Beyond the Wall of Sleep

[Psyche]

He'd needed to get away. He wasn't right and he was feeling it more and more. On a whim, his mind would slip and he'd find himself shaking back into consciousness as time had passed....sometimes days later. He couldn't figure it out. His mind seemed almost polarized to that realm of thought and his subconscious would rip his conscious mind away into far realms of thought and dream as it so desired. It was taking it's toll. He could feel it.

As if the lapse in conscious presence wasn't enough, his body was beginning to react to the abuse as well. More and more frequently he was noticing a hunger.. a thirst....a starvation almost that he seemed less and less able to satiate. It was making him volatile. He'd prided himself on his sense of composure and recently, he'd severely lost it....smashing away at the keyboard like a madman. And it had all been over him misreading and most likely misinterpretting something and fueled by his own inner demons. He'd still have hell to pay for that one. He owed Micah a limb or two for his outburst.

He'd since retreated to a more private domicile, away from the distractions of the town. Sitting on the cold stone surface of his floor, he cradled his knees as he brushed his head against the thorny vines that had long since covered the walls of the abode. The scratching sensation of the thorns against his shaved head was relaxing as he let his mind wander. Aphyon had come to visit him, and for that he was pleased. She was coming into her own so well and he'd begun to wonder if she'd prefer to just tackle eternity without him. Thanks for the gift, guy. Later. That type of thing. But as he was often being now... his assumptions were erratic and mildly paranoid. Her company couldn't have come at a better time, either.

As he sat against the wall, gently rocking himself upon the floor, he pondered just when he may have lost it. Looking down at his blood stained hands, he gave a silent laugh to himself and shook his head. He brought his hands up and covered his face, the blood spreading like paints to a canvas over his own skin. Peeking through his fingers he looked across the room to the adjacent corner...

"What the ****...."

Yep. If his decompressing demeanor hadn't clued in something was wrong or this uncontrollable thirst... maybe this small pile of murdered cops would send a red flag. He'd scanned over the Net and hadn't seen or heard any mental jabber about his recent apparent antics, but nonetheless.... he'd violated the Masquerade. How'd he lose his **** so bad? One cop had his throat ripped open, another's eyes and tongue gone missing. No.... he knew where they were. He'd eaten them.

"What....the....****..."

The faction couldn't find out about this. He was in deep enough **** as it was already, making a spectacle of himself. He'd felt the eyes already glancing over him as if waiting for the inevitable beat down. This would have him crucified for sure....

......as if it wasn't enough....he looked up and stared at the mass of bodies.

"Why do I feel like I enjoyed this a little too much....."

[Psyche]

Standing from the corner, he mulled over what to do with the bodies in the corner. The blood smeared across his face seemed to accentuate the dark ink designs that covered the extent of him, the blurred handprints there as he stared blankly. He'd been in sticky situations... but he'd never put himself in such a spot before. After another scan of the Net to check for any contacts he spotted the info that'd been delivered. Someone'd seen him.

"****."

That's just what he needed. Ty was sure to see that. They weren't going to just let that slide. He was in enough **** as it was. This would just be fuel to the fire. Reaching a bloody hand up to his bald head, he smeared the entirety of it's back as he tried to devise 'a way out'. Nothing was immediately hitting him though.

More.

That awkward pang was returning. How long had he been sitting there? Was it minutes? Hours? Nights? ****. What was wrong with him? His insides felt like they were twisting themselves into knots. It burned deep in the pit of his stomach... in that deepest recess of the organs he thought for sure he never had use for again. Did he? Why did they pain him like this as if he'd not eaten in forever?

We need more.

No longer thinking on the matter, he turned away and made his way out of the building. He needed to get away from this place too. No place seemed comforting enough. Maybe one. Maybe he could distract himself from it. Sliding the studded leather vest over his naked upperbody, he grabbed the spiked helmet of Germanic design and hopped onto that sweet black muscle of a machine. The silver skull at the center of the handlebars doubling as the headlight. He loved his bike and hopefully, just the ride may be enough to get him to where he needed to be.

............................................................

Riding down the neon-lit shopping district of the center of town, he let the wind wash over his bare skin as he sat straddled over the bike. Through the corner of his eye he'd catch the occasional couple necking on the curb, a passerby walking down a dark alley they really shouldn't be venturing into, or a whore selling her goods on the street corner. He was picking up every scent that they gave off..fear, lust, anger... all those pheromones that produced their very own stink and assailed his nostrils. Gripping his fists through the studded leather gloves on the handle bars, he rode on.

Making the turn past 9th Street, his night was ruined just a little bit more as he spotted the red and blue flashing lights circling in the reflection of the rear-view mirrors.

"Son of a *****. That would be my luck."

This wasn't going to end well, no matter how it played out. He'd interacted with the police of this town before and, especially in this district, they didn't particularly like having their time wasted by some tattooed circus freak American who was just tainting their scenery. Canadians seemed to be so uppety about the ******* scenery. Still, he slowly pulled the bike over to the side of the rode against the curb, ensuring to keep away from a populated area in-case it got out of his control.

Watching as the officer stepped out of the black and white Grand Marquis, he gritted his teeth and looked back ahead. He was only 5 blocks away from the Marketplace at max. Just his ******* luck. It'd be alright. Just play it cool. He was a people person. He'd just talk his way around, poke in that head of his and out mental-maneuver this sad little sap and be on his way. Easy days. Taking the helmet off, he turned his head to the left just as the officer came up to the side of his bike. This blonde beat cop was rather attractive. The uniform certainly did her some justice. Even better.

"License and registration."

"Sure thing, Ma'am." Reaching into his vest he felt past the cold steel of the knife there and grabbed his wallet out of the vest. "There a problem, Officer?"

Kill.

Reaching forward he kept the calm, cool demeanor and extracted the forms of ID out of the leather wallet. Handing them to her and allowing her to look them over.

"I'm going to need to see environmental check records for your motorcycle, Sir."

"Of course. No worries."

He of course didn't have any such thing. He didn't give a **** about the environment. Maybe he still had that form that looked like it, and he could sweet talk her.

Kill....her.

Reaching in to the vest, he felt passed the steel again and into the small collection of papers. Pulling what he needed out, he reached forward and watched as his left hand grabbed at the top of her hair and the right hand drug the scerrated knife deep into the middle of her larynx. His hand sawed away at the muscle, tendon and tissue until it began to saw through bone. With a handful more strokes, he pulled her head off and sat it on the top of his handlebars. Making sure to pick up his identification out of her hands, he set his feet to the pedals and let his hand rev the shifter. He gave a kiss to the helmet he'd placed ontop of the severed head and rode off down the street towards Riverview Market.

"What...the....****...", he thought to himself.

[Psyche]

As he sat in his chair in Masterpiece Tattoo, rubbing the temples of his cleanly shaven tattooed head, Psyche watched the courtyard through the florescent light of the shop's front window. Blue, cold eyes scanned over the multitude of wandering passer-bys window shopping throughout the market. Hopefully no one would come bothering him, as there was no telling in his state what he'd wind up doing. For reasons unknown, his emotions were erratic and imbalanced. For some reason or another, everything seemed to piss him off to no end. Luckily, it seemed like business was slow tonight and no one else was lingering in the shop; leaving him to sit in peace.

With nothing going on, he sat back in the chair, letting his head roll back and stare at the ceiling as his eyes slowly rolled backwards until only whites were visible. Psyche's mind began to reach out telepathically, scanning over the electronic wavelengths of data and reading over the new postings to the CrowNet forums. Searching in the restricted boards of the faction, he found a thread that caught his eye. This candidate seemed awfully attached to particular members of the faction. His spidey-sense started tingling like a rampage on this one. He'd seen respectful, appreciative, even adoration...this seemed like an intense emotional attachment. Questioning the motives, he allowed his mind to place letters on the projected screen his mind displayed.

Obviously nothing was going to be occurring tonight. Walking over to the door, he locked up and turned off the lights before returning to his seat. Allowing himself to zone out into nothingness, he slowly faded into sleep.


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Pale blue eyes, slowly opened to the scene of large, expansive space and a mass of vine-covered stone walls. Where the.... the Dead Zone? Seriously? How the **** did he get here? Was he actually sleepwalking? Was that even possible for a vampire? Didn't people normally dream when they did that? Instead of the seat in the shop, he sat at his desk in front of the computer screen. Damn. This weird **** really needed to stop.

Upon closer inspection of the computer screen, the display showed the current violations list....and there he was. Ah ****....this wasn't good. He needed to check the faction forums and see if any word of this had leaked yet. They watched far too closely for it to have gone unnoticed....

Faction....secti...wait....recent post from Psyche? Click click click...

Oh ****. There on the response forums, the particular candidate had expressed her concerns and displeasure in being asked repeat questions of such things and just who he suspected would, came to the defense. It would appear in his 'blackout' status he had re-addressed his own displeasure with both parties and quite un-tactfully, no less.

Damnit....what is this mess.

[Psyche]

This was beginning to become some serious bullsh*t. He ended up spending most of the next day going back and forth with Micah and various other parties. If the end-game was to show his ***, he was going Full Monty at this point. There comes a point when one should see the "Insert Foot In Mouth" neon sign appear. Apparently he either didn't have one of those or forgot how to use it. Finishing up a post, he slammed the keyboard an gave a victorious laugh, "A HAAAA!" a half-grin painted on his face as he spun in a circle on his chair at the computer desk. It was more a show of how dense he was being, as any comment he'd made had won him nothing.

Grabbing his leather vest off the back of the chair, Psyche started on his way out on the town. He couldn't stay in one place long...surely the hunt would be on for him soon. He'd heard word of just how bad his antics had become; several incidents of killing law enforcement had both been reported and deleted. Surely there had to be something he could do with this situation. Right? YES! As he walked the streets up into the northern parts of town, he observed the theater.

"Well, how the hell did I not think of this?", smacking his head in a burst of amused shame. "We need dinosaurs..."

Why not, right? He'd been killing cops for nights straight ... been snide and revolting against his faction. His line pretty much established he was an idiot. He was sure the hunting party would begin soon. So? Yes... he needed some Jurassic Park. Waltzing into the building, he observed a lone customer chewing on popcorn, intensely mesmerized by the same usual scene of the T-Rex running through the park. Why was everyone always afraid of the T-Rex? Cuz it was big? Because it was a notorious predator? The velociraptors had the smarts and the hunting prowess to be the real monsters. I suppose it's hard to see past the shiny bright lights...

"You mind if I sit here?...Good view, ya know?", Psyche grinned with as uch charm as he could attempt to muster as he pointed two seats away from the man.

"Sure. Knock yourself out." The guy kept looking forward, but it was apparent this tattooed, biker circus-freak character was making him just a bit nervous.

"Thank, boss."