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[Cosimo Alessi (DELETED 6612)]

The Italian was frustrated.

He didn’t know it. There were small mistakes that he made in his nightly business; he went to Ivory Towers but rarely ran into anyone. He didn’t look for anyone – just checked in. There was no blaming anyone else for zero contact; he could blame himself. He’d been spending a lot of time with Athena, and maybe he’d neglected his family somewhat in the process. They’d have good reason not to contact him. Maybe they thought he didn’t want to be bothered.

Pushing long fingers through his hair, he checked his phone. There were no messages. He flicked through the contacts, his thumb lingering over Elizabeth’s number. Once upon a time, his sire would summon him at odd times. Spontaneously. Without warning. He’d liked it – he hadn’t ever complained. He wondered why she had stopped. A sigh hissed through his nostrils and he turned the phone off. He stood in the middle of the rooftop garden – it was snowing again, but he didn’t run out into it this time. Not to play in it, anyway.

Instead, he took the elevator down to the ground and went out into the park, his hands pushed steadfastly into his pockets. His collar was pulled up around his neck, and the scuffed leather of his shoes crunched in the fresh snow. Only momentarily did he stop on the pavement to stare up – to watch the white flecks float so peacefully to the ground, descending out of the blackness. It was, truly, beautiful.

He’d circled around the water that had pooled from the river, and crossed the road toward Hammer and Tongs pub. Why? He wasn’t entirely sure. Except that he craved food. He wanted food. In this kind of weather – in the cold, he remembered eating his mother’s homemade soup. Something hot, to soothingly slide over his tongue, and down his throat. Something that wasn’t blood. Maybe they had food at the pub. Maybe, stubbornly, he could try.

Or maybe he was just clinging to the hope that there’d be a bartender there. One who listened. Could he rant at a bartender? Was it sad, that he was thinking about it? That he didn’t feel like he had anyone else he could go to? No friends whose doorsteps he could show up on, unannounced, whose couches he could lounge on when he felt like he couldn’t be at home. Or when he was alone, because Athena was busy.

He told her that he spent the time with family. He didn’t tell her that he spent the time alone. He already feared she thought he was boring – what would she think of him if she thought he did nothing with his time but spend it alone?

There was nothing in the pub that he could eat, or drink, without throwing it back up, but he went straight to the counter anyway. He took a stool and removed his jacket, to lay it on the stool beside him. The bartender shook his head when Cosimo asked for a Limoncello. Cosimo frowned, and asked for a glass of the finest red wine instead, as well as some Arancini balls. They wouldn’t be as good as the ones in Italy, he assumed. Nothing would be as good as it was in Italy. But he didn’t care.

The bartender took his order and wandered off. Cosimo sighed, and glanced around the pub – not full, but not empty. What the hell was he doing here?

[Teagan (DELETED 7350)]

What am I doing here? I sit up a little straighter in my chair, feigning confidence I'm not feeling. I'm sitting at a small table in the corner, my hands stuffed in the pockets of my leather jacket. Were stuffed in my jacket. I push back the curtain nature gave me, pushing it behind my ear so I can survey the room. I'm not obvious about it and I don't take in details. My head is still slightly bowed towards the now empty glass sitting in front of me, my legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle. I look casual. Maybe I look like I belong here, even if I don't feel it. I take in a dozen people in the place, bartender included. There might be a few more people outback. Maybe someone in the toilets. Ten males, two females. I don't glance at the door. I'm not expecting anyone.
My curtain falls back into place. I don't remember shaking my head or combing my fingers through the pink strands but I probably did. I don't have my hood up and my hair is the next best thing to shield me from the world. It's longer than it should be for a fighter. (That's what I am now, what they made me). Too long for a fighter, too short to be tied back. A hinderence. A liability. It's fitting. That's what I am. They should have seen that.
My free hand reaches into my inside pocket and pulls out my phone. I place it on the table. I've looked at the thing half a dozen times since I arrived. I don't know why, only one person has the number. I fiddle with it. Unlock it. Double check I have no messages as I stare blankly at the screen. No messages. No missed calls. Why do I have this thing? One word; Tayden. They took all the belongings I had n me that night, my phone included. That one had numbers in it. Plural. Contacts mainly. I hate that they have it. This one replaces my old one. Same number. At least no-one will be ringing them. I wonder for the hundredth time if they know about Tay. If they listened to the messages he left me. I hope not. I hope they dumped the thing. I lock the screen and shove the thing back in its pocket. It's on. It's working. If Tay needs me, he can reach me. That's really all I care about.
Now idle fingers trace a name carved into the table top. It's not my name. I didn't do it. I could add to it though. I consider pulling the small blade I have concealed in my boot out so I can do just that, but I don't. I don't want to draw attention to myself. I should go to the bar, order a drink. Order something. They might ask me to leave if I don't. I wouldn't blame them if they did. I'd go somewhere else. Walk maybe. But it's cold outside. Not that I really care. That's an excuse. Feeling anything means I'm alive. I need reminding if that occasionally.
One block over. Nearest entrance. I know this and the thought echoes in my mind again. I hate that I know this. I hate that I care. I should go looking for them. Hunt them down. They deserve it. But I'm not strong enough yet. I escaped, but I didn't. I still train daily. Still work on getting better. Now it's for me. I won't be their puppet. I won't do what they want. What they say I should do. They took a piece of me and I didn't have much left of me when they did. They shattered a broken girl. There's no honour in that. There's no honour in them. I need to take back what they took. Take back back what everyone took. Repair me. And I will. One day.

[Otis (DELETED 7571)]

Wandering. Always, Otis found himself wandering. Calls here and there, pulling and tugging, demanding his attention. They threatened his state of mind as much as they allured it. Cold wind, biting at his fingers, but he couldn't feel the cold like he could before. A woman's voice, and the world blurred and tipped. Staggering, he caught himself on the wall and tried to figure out where he was. Fighting through the chaos of flying thoughts, his vision cleared long enough to display a lonely street, frost fighting to display it's brilliance in the corner of a window. Warmth, light, and need. Thoughts blurred by consumed drink, but some were clear enough to call, to pull. Otis was pulled.

"Rough hands, working hands, leading, tugging, want to forget, forget... Warmth, a kitchen, her face, wrinkled with age, smiling, sliding soup.. Want to.. rant... hear my voice, so lonely, she doesn't know..." The mumbled words were muffled by the black material of his face mask, hood casting long shadows of what remained visible of his face. Tugging his glove down to the meat of his thumb, he dug a finger against the flesh, swaying from side to side. "Nice face, good bones, hope he buys me a drink." He dug harder, drawing blood, then pushed the sides until something wriggled out of the open wound. "Too many colors, too much... dizzy, drowning, it hurts, but the pain is less now..." Yanking sharply, he flicked the maggot away and pulled his glove down again.

Hammer and Tongs. The name flicked in and out of his thoughts, not his thoughts, but clear as if they were. Like a dog on a leash he was pulled again, the elbow of his duster scraping along the wall. Some unfortunate piece he'd picked off a distracted mans cot in a shelter. He wouldn't miss it. He hated the thing, but his sister made him wear it. Otis was doing him a favor by taking it. "What am I doing here?" It wasn't his thought, but others, so much so at the same time that he physically stumbled with the weight of it. The door caught him, and then it didn't. It was all Otis could do not to land on his face as he half fell into the bar. He found himself shuffling over to a table, as if bidden. If he looked left, he could see the bar, and to the right another table, a woman with pink hair occupying it. The one before him, though, was what had him approaching. Dark hair pulled back, more makeup than face on the girls... face. Her doe like eyes lifted at his approach, wary but smiling in the way one did when they hoped they were about to get a drink on the house. He caught himself on the tables edge, his eyes sliding to the girl to his right. Pink hair, like candy.

"Not mine. A name, one to add to. Letters carved in a table, a flick of the knife, could dig, dig..." He faltered, then looked back at the girl before him. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off, speaking in a hurried, hushed tone and swaying unevenly. "Cold steel, brushing, burning, a hurt deeper than flesh. He's smiling, wicked, cruel, wants to hurt, hurt as much as he hurts, thinks it's me...." He lowered his head, his voice clearing. Less distracted. "It's not your fault... he was bad. He wanted to make you hurt, because you looked like her. Because she left. She left because of him, not because of you. She.. wanted to take you... but he wouldn't let her..." The woman's eyes went wide and glassy, her mouth working, but Otis was already shuffling away, stumbling to the bar, and then into the bar. It seemed to take a great effort to pull himself onto the stool.

He barely seemed to notice the man beside him, at first. Then he spoke, at first too low to hear properly. "Soft, warm, familiar, it slides down the tongue and burns. Burns with memories. Want to remember. Eat to remember... Memories aren't in food." The last part, clearer than the rest, and he shifted, always moving in his seat, unable to sit still.

[Cosimo Alessi (DELETED 6612)]

As Cosimo waited, he found himself admiring the other patrons of the tavern. Was admiring the right word? There was a girl with bright pink hair. With hair like that, one could assume that she was a happy person, but she didn’t look happy. She looked like she was going to stay and sleep here. Was she drunk? Was she drowning some sorrow or another? There were a few like that, scattered around the interior. Loners, drinking. Drinking alone. There were some pairs, but even they looked sullen. Was this one of those end of the road type places? The kind that attracted the lonely and the ones in despair?

Cosimo only really recognised these kinds of places from the outside – when he’d done his stint as a homeless man on the streets, he’d needed food. These kinds of places had attracted him, when he was down and out. But he wasn’t down and out anymore, was he? The more he became aware of his fellow drinkers, the more he regretted coming here.

He was not one of these people. He had a woman that he loved. He had a home to go to. He had a sire who cared. And he had progeny he should get to know better. Why was he here alone, when he had a multitude of people he could call? But before he could get up and leave, the wine was placed down in front of him; the bartender wanted payment, and Cosimo handed it over. May as well stay, now. He stared at the wine, wondering whether he should try; he lifted it to his nose, taking a long breath in. If anything, the smell was enough.

Except that the smell was soon tainted. Tainted by the scent of decrepitude. A man had landed on the stood beside Cosimo – he looked homeless. He looked homeless, and he acted drunk. Once upon a time Cosimo might have moved to a table, rather than stay at the bar. He’d have got away from the distracting stench, and he’d have let the homeless man become someone else’s problem. Having hit rock bottom himself, however, he fought the urge to leave and instead turned his full attention on the man.

”Are you okay?” he asked, his Italian accent thick. The guy didn’t look okay. He sounded undeniably insane.

[Teagan (DELETED 7350)]

I cringe. I can't help it. The guy that just came makes me want to run away. Drunks are not something I do well with. I realise the irony of this seeing as I'm in a bar but there's drunk and then there's drunk, and this guy seems to be well past his limit. He's seated at the bar and I assume he's meeting the guy that's sat next to him. The pair look worlds apart but then who am I to judge. Nobody, that's who. I'm now torn between getting another drink and leaving. The rational side of me tells me to stay. I don't want to go home yet. If I did, I'd be there already. I don't want to infect Tayden with my melancholy if he's there. He deserves to be happy. This is the place to be depressed in. I'm in good company here. Or at least I think I am. I was. I'm not so sure now. The irrational side of me is telling me to get up and go. Leave. Go anywhere that's away from here. Go someplace safe. Drunk people are not safe. They don't think. They just do.
I steel myself in my seat. I'm stronger than I used to be. More prepared. It's the one thing those freaks did right. Or wrong, since I intend to pay them back for doing what they did to me. I don't need to fear one guy. Or two even. If they're human that is. The chances that they are, are good. There can't be that many like me in the city. There can't be too many vampires either. Yes. I know what lurks in the darkness. And oddly I don't fear it. For the most part. The ones like me I fear, they're crazy. The monsters, not so much. Not that monsters can't be crazy, of course they can be, but the ones I've met have been good. Kind even. I'm sure there are bad monsters out there. Ones that deserve death at the hands of the crazies, but if there are, I haven't met any yet.
I can't help but watch the guys at the bar. I can't hear them from here but I can read their body language. Or at least I can try. I need to know the new guy is settled before I go to the bar. I don't want to draw his attention. I don't want to draw any attention. Attention isn't for people like me. I like to be in the background. I like not being known. Not being seen.

[Otis (DELETED 7571)]

“Are you okay?”

Even when someone didn’t want to be polite, even when their every sense wanted to recoil, some were just too stubborn. Or perhaps stubborn enough. Rocking forward, Otis’ chest touched the edge of the bar ever so lightly. His gloved hand grazed the counter top, head bowed, not acknowledging the bartenders stare. “They don’t often wear hats in Oklahoma. It’s funny. She sent her the hat from there, but it’s an ugly thing. She want’s to send it back, but what if it’s too rude? What if the old lady’s heart fails, and always asking what if it all happened over a silly hat?” He bowed his head further, shivering. “Moth eaten, moths, eat. He opened the cereal, and so many flew out. A cloud of gray and silent wings. He wouldn’t eat cereal after that.” He paused for a beat, and slowly, like some sort of eerie doll in a movie, turned his head. Stormy gray eyes caught the light under his hood, and something twitched under the flesh of his left eyebrow. “Someone’s okay, or not okay, but they lie when they say they’re great, and saying they’re okay is just a way to lie when they’re really not, but they don’t have the heart to lie properly. I’m-...” He lowered his head, and started to rock again. “Gin...” He repeated this word a second, then a third time, until the bartender seemed to realize it was a request for a drink and promptly sent to work.

Idly, forgetting his drink already, Otis continued to murmur. “You’re Italian.. But the language doesn’t matter. It comes in ways that make the language unimportant. Bits and pieces, like rocks in a fast moving current. They come and go. They’re different though. The old ones. Their voice hurts. An old, sad song, like nails on the granite, clawing, gripping.” He reached up, yanking on a loose strand of thin, wispy hair, almost transparent. “Memories aren’t in food. You can’t remember a thing better by forcing it. The body rejects, refuses, but we try, still..” He flinched and covered his mouth, though it was already covered in cloth. Quiet, stifled coughs wracked his body so harshly he nearly lay over the bar. As they faded, he reached for the glass of alcohol that was slid over to him. He cradled it without drinking, his breaths coming out in ragged, wet sounding gasps. When the tender cleared his throat, Otis shoved a tattered looking ten dollar bill towards him, waving off the offered change. “Better in her lunch. She hopes for garlic fingers tomorrow.” The bartender made a puzzled sort of face, but pocketed the overdone tip and carried on his way.

[Cosimo Alessi (DELETED 6612)]

The man ranted and raved. None of it made any sense, except for the request that he barked at the bartender several times over. There were limits to Cosimo’s care. He could be kind, but he didn’t drop everything to help a stranger, especially one who appeared to be beyond help. A homeless man who’d probably been this way for a very long time. Maybe others had tried to help him in the past. Or maybe he had someone who did help him, someone who tried. Whatever the case, Cosimo’s food was delivered and he did not want it to be tainted by the man and his decrepit smell.

With the wine in one hand and the Arancini balls in the other, he nodded to the crazy man. ”I hope that you have a good night,” he said. He could take care of himself enough to order his own gin. If he sought help, he could seek it. In the meantime, Cosimo found himself a booth. It was nearby the girl with the pink hair; he caught her eye for a second or two. He wondered if she judged him from walking away from the crazy man. But he wasn’t doing anything that most other occupants of the Earth would do. There was a small amount of guilt but not enough to eat at him. He’d come to this bar with intentions; to figure out his own minimal problems. To perhaps find someone to talk to about them. To regurgitate them, with the food.

The Arancini balls were well prepared – they weren’t too oily, but were sitting in a mesh bowl in a nest of paper. They were sprinkled with subtle spices, a bed of lettuce beneath. Just garnish that he would not eat. Taking one of the crisped balls between his fingers, he lifted it to his lips. It was still hot, but not unbearably so. Finally, he put it between his teeth and bit down. He chewed on his single mouthful, eyes closing as he hummed his obvious pleasure.

No, they weren’t as good as his mother could have made, but they were still good. It was still food, when he hadn’t eaten in months. There was even a heightened sense of taste. He forgot about everything; he forgot about the crazy man at the bar and whether or not it was right to leave him at the bar. He was only concerned with the food, in that moment. Not in the future, when he would be throwing it back up again. But only the taste. Remembering it. Savoring it.

[Teagan (DELETED 7350)]

I catch the eye of one of the guys from the bar when he moves, leaving the drunk alone. I really do need to go get another drink but I'd rather wait till the other guy leaves. If he leaves. I sigh when I see the bartender give him a drink. I know I look a little weird sitting here alone and without a drink. Though maybe not as weird as the guy with the food. I'd admit that up close he's actually not bad looking but that would mean I paid attention, and I didn't. I didn't. I don't pay attention to what guys look like. I'm not interested. It's just difficult not to notice some people.
I fold my arms and look at the bartender. He looks my way, which means I should get up and go order a drink before he comes to collect the empty glass in front of me. I like him behind the bar, away from me.
I stand up and walk to the end of the bar, keeping my distance from the drunk. If I cared I'd lecture the barman about serving a guy that seems to already be over the limit. But I don't care. So long as he stays away from me, I'll be fine. I'm as far away from him as possible when I place my order. Cider. It's not really the weather for it but it's what I have a taste for. I should drink wine. I do drink wine. I just don't fancy that right now. I fancy the cider.
The barman asks if I want ice and I shake head. Ice is for the warmer months. I was half tempted to order a coffee. Or a hot chocolate. Hot chocolate really isn't a pub drink though. Then again. Neither is coffee. I should have gone to an internet cafe. Less drunks. More anti-social people.
I'm waiting for my drink and now having finished dissecting my choice of beverage I start to wonder what I should do about my job. I can keep cleaning or I could go rob those freaks in the sewers and see about getting a small business loan. Part one is actually the easier part of this plan, as I know where their weapons stores are and where I'm likely to find some cash. Part two requires me making a decision about the kind of business I want to start up, how Tayden will be involved and where I should set up shop? Then I'd need to write up a business plan and apply for a loan. I don't have anything I can put up as collateral and I'm not the sort to sell my body. You have to enjoy the touch of a man, or woman, for that to be a viable vocation. Perhaps I could enter an amateur boxing competition. There must be something like that out there.
I'm not paying attention to my surroundings as I consider all this. My fingertips are tracing patterns in the woodgrain of the bar top in front of me. My head is down, but there's nothing unusual about that fact. I don't often adopt a welcoming posture. When strangers are lost on the streets, I'm not the sort of person people ask for help. I'm the one they avoid. Thankfully.

[Otis (DELETED 7571)]

They never understood. Always, drunk was what they thought. Drunk, high, or on some substance that made him abnormal. Wrong. Why couldn’t they understand? Why couldn’t they know that all he wanted was to help? It was all he had left, after letting so much of his own self be swept away. He rocked forward, still speaking to the man as he stepped away. Somehow, though his voice was low, it still carried well. “You can’t pretend forever. You can’t cling to food memories. She doesn’t live in the food, she lives in the soul. It hurts, and you make the hurt worse. You hurt yourself because you think you deserve it. Everyone has something, something that makes them think they’re less. You don’t deserve the hurt. The sick..”

He rocked forward, so far his forehead almost touched his untouched drink. Then he shook his head ever so lightly from side to side. “No, no.. It’s not working. I’m saying it wrong, all wrong. Too late to try again, it’s already moving. The rivers flowing to the next dependent like a train into the next stop.” He leaned forward again, and just before his head would touch the drink, he was suddenly gone. It was akin to the sensation of someone blinking, and between the instance of one blink to the other something changing. The barman, who’d had his back turned, looked completely bewildered. Shrugging, he picked up the untouched drink and turned away to clean it. By the time he’d turned to clean the counter, Otis was suddenly in his seat again, staring at the empty bar. The bartender literally jumped in shock, dropping the glass with a loud shatter of glass. “My drink left me again... It never listens when I tell it to stay still. Couldn’t have drunk it anyway.” Otis looked up at the completely confused tender. “I didn’t drink it, I swear.” The man shook his head and poured Otis a second drink. After a moment of hesitation he additionally poured himself a light drink as well. Otis stared at the contents of his glass, and continued his rocking, hands clasped over his lap innocently.

[Cosimo Alessi (DELETED 6612)]

The madman’s voice carried, but the words were all jumbled together. Cosimo did not think that they were directed at him. Instead, he was swimming around in his memories. Maybe if he had been paying attention, maybe if he’d approached the man and asked him to try to clarify, maybe they’d be able to have some sort of semi-coherent conversation. But Cosimo was not in the mood for puzzles or riddles.

Instead of puzzling or riddling, he remembered. It was one of the last times that he’d enjoyed his mother’s company; she was always happy when she was in the kitchen. Or, at least she was happier than she was elsewhere. The sadness still lurked beneath the surface, but it was not something that she got help for. She just let it linger, and eat away at her soul.

At fifteen, Cosimo did a lot of running around. He went out to play soccer with his friends, but it was never so innocent as that. The neighbourhood was tainted with riff-raff; one of the boys had started to brew his own alcohol in a house that was barely a home. There was an abandoned dock they used to go to; not just the boys, but girls, too. Girls who had no loose morals and who, at that age, wanted to experiment.

But on this day, Cosimo was not out with his friends. He was at home with his mother, who so often reminded him how women should be treated. She knew exactly what he was up to, and it was only now that Cosimo realised she was not as oblivious as he had thought her to be. He was the man he was today due to his mother’s silent administrations. The advice had sunk into his subconscious. He didn’t remember what his mother had been telling him that day; but he remembered the way her fingers looked, rolling the rice and the cheese and mushrooms together, and the way she dipped the little balls into the flour and dried crumbs.

He had lost her not long after. She had drowned herself in the river, and Cosimo’s life had changed – her death was the snowball and he just continued to roll down that hill.

Coming clear of his memories, he didn’t want to waste the risotto balls, nor the taste of them. After that first slow mouthful, he started to eat quickly, scoffing the food as if he hadn’t eaten for months. And, well – he hadn’t eaten for months.