vague and empty expression and merely a response, something she figured she should have ready for when her slate gaze locked with her target's. A part of her wanted to kill him right there and then. But there was no point in getting her pretty, little hands messy.

‹Robert Pratt› "No." He walked over and handed her a book. It was the Illuminated Texts but inside the cover was a map and address of the Solace Building and when he handed it to her, he had it open to that page. "Listen, there is honestly nothing I want in return. You're more than welcome to come by and spend time and relax. It's entirely your choice." He pointed to the second address, the Mausoleum apartment. "That one has beds if you need it. You're more than welcome to stop by either one, anytime. Trusting others isn't worthless. It can be the greatest feeling in the world to put yourself on the line and put your life in another's hands." He looked to Hamlet and a slight frown came across his face as he saw him looking around for someone or something. Robert glanced around too, wondering what he was looking for.

Hamlet locked eyes with what's-her-name. (He wasn't exactly sure if the name she gave him was even real.) He had stopped staring at Tempest, stopped looking at the back of Pratt's head and now found himself fully focused on Jule. "Excuse me," he mumbled, walking along the line that drew him right to her, right to where she was hidden and just out of view.

‹Tempest› When Robert approached, her hand immediately slipped into her pocket and bore down on the knife, ready to use it if need be. Her posture had changed from relaxed and cautious to tense and on the medium of attack. But what he did was not threaten or attack her. Instead, he offered her a book, one with a map and an address for some place that she'd never even heard of. Without so much as a word, she took the book, because what could a book hurt? "Maybe." Was her reply, though it wasn't honest. It was just what she thought he would want to hear from her. She didn't have any intention of actually going, not when she'd survived for this amount of time on her own, but all of the events that had happened in her life thus far had her questioning if people were really so bad? Hell, she'd been saved by someone. Didn't that mean they cared even just a little? She'd stopped paying attention to Hamlet when he stopped paying attention to her, when Robert stole her attention away. They seemed absorbed into something else, something that took the focus off her and allowed her to make an escape. "I've got business to attend to... excuse me."

Jule lifted her chin. It wasn't in an haughty manner as it may have seemed to untrained eyes. She was making her presence known. Now that she had more than one set of eyes on her, she let them know she was watching. Her smile only grew when her target pulled himself away from his friends (Yeah, right.) and made his way towards her instead.

‹Robert Pratt› He frowned as the woman headed off, having not even been able to give his name or number. He only hoped that like Madison had, she'd take the helping hand he'd offered to turn her life around. Looking around he realised that Hamlet had wandered off. So closing his eyes, he tried to track the man, finding him and a woman standing together. He headed over to the pair with a friendly grin and nodded, waiting to be introduced.

Hamlet smiled when he saw Jules, when he traced the lines and curves of her face with his eyes and then his hand. (Hamlet never forgot he was the center of a show. He never forgot to put on a good performance.) "You're awake," he said, loud enough for anyone who was listening to hear. His right thumb stroked over the high arch of her cheek and he didn't bother to remove his hand. (Every action was a lesson. He wanted to see if his new parrot could repeat.)

Jule stared at Hamlet. It wasn't long before his hand was on her face. She didn't mind though. She relished touches, grazed, brush of skin over skin.. Her head tipped against the hand minutely. She could play this game, with this almost-stranger. "Just barely." she replied. Her smile had returned and turned sugary sweet when they were joined by the other man. Juliet looked to him with curious eyes before peering back up at Hamlet.

Hamlet liked a good performance and who was he to deny a little purposefully stirred up theatrics. (It was all part of the game anyhow.) He smoothed the back of his hand over her cheek a few times before he looked back behind him. He withheld a grin, because dammit! He just KNEW Pratt couldn't resist. He knew it. (He knew it.) "Robert," he said, his hand sliding down Jule's arm, all the way down to her hand. "This is Jewel," he said. (It was all he could remember. He couldn't remember her real name, just that she was a real gem a true JEWEL.) "My progeny," he said. (Yeah, he had learned some of the lingo. Bite on that.)

‹Robert Pratt› Who the **** called their childre 'progeny'? Stuffy old farts, that's who. Robert smiled and made the sign of the Light to the woman, nodding his head at her politely and respectfully. "Blessings of the Light be upon you Jewel. My name's Robert. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Jule tipped her head to the side as she regarded Robert. When she heard Hamlet call her Jewel, she grinned again. She like that. (Jewel. Perfect.) "Likewise, Robert." she dipped down in a slight curtsy even before offering the man her hand.

Hamlet wanted to laugh because he had to admit, her work in this life was even better than it had been when she was a human. Clearly, he'd not made a mistake in viciously ripping into her throat. Clearly, he'd done something very right for himself. He let go of her hand and even stepped out of the way. He wanted to watch her really work.

‹Robert Pratt› He reached out his own hands - both of them - and grasped her hand, shaking it gently but in a very friendly and welcoming manner. "Hamlet been treating you well? Showing you around and showing you the.... ways?" Better than he did Lydie, he finished off in his head, casting the man a sullen glance to match the thought

Jule dropped her gaze on the hands that clasped hers. Her expression remained neutral. It took her a fraction of a second of physically studying the lines and curves of Robert's hands before she was dissecting his reaction to her extended one. (Two hands, grasping, gentle. Friendly. Not too formal. Eager to help.. maybe too eager.) His words came next and they made next to no sense to her, so Juliet lifted her slate optics to the man's face. "He's been precious to me." she replied fluidly before letting out a peal of laughter.

‹Robert Pratt› He let go of her hand after the shake had finished and stood there easily and relaxed, watching her and casting furtive glances at Hamlet as he stood there doing not a lot. "Precious?" It was an interesting way to describe Hamlet and not exactly the way in which he'd describe the sullen, anger filled man.

‹Hamlet› "I should really get back to it," he said, reaching out to grab Jule's hand when he thought she had enough time on her own. He spaced her fingers out enough for his and started walking towards his apartment. "Let me know if you hear more," he asked Pratt from over his shoulder.

Jule already felt for Robert. Not in the way any other person might though. It wasn't pity, per se, but it was something akin to that. She glanced to Hamlet and smiled. There was adoration in that look.. but that's exactly what it was; just a look. "Precious." she smiled back over to Robert. And within seconds, her hand was taken by Hamlet's and she was following him like his docile, little lamb.

‹Robert Pratt› He frowned as Hamlet all but dragged the woman away from him. He lifted an eyebrow and called after her. "Jewel. You ever need anything - call me. ANYTHING you need. Just call." It was just...... odd. He turned and made his way home, puzzling over the pair and wtf.



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