G h o s t + T o w n
ooc: post backdated to july
Anton Verrais: Overtime. Again. For the fifth time this week. Needless to say, Anton was getting a tad fed up with the workload. He worked as an intern at a magazine. At best, he got to enter his own articles and columns. At worst (which was quite often what he wound up with)... he was the man to call for the grunt work. Filing, researching, getting the senior journalists and writers their morning coffees. Yes. He was the coffee-run guy. But in the end, it was all worth it to him. Continuing to work there meant having his tuition paid, and guaranteed him a real position as a full time columnist once he graduated. What more could he ask for? At this rate… he had it made.
The past week, however, had been a nightmare. Every year, the magazine did ‘toplists’ of their greatest moments. Top ten funniest articles, top ten articles that made your mind numb, that sort of thing. Readers seemed to enjoy it, so it had become a tradition. While fun to read… it was not so fun to prepare. Most of the journalists working there were already busy organizing and prepping the anniversary edition of the magazine, leaving the lower-downs to grind through the past year of issues, down to every last word, to compile them all for the toplists. If, of course, they made it at all. It was a near herculean task, and even with the help of four or five other interns, they were still kept into the night every single day of the week. Today was the due date for all of the articles, and, though it was getting on six hours past when he was supposed to be off work… they got it done. Now, however, it was nearing ten at night, and he was barely halfway home. The sun had fallen, the streets had quieted, some. Normally, it took him about an hour to walk home from work. On that route, he took all of the main streets, sticking to the more populated and lighted areas. No city was completely safe at night, and when he had to come home late, he was not too keen on passing through the… shadier parts of town.
Still, this week had been different. Every night, he had been kept so late, that he just wanted to be home as quickly as he could. Taking his chances, he had chosen the shorter route back to his apartment - cutting through alleys, side streets, even one back yard of an abandoned house. He was lucky he knew the streets well enough to do so. It shaved off a good fifteen or twenty minutes from his usual trek. Nothing bad had happened to him, which, in truth, eased his nerves some about taking this route more often. Perhaps he merely had it in his head that it was a sketchy area. Perhaps it really was merely lacking the light of the main streets, but little else. Ironically, however, it could not have been five seconds after thinking those thoughts, that he slowed his pace, slightly. A group of men, four in total, were gathered in the shadow of a stairwell. They did not seem to notice him, yet, but… they did not seem like the friendliest bunch. Two of them were smoking, one of the cigarettes being passed back and forth between a second man. They were all clad in hoodies black as pitch, with jeans and sweatpants of matching color to their tops. Were the ashes at the end of the butts not glowing amber, Anton might not have noticed them at all. With that in mind… he wondered if it would truly matter if he walked right by. Maybe they were just a couple of teenagers, sneaking out at night. He did it, himself, back home. Not to do exactly what they were doing, but he loved getting out at night with his friends. Keeping that fresh in his mind, he took a deep breath, and began to silently walk along the opposite side of the street from them.
The street he needed to turn onto was immediately next to the group, but there was a way around. If he walked further down the block, there was an alleyway that he could cut through, before finally reconvening on his path another black or two down. It was a bit of a detour, but… it would avoid the unknown band. Even with his thoughts being kept positive, Anton had no desire to find out if he was wrong. Taking one last look back, he-- his head quickly jerked back around, in front of him. His eyes widened, and his pace quickened, just slightly.
One of them was looking back at him, when he tried to glance over.
Don’t panic, he thought to himself. They were probably just looking around. Just like me. Regardless of what they might have been doing, the eye contact sent a chill through Anton’s spine. Had they noticed he was watching them? What if they did? Now at a fairly brisk pace, he was closing the distance between himself and the alley rather quickly. Good. Anything to be out of sight of those men. He crossed the street as he drew nearer and nearer, not even thinking to look back. He was not going to risk it. He might be simply paranoid, but right now, he didn’t care. His mind was playing far too many possibilities through, too many potential dangers he could have been getting himself into. Finally, he reached the alley, slipping swiftly out of sight. Only at that point did he let his tensed breath slip away from his lips, let his posture relax just slightly. He still wanted to move more quickly than usual, but he could at least enjoy a brief reprieve from his fear.
The end of the alley was drawing close. Soon, he would be back on his path, and forget about what lay behind him. A light chuckle even escaped his lips, at that thought. People made eye contact all the time. What was he so afraid of? They probably didn’t even flinch. The night does some crazy things to people. That was all this was. Just a little paranoid episode. With a smile on his face from those thoughts.., shaking his head in amusement… He almost walked face first into the man in front of him. A man clad in black hoodie and jeans, arms crossed, staring him down.
Anton’s heart must have skipped two or three beats, as his eyes reflexively widened, and he took a step back. His mouth opened, trying to stammer out a reply. “O-oh, sorry sir! I-I wasn’t watching where I was going, sorry. I’ll just… s-squeeze by you here…” ****. This was them, no doubt about it. But where were the others? There were four, he knew there were. He hardly had time to think about that, however, as his attempt to slip by the man was blocked by a second rounding the corner. Well then. There was thug number two. As his mind began piecing it together… he figured he knew where the other two were. Now taking steps back again, he turned his head over his shoulder. Sure enough… there they were. Stalking up the path from whence he had come. They had him flanked. Cornered. Trapped. Doubtless… exactly where they wanted him to be.
The man who had initially stopped him took a step forward, as the others spread out to block any paths past him. The first man’s gaze slipped down to the grey messenger bag Anton had slung over one shoulder, and his raspy, smoker’s voice rumbled out.
“What’s in the bag?” He asked, simply. Anton knew better than to think he was truly merely curious about the contents. He raised his hands as though to indicate he meant no trouble, but instead replied with,
“It’s just some stuff from work, man. Nothing really interesting.” God, he hoped that would be enough. Somehow, he doubted it.
“Show me,” came the reply. “Open the bag, pour it on the ground, and step away.” The men behind Anton had drawn closer, now, only a few strides away.
“Look, I told you, it’s nothing important, okay? Just… let me go, and we’ll forget this ever--” Anton was interrupted by the man pulling the hem of his hoodie up, revealing the silver glint of the edge of a blade. The guy had a knife!
“I said… open it.” He did not seem in the mood to take a single ounce of **** from him.
“Y-yeah, okay,” Anton stuttered back. “Don’t worry, I’m opening it right now, see?” Trying to keep his hands from shaking, he reached to the strap of the bag, and slowly started to pull it over his shoulder, off of his body. Would they really let him go, after this? What if they didn’t want anything from the bag? Would they get annoyed, and take it out on him? They wouldn’t want him calling the cops on them or anything… so why let him go? ****. **** **** ****. Anton was trying, truly trying not freak out, but he could feel the panic rising within him. He had to do something. He couldn’t let this be the way he goes out. Not on some stupid back alley mugging that went south. Trying to think on his feet, his pupils rapidly scanned the men in front of him, and more briefly, behind him. Backtracking was never going to happen. By the time he turned, they would be all over him. Going dead ahead didn’t seem overly promising, either… but at least only one of the men were actually guarding the exit. The one talking to him was getting ready to examine the contents. At least, it looked that way. It seemed he didn’t honestly have much other choice, however. It was either this or leave his fate in their hands. He liked the first option substantially more.
Before even taking the time to consider just what his plan was… his body started to move. It was too late to stop it. The plan was stupid, and would probably fail, but he had to do something. As he begun to make it appear as though he was lowering the bag from his shoulder, he suddenly grunted hard, and swung it at hard as he could. The bag itself was soft, but the books and writing utensils were… not so much. He was aimed straight for the head of the man waiting on him. Luckily for him, the man chose to reach for his knife first. By the time he had slipped it from his belt, the bag connected. It hit him clean in the jaw, knocking him to the side, and making him stumble up against the wall. It did not bring him down, but it at least gave Anton a moment’s headstart. Releasing the bag on impact, he began to sprint forward, trying to clear the other man before he could truly do anything about it. He was fast, it was possible. He just had to hope the guy didn’t have the strength to stop him in his tracks. Hopefully momentum would take care of that.
But… he didn’t even lunge for Anton. What was he doing? The man lunged to the ground, instead, and… oh, ****. Not good. The knife that was knocked out of the first man’s hand slid within grabbing distance of the second, and he already had it secured in his palm. Adrenaline surged almost thicker than the blood itself in his veins, as his legs begun to burn from the sheer force of each pump, driving him ever forward. Doubtless the men behind him were trying to catch up, now. It looked as though Anton was going to be in the clear without so much as a scratch! The second man was still straightening up. There was no way he could be tackled from that position. not effectively, anyway. He sprinted by him, letting a shock-induced laugh roll from his gut as he made it by without so much as a touch! Then again, had he been touched? His brain was so hopped up on adrenaline that he likely would not feel if he was punched in the face. His body burned with terrified excitement, as he bolted out into the street. He had run track back in highschool, and god was he ever thankful for it now. Zooming into the next alley, he was progressively putting more and more distance between himself and the muggers. His bag was left back there, but he honestly did not care, at this point. He was alive, he was home free, and he could explain what happened when next he returned to work. He did it! His plan actually worked! His sheer ecstasy kept him running for a few more blocks, before he finally began to slow down.
As he slowed, he realized that… he truly had not taken the time to identify which path he was taking. He had been running, that was all he could focus on. Now, however, he found himself in an unfamiliar area of the city. He felt like he was in a network of alleyways, all tied up between apartment buildings. The buildings themselves were a good sign. It meant he was close to the district his own home was in. But where exactly that was… he was not so sure of. Now with some time to think… He began to notice a burning feeling starting to grow on his side. Like… a cramp, maybe? No, it certainly hurt more than a cramp. The pain was sharper. Wait.. was his shirt getting wet? Was it raining? He looked down at last, wondering what could possibly be wrong, when… oh, no. His white shirt was soaked red along the side of his body, just below his ribcage. There was a tear in the fabric, not that it was truly noticeable beneath all the blood.
The man had clipped him as he ran by.
Admittedly, he was afraid to remove his shirt to see just how bad it was. Judging by the blood, it was not exactly a shallow cut. He must still have had some adrenaline in him, because he could barely feel any pain beyond the burning sensation, but he knew it would arrive soon enough. No, he needed to examine it BEFORE that time came. Trying to swallow his own fear, he hobbled closer to the shadows of the alleyway, wanting to stay out of sight as he started to gingerly remove his shirt. He had to be very careful, as the pain he was worried about kicked up any time he begun to so much as touch the cloth around the wound. Eventually, however, he got it off, and looked down. The cut was clean enough, at least. The skin was certainly sliced, rather than torn, which… if he remembered correctly, made stitching it much easier. Stitching it, yes, that was what he was forgetting. He needed to call someone about this! He certainly did not have the knowledge to mend this, himself. And besides, he didn’t know how much blood loss would be too much. He wasn’t sure how fast he was losing it, or how urgent this was. He needed to call an ambulance. As he began patting his pockets for his phone, he cursed under his breath. He left it in his bag, that night. The one time he chose not to keep it in a pocket. Of course. Irony is a cruel mistress.
Now feeling the waves of weariness starting to wash over him as more adrenaline left his system, he let his head gently touch back against the stonework of the apartment base. He needed to get home, but… he just needed a minute. He was out of breath, tired, and injured. He would sit here for a minute or two, recover, and then finish the job. The worst, after all, was out of the way, right? He closed his eyes at that, and let himself laugh a little more. Laughing would keep his spirits up, even if it was half hearted and quiet.
Clover: One. Two. Three. One: They stood with their feet shoulder-width apart. Two: They raised both arms in the air, making a sweeping motion like a delicate flourish, and slowly lowered themselves so they could wrap both hands around their right ankles. Three: They regained their composure and repeated the flourish with their arms, but then they bent down to wrap their hands around their left ankles. Clover led the class in their daily exercises. Every other member of the class had already taken a turn, so she had no choice in the matter. She stood in front of the other dancers, her back to them, and focused on inhaling and exhaling in time with her movements.
Contemporary dance had become the most important thing in her life. She relied on the practices to keep time. She relied on the practices to keep sane. Outside of her dance classes, she spent her free time dancing. The instructors had taken notice and they had complimented her on her dramatic improvement, but their praise meant absolutely nothing. No one understood how much dancing meant to her; no one understood how much depended on her newfound hobbies.
Clover had two other dances classes and a yoga class, but contemporary dancing held her attention and wormed its way into her heart. The class required movements borrowed from other specialties and pure imagination. When Clover danced, she wanted to look and feel as fluid as possible. She wanted to let go of everything, every outside stressor and responsibility placed upon her shoulders. She needed some way to release, and dancing gave her that opportunity.
Several of the girls had a presentation, Clover included. While the first girl stepped to the center of the floor, Clover followed the rest of the girls to the edges of the room. The others watched the presentation, but Clo chose to overlook the display to dig through her duffel bag. She had a water bottle, a towel, her cell phone--she had normal things that any other girl would have carried in her bag. She took the water bottle out and sprinkled some drops into her palms so that she could spread the liquid over her brow. When it was her turn, she wanted to look as if she’d exerted herself to the point of sweating.
One by one, the girls performed their dances. Some of them chose to dance to classical music, while others chose to perform to more modern music. Clover watched them dip and glide across the length of the room, but she wasn’t as impressed. Their dances meant absolutely nothing to her. She went to the Ballet Company for herself, not for the rest of them. She had no team spirit and no team spirit was required. She had to wonder if being in Fforde had hardened her to the idea of getting along with others. While she had trouble with other vampires, she also had trouble with other humans. She had trouble with the world, or so it seemed.
“And next is Clover. It’s your turn, dear.” The instructor had a way of using terms of endearments, nicknames that had Clover wanting to claw at her own face. Instead of making a snide remark or scowling at the woman, Clo simply pushed her duffel bag aside, removed one of her socks, and made her way to the center of the floor.
Up until that point, she had never been the center of attention. True, she’d just led the class in stretches, but stretches paled in comparison to an actual display of talent. She had helped to choreograph the dance, though the dance had to include the moves that they’d all been taught in the past week-and-a-half. She’d put time and effort into her performance, probably more time and effort than all of the girls combined. The rest of the girls, ranging in age from between eighteen to thirty, either had prior experience or lacked any sort of commitment. Clover really wanted to show some part of herself through the defined movements of her body. She wanted to prove that she took the class seriously, that she took contemporary dance seriously.
The music started and she swore she felt her heartbeat in every part of her body. She felt blood rushing to her cheeks and spreading outward to her limbs. She felt flushed with the sudden surge of music. The instrumental portion of the song lasted less than ten seconds, but it felt like it lasted for an eternity. She began with her arms in fourth position, which had her right arm curled as if she were wrapping it around someone and her left arm curved in the air. As soon as a voice broke through the instrumentals, Clover twirled to her right and brought her left leg up, bending down as she did so.
Most of her dance consisted of smooth movements. They’d been taught different ways to pull imaginary items to themselves and thrust those same imaginary items away, which she did include at various points, but she liked spinning more than anything. She loved the way the world looked as she turned around and around. The colors blurred together. The faces blurred together. The song went on for just short of three minutes, one of the shortest songs of the night’s presentations, but she’d made up for the length of the song by including more motions.
Since she was the last performer of the night, the girls began to trickle out of the studio. They had other plans. They had other destinations. Clover saw them leaving and she didn’t care one way or another. The instructor remained and seemed rather interested in her performance, so Clo continued up until the last note. She pivoted on the ball of her right foot and brought her arms around in a sweeping motion so reminiscent of their recent stretching exercises. When she finally stopped, she stopped with her arms in third position, as if she were set to start all over again.
“Very nice,” the elderly instruction clapped. “You’ve been paying attention. I see promise. Why are you here, Clover?”
Clover let her arms fall to her sides. Her chest rose and fell with such an intensity that she felt as if she needed the oxygen in her lungs to survive. She wanted to hold onto the pressure in her chest. She wanted to feel as if her heart were pounding away, threatening to split her body in two. But there was nothing. Her breathing was a charade: The only rush she felt was the steady stream of air flowing up through her nostrils and down toward her lungs. Her chest felt empty. She felt heartless. She lacked life.
“I like this class,” Clover replied, shrugging her shoulders. “I needed something to fill my time and this works. I’m good at it. I’d rather be here than out there causing trouble. Making stupid decisions.”
Clover walked toward her duffel bag, her sock-covered foot absolutely silent on the wooden floor. When she got to her belongings, she bent down and unzipped the main compartment. She’d tucked her water bottle away and had her phone in its smaller section of the bag. She only had to put her other sock on her left foot and tug on her Converse. She could have walked out into the night with her cropped compression leggings and her white sports bra. Nothing would have bothered her. She didn’t even need the socks or shoes, if she were perfectly honest.
“I think you should come to another one of my classes. We have a few other students here that attend more than one class. They’ve been dancing for longer, but I think you can handle it, with some hard work.” The instructor didn’t have much else to say, so she gave Clover a flier to tuck away and said to think about it.
Clo took a moment to look over the paper the woman had handed her, if only just to check the days and times of the classes. Most of them coincided with another dance class, her hip-hop class, but Clover would have dropped that class in a heartbeat if it meant more time with contemporary dance. Frowning, she stuffed the paper deep into her duffel bag. She slipped a white racerback tank on over her sports bra and then grabbed the strap on her bag. As usual, she was the last student to leave the building. She almost felt like a latchkey kid.
When the doors of the studio swung shut behind her, she immediately noticed the change in temperature. She noticed the darkness brought on by the lack of streetlamps. Nothing in the night scared her, nothing other than hunters of her own kind. Vampires that hunted other vampires set her teeth on edge. She hadn’t been pursued by any of the sort, but she knew it happened. She knew that there were individuals, and at least one group, that felt some responsibility to uphold the masquerade, and that meant making sure others upheld the masquerade. Needless to say, Clover wasn’t one to sing praises for the masquerade; she had to really work to keep herself off the radar. So when she walked out into the night and felt the sort of uneasiness that clung to her flesh, she gripped the strap on her duffel bag and stuck to the shadows.
Her sneakers crunched along the rocks scattered across the pavement. Despite the fact that it wasn’t that late in the evening, she felt alone on the streets. She entered the River Rock station and got a prime seat on the metro. The rest of the people in the first car looked exhausted, whether they wore business attire or street attire. Of the other people in the car, she was the only one that wore exercise apparel. She rested her duffel bag across her lap and stared straight ahead, watching the platform as it disappeared from view. She could have stayed that way for the duration of the ride, but she had a wandering eye. She just had to study everyone else in the car.
A woman sat in the back of the car. She had a tight grip on two bags of groceries, one of which held fresh fruit; the other bag looked like it held random boxes and cans. Clover couldn’t really tell what was in the second bag, and she wasn’t that interested anyway. She could have focused on the two businessmen reading newspapers or the mother and child whispering in Spanish, but she focused on a group of men clad all in black. Even though there was no smoking on the metro, one of them had a cigarette lit. All four of them were looking at her in some manner. Two of them looked interested in her duffel bag and one of them looked interested in her shirt. The last man, the one smoking the cigarette, looked her right in the eyes.
Clover dubbed the man the leader of the group. While his other companions found amusement amongst themselves, moving on to pick on the businessmen or the woman and her groceries, the leader continued eyeing her and her bag. Sometimes, she swore he saw right into her soul. He had a piercing look, a threatening look. If she weren’t a vampire, she might have pissed herself. As it was, she had to remind herself that he lacked her strength and stood no chance against her. Her thoughts allowed her to lock eyes with him, silently challenging him. One by one, the other people in the car left. Right when Clover thought the four men were leaving, they moved to seats directly across from her.
“That’s a nice bag,” one of them spoke. The leader didn’t say anything to her, but she continued looking at him. What his three friends said made absolutely no difference. Clover understood how it worked because she existed in a family with a central figure. None of the limbs operated without the head. “Hey! You hear me?” The same one leaned across the aisle and snapped his fingers at her.
“You put your hand near my face again and I’m stabbing you,” she threatened. She spoke those words because she always had her weapons on hand, but she’d left them at home that night. She didn’t have a place to keep them, not on her person, and she couldn’t very well stuff them into her duffel bag. She knew that if someone were to get into her bag by mistake, she would have to explain why she carried guns around. Still, she stood by her threat, even after she realized her weaponless state. “I mean it.”
The three guys laughed, but the leader just smirked at her. He finished off his cigarette and ground the cherry tip against the edge of the plastic seat. When he leaned forward, his friends quieted their laughter. They looked ready to pounce on her and she felt ready to attack.
“You look nice tonight,” he spoke, his voice deep and throaty, as if he knew years of smoking. “What’s someone like you doing out alone at this time of night?” He had his hands resting on his knees, looking quite comfortable with the way he pried at her for answers.
“You look like ****,” she countered. Immediately, his three friends stood up, but he motioned for them to sit down. They listened to their leader, but none of them looked happy. “I like to work on my cardio.” She figured a lie would suffice, but he kept staring at her with his piercing eyes.
“Now my friends and I,” he smiled, looking to either side so he could see his friends’ faces, “we saw you leave that dance studio.”
Red flag. Warning bells. Clover lost all control and just stared at him. She looked at him as if he’d just uncovered the greatest treasure the world had ever seen. They’d followed her. He made it known that they’d followed her. She told herself she wasn’t afraid, but his words sent chills rushing down her spine. She’d been so focused on the sound of her shoes and the road ahead that she’d ignored every other part of her surroundings. She’d prioritized in the worst possible way.
“Why don’t you tell us your name, pretty lady?” One of the others cooed, reaching out as if he were going to touch her hair. Before his fingertips could reach her brown hair, she’d reached up and smacked his hand away. “That’s it!” He was reaching for his belt as if he had a weapon, but she hadn’t seen one there. No, he’d pulled up his black hooded sweatshirt to rip off his belt. He intended to beat her with his belt.
The train slowly came to stop and a bell sounded. An electronic voice announced their most recent stop just before the doors parted to reveal the station platform. Clover stood up and ducked to her right; she left the men scrambling to get out of their seats and through the closing doors. She moved faster, but they took longer strides. She couldn’t tome back to Larch. She could run, but they weren’t in a position that would benefit her running. She couldn’t lose them on a main road. As soon as she came to a system of side streets that connected into smaller alleys, she went for them. She took a right and then a left; she went in whatever direction necessary to lose them.
She could have killed them. She could have ripped them apart. She could have sunk her fangs into them and drank every last drop of blood from their pathetic bodies. Instead, she chose to cling to her recovery process. Clo chose to forgo killing and feeding from humans. When she could no longer hear their footsteps, she stopped running. She stopped in the middle of an alley and doubled over. Her duffel bag slipped from over her shoulder and landed with a thud just next to her feet. For a while, she reveled in the silence. She used the time to forget their faces and the sound of their voices. She focused on lifting the stench of cigarette smoke from her sensory memory. She inhaled and held the oxygen until her lungs burned, and then she released, exhaling the stale air back into the night. Halfway between her second deep-breathing exercise, she heard the sound of nearing footsteps.
Clover scrambled to collect her duffel bag and tucked herself into the shadows. She told herself that if one of the four men from the transit had found her, she would break her promise to herself and kill him. The murder would be bloodless. She would simply snap his neck and toss his body aside. As she waited for the person to show his or her face, Clo went through all the possible scenarios for a clean death and body disposal. It was when she caught the scent of blood that she realized her attackers probably weren’t in pursuit. Someone else emerged from the dark alleyway, someone she hadn’t seen before. Someone that was bleeding.
She stopped breathing and slapped a palm over her nose and mouth. She couldn’t stop her eyes, but she worked to stop her other senses. The smell of blood still lingered. Clover could almost taste the blood. She could taste the blood. When had she last been able to taste anything at all? She imagined the way it would feel as it slid over her tongue and coated the back of her throat.
She didn’t know when she’d loosened her grip on her duffel bag, leaving it on the ground as if it were someone else’s problem, but she knew when she took those first steps toward him. She’d given up shielding her nose and mouth, as if doing so had done any real good. Clover crept toward him, using the shadows like a second skin; she stood back and watched as he lifted his shirt. When he laughed, he startled her. He forced her to acknowledge just how close she stood to him. She could have closed the distance between them without issue.
Instead, she maintained the distance. She used the lighting to get a good look at his wound, at the way the weapon--it looked like it might have been a knife--had cut through his flesh. Clean. Not perfect, but clean. She wanted to close her arms around him and drag him into shadows deep enough that he would never surface again. Clover imagined digging her fingers into his wound and watching the way the flow of blood increased. Her mouth seemed too dry. Her thoughts moved too fast. Finally, she moved toward him. She reached out to touch his arm.
“It looks like you’re bleeding.”
Anton Verrais: First the burning. Oh, that burning. It rose like wildfire. When he had first noticed, it was but a tingle on his side. He felt funny, nothing more than that. But with every second that passed since then, the flame had grown hotter. He felt like the entire side of his body was burning to a crisp. But that was not the worst of it. Second, came the stinging. The sharpness of an agony he had never had the twisted pleasure of knowing. If he did not remember the feeling of being cut by the blade, he did now. It felt like he was being slashed open with every waking moment that passed. The wound was fresh, it still bled his crimson fluids. The cold night air was in stark contrast to the feelings it wrought on the man. He was a fighter. He had taken martial arts classes since he was a little kid. Even here, in Harpor Rock, he found a new dojo to continue his training. He was no professional, by any means, but he knew how to take a hit. But no training could have prepared him for this. They never taught you how to tough out a stab wound. Was it even a stab wound, or just a slash? God, Anton didn’t know. Frankly, he didn’t care. He just wanted the pain to stop.
But none of that mattered, right now. The pain was there, and it was there to stay. He would just have to find a way to cope with it, at least until he could get to a hospital. His mind was beginning to clear, thankfully, letting him try to think things through. He was tired, extremely tired. He must have sprinted further than he thought, because he was clueless as to which part of the city he was in. Did that matter, either? Not really. Not yet. Not right now. All that mattered was the next step. And then the next one. And the next one after that, until he made it where he needed to go. So, the first step. He needed to get up. It seemed like a good place to start. His body, however, screamed it’s unspoken plea not to move. Even shifting on the ground made him feel like his flesh was being torn open all over again. Damn it, the wound must have been deeper than he thought. He took a slow, controlled breath, letting his gaze drift down to his wound once more. He could see beyond the red, this time, now observing with a more level head. It was deep, there was no doubt about that. But for all he could remember, there was nothing too vital in that area. His lungs were fine, his heart, his stomach. He would survive this, thank god.
All that left for him, was to muster up the will to stand. It wasn’t going to kill him. He underwent endurance training in his classes before. This would just be another one of those, right? A very… bloody… version of an endurance test. The thought was not exactly a pleasing one, but it was motivational. Sugar-coating his own thoughts was hardly what he needed, after all. His hands, slightly shaking both out of blood loss, leftover adrenaline, and sheer exhaustion, clutched his legs in preparation. The first step was standing, that was all that mattered. Just… do it!
Just as he was about to make the agonizing push to get to his feet… he felt a hand on his shoulder. A voice. It said something, but his nerves were too high-strung to hear it properly. With subconscious reflexes that only training could bring (albeit still nothing phenomenal, merely above average), he started, one hand bolted up to bat the assailant’s limb away from his body. he tried to scoot away in the same motion, but it was perhaps his greatest mistake to do so. Clover might have noticed a new wave of blood roll from his wound with the action, further complimented by the anguished groan from Anton’s lips.
“****!” he growled out, having put himself in too much pain to recognize pleasantries. Still, unless the hand came in for a second assumed strike… he would finally look up. Behind him was hardly the picture he had projected within his mind. It… was a woman. She looked like she had just been out for a run, or something of the sort. Hardly another robber.
“I… sorry, I’m just… high strung.” He mumbled out, clenching his eyes shut and focusing almost all of his strength on ignoring the pain. When he opened his eyes again, he did his best to begin explaining his situation, assuming the woman would likely be wondering just what happened (regardless of whether or not she truly cared). “I got jumped a… a ways back. I don’t know how far. It uhh… well, you see what happened.” He wearily nodded downward, at his side.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a phone, would you? I think I need an ambulance… hehe…” There was so much relief shooting through his rattled brain, now seeing (hoping) that the stranger was not here to do exactly what the others did. He could not help but laugh again. It was like ecstasy to him, however brief, to feel that relief after such a drastic spike of fear and adrenaline. He wished it would last more than a few mere moments. He could use some more laughter, right about now.
Clover: Blood. So much blood. A human would have been worried about the wound. A medic would have administered some sort of first aid. He needed to apply pressure. He needed to stop the bleeding. He needed stitches. Anton needed anything but what Clover had to offer him. She could have been the type to apply pressure, to stop the bleeding, to apply any sort of first aid that he so desperately needed, but she wasn’t that type; she wasn’t the person she could have been. She was a predator and she saw nothing but prey.
When he jerked away, she focused her attention on the fresh blood dribbling down his side. She didn’t know what his face looked like. She knew nothing other than his wound and the blood that called her name. His wound whispered to her in a language she understood. Drink me. Lick me. Devour me. Her fists were clenched so tight that her nails had begun digging into her own flesh. They left deep, dark, half-moon shapes on her pale skin. She felt like a spring, like a coil, like something ready to snap. She felt like a rubberband in the midst of a tension-filled extension.
He’d cursed and she slowly dragged her eyes from the gash on his side to his face. He didn’t look well. He looked weak. The way he spoke left her hanging on his every word. “It’s fine,” she replied, shaking her head from side to side, “you have a right to be high strung. You’re in a delicate position.” Clover emphasized the word ‘delicate,’ as if she were trying to soothe him. Maybe she had expected him to find some comfort in the fact that she recognized his weakness, his vulnerability brought on by his injury.
He started telling her about what had happened and she listened. She tried to listen. Had she been curious about the origin of his injury? Perhaps. Yes. No. She didn’t care about him at all. She wanted to rescind her self-imposed sobriety. She wanted a better experience than the last hunt she’d had, the hunt that had ending in panic and fear and regret. Swallowing hard, she relaxed her hands and stretched out her fingers, flexing them a few times. In front of her, she had another opportunity. Clover saw Anton has an opportunity to right a wrong.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have a phone,” she lied, her voice deeper than it had been only moments before. She felt a familiar burning in her eyes and she knew her pupils had lengthened. Clover jerked her head to the right and kept her focus on the ground. She had to look away from him. Her pupils had gone from circular to vertical, like perfect slits in the center of her eyes; the color in her eyes, the whites of her eyes, both had bled together and shifted to a golden brown. Eyes of the beast.
She didn’t want him to look at her. Her own frustration mixed with the draw of his blood. She lashed out at him in the only way she knew how: She swung at him. Her palm was open, her fingers extended. She never intended to kill him with the blow. Clover stumbled away from him and went for her bag. She forced herself to withdraw just enough to ease the tension in her limbs. Nothing could have taken the scent of blood from the air. By that point, she found more than his blood appealing. She’d found something appealing about his overall scent.
Her phone went off from within her bag. She raised her head, her eyes still the eyes of a predator, and looked directly into his eyes. By then, he should have realized she’d lied to him. Her ringtone played through three times, the annoying song filling the silence around them. The noise echoed off the buildings surrounding them and disappeared into the night; beyond their brick and asphalt maze, no one would have noticed the noise. To Clo, the ringtone was deafening. She had the choice to comment or not to comment, to tell the truth or to lie. If it were anyone else, she might have lied.
“Please don’t run,” she frowned. She slid her left foot back and kicked her bag further back into the alley. The action signified that while she had retreated, she had no intention of leaving. She’d moved back to survey him, to take in everything about him. Her tongue darted out of her mouth, wetting her lips. “I really don’t want to chase you,” she had to stop, to narrow her eyes. She wanted his name, just as she had wanted Declan’s name. “Give me your name.”
Even if he chose to run, even if he chose to defy her words, her requests, her demands, she knew she would follow through with giving chase. She’d latched onto him. She’d marked him, in her own way. The scent of his blood would never really leave her memory. She’d stalked prey for days; she’d stalked prey for weeks. Clover had no problem following him around for a length of time. She had that sort of patience buried deep within her body, deep within her soul. Sometimes feeding took time. Sometimes feeding turned into a sport, an actual hunt.
Her head ached. Her throat ached. Her very bones ached.
Anton Verrais: ’Delicate’. That single word sent a chill up his spine. What did she mean by that? She was right, he was nowhere near fighting condition, but… it did not comfort him. In fact, it did the opposite. That single word, something about the way it slithered from her lips… it made him want to shiver. Something was not right. Perhaps it was him, however. Perhaps he was simply too high strung to tell safety from danger. She would have offered him her phone, if she had one. She wanted to help. She did want to help, right? His thoughts were not helping him calm down. Shut them down. Blot them out, and focus on the present. There was nothing else to be done.
He must have been zoning out for longer than he anticipated, because the first thing he felt when he was brought back… was a slap. Hard. Sharp. Cold. Nothing about it felt right. Then again, why would it? He was just hit, and what’s worse, he had no idea why. The growing burn on his cheek was almost unnoticeable, paled fully in comparison to his gash on his abdomen. But he knew who did it. The woman across from him had slapped him. Why? What did he do?
He was about to protest her actions… and then he heard a ringing. Not the ringing you hear after a loud noise, or a hefty blow to the head. No, it was… a tune. Electronic. It was a cellphone, it had to be. Did she have a cellphone? His gaze shifted to her bag. It was the source of the sound. No, no no no. She was lying about the phone… which meant she did not want to help. Just what was she here for?
