Ordeal or No Deal [Bjorn]

[Lancaster]

‹Bjorn› No matter how often he sought to quell his thirst, it remained unconquerable. Killer instincts ebbed and flowed through his veins without any discernible pattern. Even when he did not hunger for blood, in those rare interims wherein he felt satisfied, he wasn’t rid of the macabre thought coil, fleeting gaze cast upon unsuspecting victims always calculating. It had been weeks now since he’d resigned himself to his unfathomable circumstance. He was a vampire, a walking myth born from legends he’d never paid any attention.

The sun had repeatedly licked at his skin until he had understood that no time of day or weather condition could save him from the effect of its rays. Burned skin had repaired itself time and time again, and festering wounds had sewn themselves shut with little to no medical aid, leaving no damaged flesh. It defied science. So did the broad stretch of his jumps and the inhuman speed with which he moved. It had taken weeks to wrap his expanded mind around his circumstance, and now, amidst unprovoked attacks, he sought to test his limitations.

Bjorn had learned not to go out in the daytime, to shoot first and then ask questions—of which he had many left unanswered. He had learned to be cautious when feeding, and though he tried to curb instinct and approach the task with a rational mind, it remained his greatest failing. Too bold led to discovery and, at times, injury. Too tame and his conscience made a fool of him. There was a balance to be struck which he seldom found.

A crowded pub on the weekend seemed as good an opportunity as any. Bjorn hovered at the mouth alleyway immediately behind the Lancaster’s, wide pupils reflecting the streetlight. He watched smokers huddle for warmth by the windows, bathed in the soft light pouring from inside. He cast a thought to a simpler time, wondering how many times he had unknowingly put himself in danger the way these people did. His bloodstream had been saturated with cocaine and alcohol the last time he remembered being human (not that he remembered much). The world had gone black across the surface of a frozen lake. What made him what he was when a bite to any of the smokers wouldn’t lead then down the same path?

As if on cue, one of the men stepped away the group and staggered towards Bjorn’s hiding spot. Cracked lips parted as he focused his thoughts on the stranger, hoping the man was not so far gone as to relieve his bladder in the sight of the others. A little coaxing, none that he knew he was doing, got him what he wanted. As the man rounded the corner, Bjorn slipped further into the shadows, back pressed to the wall until he found the right moment to lunge forward.

His hand covered the man’s mouth, grip unforgiving as he turned the man’s jaw away, revealing a stretch of tanned skin and protruding tendon. Without hesitation, Bjorn pressed his mouth to the tender flesh, the cerulean ring of his eyes consumed by widened pupils.


‹Lancaster d’Artois› If any young vampire were ever to ask Lancaster whether the struggle ever abated, Lancaster would answer in the negative. Of course it was all according to a who a person was. It depended on how willing they were to accept their circumstances and embrace the new instincts introduced to their bodies and their psyches. Lancaster’s history as a vampire was fraught with struggle, one that he had tried several times to shuck, but which had always returned. Why? Because he could not fully accept his fate, and he could never let go of his humanity.

It was why he stood as a vampire, owner of a pub (and other businesses aside). An Allurist who got away with night-time hours because he could charm anyone who chose to question him. He could laugh away their concern. And had gathered around him a set of employees who had some idea of what he was, and a full understanding that he would never do anything to hurt them. He had only their best interests at heart.

On full moons and new moons Lancaster d’Artois was weak as a human. Whenever he got a cold, he was in bed for a week. He could get drunk. He even had a healthy flush to his skin. Ever since he’d bought that relic from the auctions, he hadn’t had to feed. How long had it been since he’d swallowed blood? Weeks? Months? He ate human food and consumed human drink. The last hurdle he had to leap was the sunlight. The ******* sunlight. It didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing, he was dead to the world as soon as the sun’s rays licked the horizon.

“Every night, Fernando. The rubbish needs to go out every night. We don’t want cockroaches and rats, yeah?” his tone was light. Reprimanding, and yet the sharpness of it was so slight that he could merely have just been having a conversation. In his hand, Lancaster held the black bag of rubbish, heading for the dumpster just across the way. Light briefly flooded the area, and as soon as Lancaster focused on the alleyway he was greeted with the sight of a vampire feasting on a human. Near the front of the alley there were a couple more humans stumbling their way. Friends, maybe, of the drunk unfortunate.

“Heeey, mate, nooot a good idea,” he said, the rubbish tossed toward the dumpster unceremoniously, glass clinking against glass, dully, mixed in with the scraps of food. Next? To teach Fernando how to divide rubbish from recycling. Lancaster immediately stepped out, shielding the feasting vampire from the view of those approaching, ready to approach them and lead them elsewhere, if needs be.


‹Bjorn› Sharp fangs pierced skin until his gum line pressed against the puncture wounds, and only then, once he’d created a seal with his lips, did he will the enamel and bone to retract. A wave of exquisitely warm blood spilled into his mouth, tongue pressing against rough, unshaven skin to direct the flow. Reprieve from his thirst, however fleeting, was greeted with a contended sound at the back of his throat as he swallowed in earnest.

Caution thrown to the wind in the throes of predation, Bjorn shifted his weight to better seal the wound, corners of his mouth growing damp and red. In the process, he forgot his surroundings, hearing dulled in favour of savouring his meal. It was only the presence of something—someone—that broke his trance.

Fingers digging into his victim’s face, Bjorn straightened his posture and turned to look at the interrupting stranger, gaze hardened and jaw tensed. He glimpsed back at the flow of blood, stanching it with his opposite hand in an attempt to curb wasting. It was to no avail.

“We we’re having a moment,” he retorted tartly.


‹Lancaster d’Artois› Lancaster stood in the middle of what could be calm or calamity. The vampire in question, though he looked like he had a bit of heft to him, height-wise, still looked young. In age, anyway. How long he had been a vampire, Lancaster couldn’t determine. Threads of emotion changed the feel of the atmosphere, a heightened sense of empathy that Lancaster had grown accustomed to, regardless of whether he could control it or not. Bliss and fear, irritability and thirst, curiosity and impatience. The latter two were fainter, moving toward him on the fingers of the breeze. It lifted his hair, washed over his skin.

“Carl?” they called. “F’****’sake, man, there are toilets inside,” a girl whined. There was no line to get into the pub. They were done with their cigarettes. They wanted to get back into the warmth, and were reluctant to leave their friend behind. Lancaster, cringing at the sight of so much gushing blood and what would surely be a loss of life, would lecture this youth once the witnesses were taken care of. This was a struggle, given that the lanky Australian could not lie. He held out his hands, leather boots scuffing the gravel as he approached the friends, diverting their attention.

“Carl is currently preoccupied with a rather lovely looking vampire,” he said. He said it with a broad smile and a wink, the last word emphasised. Women are vicious vampires, his tone suggested. The friends laughed a little uncertainly, one trying to peer around Lancaster to where their friend was potentially enamoured. ”The fastest of friends, fastest of friends, I’m sure we’ll all be…” he sang, his voice dipping and rising with clarifying bass. The humans were instantly snagged, like rats following the pied piper.

“C’mon. The beer inside is better than the swill out here,” he said, his hand not touching the backs of the friends but ushering none-the-less, guiding them back to the bar’s entrance with a sing-song suggestion. He had to walk with them most of the way before they finally accepted his suggestions and left their friend behind.

[Bjorn]

‹Bjorn› He had taken a calculated risk without considering all the variables, inevitably landing himself in greater trouble than anticipated. Glazed eyes widened as the humans on the sidewalk beckoned their friend. He should have dragged the man—Carl—further into the alleyway, taken cover behind one of the oversize dumpsters lining the back of the pub. However, if ifs and ands were pots and pans... There was no use in rehashing his plan now. No. No, now he had to make a choice.

The irritation and frustration simmering beneath his skin all but dissipated at the word vampire. Clear, like a bell. Bjorn forgot himself in that moment, nearly allowing Carl to slump forward into him. With an indelicate shove, he pushed the human back into the wall, wide-eyed and uncoordinated. He used his body as a makeshift shield when the Australian dude stepped away from them, huffing into the human’s dishevelled hair. His identity wasn’t compromised. He could easily make a run for it and leave the dying man to become someone else’s problem.

Yet he didn’t move, violently casting a glance over his shoulder as the singing began. Singing. He had no idea what was happening, but it was the first time he’d heard someone refer to him as what he was. Until now Bjorn had assumed what he’d become, come to terms with it as best he could, but hearing it from someone else set an iron-cast ball in the pit of his stomach. The inelegant hold he’d had on all his doubts and questions unravelled as he returned his attention to the slumping human. Pulse weakening. Body warmth decreasing. Light dimming. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed someone, but it felt so ******* wasteful.

Another glance over his shoulder revealed the coast to be clear, and so he lowered his victim to the ground, still caught between fleeing and staying. The one who had interrupted him was something else, had pulled off something so random that Bjorn was annoyed by its lack of sense. He gripped Carl’s shoulders and began to drag the weakening body deeper into the alleyway. Whether he left it there or stayed behind would be a last-minute decision.


‹Lancaster d’Artois› Lancaster wasted no time returning to the scene at the back of his pub. He did not know this vampire or how dangerous he could be; he didn’t know whether he needed to beat some sense into the stranger and tell him to keep the **** away from the pub - go murder people outside someone else’s pub, for ****’s sake – or whether to play the nice guy card.

For all that Lancaster didn’t think he’d changed, he was wrong. Murder wasn’t such a taboo anymore. He’d killed people, and he harboured the heaviest guilt for it. It weighed him down, sometimes. It drowned him, like boulders tied to his ankles and dragging him under. He could not control the actions of others, however, and vampires were known to kill. Whenever he sired he tried to teach those new to this life that killing was not a requirement. He tried to instil in them the morality that the dark instinct seemed so often to abolish. So far, he hadn’t done too badly. It was testament to his numbness in this life that he could regard this incident with so little ordeal. And yet, he was still angry. And he did not want Fernando to step out for his smoke break only to be mauled by some bloodthirsty fanger. Rounding the corner, Lancaster confronted the male who had committed the crime.

“Are you stupid, or do you just not care?” he asked. It was harsh. But this was his place of business, and he liked to keep vampiric incidents such as murder and mayhem to a minimum. He had a right to kick scoundrels off his properly – and this alleyway, he presumed, was still his properly. Somewhat.

Except, he had not yet taken into account that emotion which was not his. It was almost confusion, but not quite. Dread? Astonishment, perhaps. Indecision. So many things mixed into a cocktail of uncertainty. Something Lancaster couldn’t pinpoint, exactly, but it didn’t feel like this guy was some anarchist wanting to throw any kind of Masquerade or morality out the window. It dawned on Lancaster that he might not have the whole story. “Do you need help with that?” he asked, gesturing to the human. Lancaster didn’t particularly want to be party to murder, but hey. He was often offering help out of some kind of latent guilty obligation.


‹Bjorn› The flair of indignation roused by the rhetorical question was immediately squashed by the overwhelming swell his utter inexperience gave way to. For weeks now he’d been caught in an unsustainable lifestyle that had been pushed upon him without consent and by, who, he didn’t know. It was a way of life from which he had no idea how to escape. It was a challenging existence that gave way to suffering he had never, ever experienced prior. Not in his wildest dreams would he have ever imagined himself possible to rate pain on a scale extending past third degree burns, bullet wounds, or limbs nearly sliced clean. Even if he’d never wished for it, Bjorn couldn’t bury his head in the sand and wish all this away.

He had soldiered on as best he could by compartmentalizing and clamping down on wayward emotions, but the pressure within was building and building, and building. Getting caught and being called out on what he’d become with such candor was weakening the seals with which he kept every shitty thought and paralyzing fear at bay. Whatever emotions he was feeling, he couldn’t allow himself to feel them. With difficulty, he grounded himself with the body he was dragging. On a good day, the dead weight would have been manageable, but Bjorn suddenly felt exhausted.

Failure was not something he dealt with easily, and though he’d managed to survive this long, the weight of his failures burdened him. This was just another to add to the towering pile. Dropping Carl’s shoulders, he looked up at the Australian stranger. The offer of help somehow shifted everything within. Insecurity and every other damned human emotion reverberated through his bones, but for this fleeting moment did not threaten to topple him over.

“I don’t know what to do with him.” Him, not it. After all, Carl was still breathing, with great difficulty. It almost seemed like kindness would be putting a bullet in his head. Bjorn reached into the hem of stolen jeans, fingers ghosting over the magazine. He tightened his grasp but couldn't bear the weight of the gun. Leaving it where it was, he dropped his hand to his side. To shoot someone while accompanied, however well intended, might make him stoop lower than he already had. “It’s too late.”


‹Lancaster d’Artois› There it was. There seemed to be a struggle in the individual across from him, until something gave way. I don’t know were the words that struck a chord, and Lancaster immediately took on the mantle of bleeding heart. Everyone knew he had one. Maybe some took advantage of it. It was something he should surely try to rid himself of in this city, but it was easier said than done. Lancaster eyed the weapon and shook his head.

“No. The sound will only draw attention,” he said. “Go inside? I’ll call the ambulance. I don’t know your name. I don’t know who you are. I’ll deal with them,” he said. Lancaster couldn’t lie, but he had learned how to act. He could tell the truth, mostly, and the medics wouldn’t blink an eye. How many similar stories would they have heard over the years? Lancaster would say he came out to find Carl in the embrace of another man; he would say that he thought they were fine, and that he persuaded his friends to go back inside. Lancaster would express guilt, the emotion which would not be a lie. He would tell the truth, and he would do so in a way that would match the accounts of the friends, who could not have seen this other vampire’s face. It could be done. And it would get rid of the body in a civil manner.

“Please. Trust me? I’ll come find you. I know what you are. We’re one and the same. Gotta look out for each other, and all that,” Lancaster said. Though, what kind of ******** line was that? As if any vampire in this city gave a **** about anyone else but themselves and their own violent whims. And, if this one happened to disappear, then c’est le vie. Lancaster could say he tried.

[Bjorn]

Bjorn had been ushered away from the scene when Klaus died. It might have been more sobering an experience if he’d been forced to witness the paramedics trying to revive his best friend, or been interviewed by suspecting police officers until he’d caved under the weight of his misplaced guilt and confessed to a crime he had played no part in. Standing over Carl’s dying body brought forth wisps of familiar ache, though it wasn’t pain as much as some derivative of guilt. This time Bjorn had blood on his hands, literally. Balling his fingers into a fist until his knuckles cracked under the strain, he forced himself to make a decision concerning his current situation. Neither Klaus nor his parents could help him now.

Handling this **** was easier when he was alone; easier to walk away from.

Frankly, going inside seemed like a terrible idea. This guy might not know his name or who he was, but knowing where he was would be enough to have him cornered. Bjorn had already been on the receiving end of strangers’ wrath on multiple occasions and he was mistrustful. This could be an elaborate plan, a continuation to the senseless violence he’d been on the receiving end of (though, he passingly reminded himself, he wasn’t as innocent a party as he’d like to believe). Yet there was something about this man and the way their interaction had progressed thus far that quelled his paranoia, if only a little.

It wouldn’t hurt to get himself straightened out; it’d make his escape easier if it came to that. Cops took exception to people caked in blood, especially when it wasn’t their own. Bjorn had never been a fan of authority, but he had claimed the lives of one too many officers to entitled to another murder, no matter how necessary.

“You’re condemning a lot of people if this turns out to be a trap,” the fledgling said soberly, the implied threat bleak, harsher than he thought himself capable of executing if it came down to it. People would get hurt if he had to run for his life however.

“Okay,” he added, more for his benefit that the stranger’s. Bjorn worked his jaw, glancing back down at Carl’s prone body, then past the stranger towards the mouth of the alleyway.

“Yeah, okay,” he punctuated with finality before turning towards the backdoor that’d been casually left ajar.

He’d take the Australian up on the offer but keep his ears open, past experience a stark reminder to look out for himself. His senses were somewhat heightened by the minimal ingestion of blood, but he could sense superior strength radiating from him. They were one and the same, the man had said, but it wasn’t entirely true, the guy was something else entirely, dwarfing Bjorn.

He pushed the door open and cast one last look at Carl’s body before disappearing inside, gently returning the door to its ajar state. The hallway that greeted him was blissfully empty, but Bjorn didn’t linger. He shoved his hands into his pockets after pulling the stolen t-shirt over the gun peaking from his jeans. It was the first time in a long time that he’d been inside any sort of establishment, let alone during hours of operation.

[Lancaster]

As soon as the guy went through the back door, Lancaster focused on the task at hand. He pulled the phone from his inside jacket pocket and dialled the authorities, asking for the ambulance. Yes, it was an emergency. And as he spoke hurriedly into the receiver, telling the operator about the man who was bleeding out at the back of Lancaster’s, from the neck, he had dropped down beside him, fingers over the wound, trying to keep the blood inside. Blood, that strange substance that kept the body alive, that kept a brain functioning, and a heart beating. Without it, the body died. Without it, a vampire starved and went rabid. Lancaster was no stranger to the starvation. He, too, had done things that he regretted, the guilt often weighing him down, often drowning him, even as he walked and talked and smiled.

All throughout the conversation, he knew that they would come and they would ask him more questions. Even though he knew it was useless, Lancaster still tried to stem the bleeding. He still made it look like he had tried to save the man’s life; and he was. Of course he was. Of course he didn’t want this human to die, innocent or not. There weren’t too many people in this world who truly deserved death. That, at least, would not be a lie.

The ambulance arrived before the police did. By the time they did, Carl was dead; they covered the body, they would take it to the morgue. Lancaster wondered about his friends who were still inside. How long would they remain oblivious? When would they get the phone call to tell them that while they continued to drink and laugh, their friend had died, bled out into the street? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Lancaster told his story before too many questions could be asked. He’d walked out the back door to witness the attack – it could have looked like it was just two young people getting frisky. Could have, were the words he’d used. This was only going to bite him in the *** if they came back to ask more questions. But what he’d said to the friends would match what he’d just said to the cops. Hopefully, they’d just see this as a hit and run, and wouldn’t come back. Young guy, blonde – left before Lancaster could get a proper look at him. That wasn’t a lie, either. Although the Australian had seen him, although he’d acknowledged the guy and spoken to him, he hadn’t taken the time to memorise every detail. Yes, he had left. He’d gone back into the pub, but they didn’t ask that question, thankfully. They didn’t ask where. They assumed the guy had left the only way he could – back toward the street.

It was about forty-five minutes later that Lancaster stepped back into the pub; he went through the back door and straight to the bathroom where he scrubbed the blood from his hands. When he could smell only the soap and not the blood, only then did he step back out into the pub proper, blue eyes searching the crowd for the head of blonde curls.

[Bjorn]

It was only halfway up the staircase that the realisation sunk. Phantom footsteps of five people clambering down this very staircase. Bjorn stilled instantly. Gripping the railing to offset the unsettling memory, he cast a wide-eyed glance around him. ---Dude, hurry the **** up! No one gives a **** about it--- His neck cracked as he shot a glance over his shoulder with so much force it threatened to topple him over. Empty. ---The ladies do--- The retort was met by a bark of laughter so loud it couldn’t be his imagination. The vampire’s gaze swept upwards once more, searching for the source of such a vivid experience. There was no one there. His grip tightened on the railing as he felt some semblance of nausea wash over him. Was the intensity of the memory due to how long he’d repressed it, now forcibly springing at him as familiarity dislodged a mental block? How long ago had it been since he’d last stepped foot here? Since that night?

A long time, his mind supplied. The last time he’d been here had been before—before—before all of this, whatever this was. He had no idea how he’d gotten from one point to another, no recollection of save for the flashes of violence, gore, and unsettling darkness that had consumed his first weeks as a vampire. He needed to understand what had happened to him, how he’d gotten to where he now was.

Shaken, Bjorn cast another glance over his shoulder before willing his legs to move. Retracing his steps that night would be harder to do from a prison cell, even harder if he was killed for being what he’d become. He’d killed police officers to ensure his safety; there was no turning back from that. Somewhere, he reasoned, must be an image of him, for he’d been shot on sight more than once, and had been attacked by strangers he’d never before crossed. It wouldn’t bode well for him to be seen when the authorities arrived. And they would; he could hear the distant wail of an ambulance over the music and chatter immediately downstairs. It was eerie to remember something from before this strange new life of his. He was strangely thankful for the urgency pressing him to move onwards however, else he’d succumb to the vexation.

Voices sounded ahead of him. Whoever they were, they threw a wrench into his plan. Just as quickly as he’d made for the stairs, he turned on his heel and returned to the hallway. The phantom memory accompanied him as he did, and he sought to leave it behind by veering into the pub.

His hands made quick work of a racer jacket strewn on the back of a stool; it soon draped over his shoulders. The sleeves were unnervingly too short. His fingers slid across a stretch of the bar’s countertop, grasping a half-drunk pint and its makeshift napkin coaster. Slipping through the crowd, he used the condensation gathered at his fingers to wipe at his mouth and chin, using the opposite sleeve to remove whatever was left. There was no way of telling how good a job he’d done. It wasn’t as good as washing his face in the bathroom surely, but he’d made the mistake of communal bathrooms once before… The day he’d learned he had no reflection.

Perching himself on a tall table in a distant corner, he surveyed the scene as he set the stolen drink down. The leftover appetisers on the table weren’t his, but the makeshift mise-en-scene was welcome; it made him look like just another patron waiting on someone. And, truth be told, he was waiting for someone. Bjorn wasn’t sure yet whether he was to expect a cop or the Australian dude, but he kept vigilant as he made note of the nearest exit. The feel of the gun at his waist was a bleak reminder of what might transpire if he found himself trapped.

The thought was daunting, leading him to look around at the patrons. Strangers, victims, enemies, shields. They could be anything, but he could never again be them. Bjorn lowered his gaze then, nail scratching at a dent in the wood. His brow furrowed. It wasn’t the time to lose himself to his thoughts, but he needed a distraction. Across from the room, a window on the opposite wall revealed the alternating flash of red, blue, and white. He willed himself not to panic as he thought of the man outside talking to the authorities. This place held some of the answers he sought, and he was willing to wait a little longer for them. Only a little, he reminded himself as the minutes stretched to quarters of an hour.

“Finally,” the vampire muttered under his breath when he spotted a tall figure emerge from the hallway. The cop car had pulled away many minutes ago. He ducked his head long enough to ensure no uniforms were following the Australian, then straightened to his full height, meeting the man’s searching gaze with unknowingly unspoken words: [I’m here]

[Lancaster]

The unfamiliar voice in Lancaster’s head – familiar only because he’d heard it out in the alley a little under an hour ago – did nothing to help him to find the wayward stranger. A displeased frown creased his brow as he continued his search, only alerted to the stranger’s whereabouts by the sudden shift, and the lift of a finger. Those who knew Lancaster well, also knew that he didn’t much like telepathy. He used to say it felt like an intrusion. If asked now, unable to lie, he’d say it was far too strange. For a man who clung so hard to his humanity that he believed he was cursed (blessed) because of it (completely human when the moon was full, or new, susceptible to poison, to illness, to human ailments), he’d say he didn’t like to be reminded that he was a vampire, and that he was surrounded by them, and that humanity had become, to them, just a herd. Cattle, ready for the slaughter.

But, he could hardly berate the younger male for his use of telepathy; he was about to go and school the kid about not killing or biting people in places where he could be caught. That, really, was far worse than an errant voice in his head.

Lancaster slipped through the crowd, nodding and smiling to those who knew him, regulars who liked to greet him and who, he supposed, came for the music. Something else he had discovered – when he sang, the humans flocked. It had a strange effect on them, like he was some kind of snake charmer, his strange song luring them out of their comfort zones.

The lanky Australian folded himself down into the chair opposite the cherubic murderer.

”So what’s your story, mate? Do you give a **** about being caught or are you a worthy cause?” he asked, palms flat against the tabletop. Lancaster could be a bleeding heart, but he could also be blunt, and firm. Frankly, he was sick of assholes.

”If the former, get the **** out of my pub and don’t come back. I don’t want **** like that drawing unwanted attention,” he said. As much as he detested vampires who enjoyed their remorseless kills, he wasn’t Tytonidae. And in this city one had to be careful, lest they inadvertently kick a hornet’s nest.

”If the latter – if you genuinely have no ******* clue what you’re doing, maybe I can be of service,” he said. Just like that. He abhorred murder – but when it was murder committed due to lack of control, if it was murder followed by guilt and remorse, then he could understand. He could be sympathetic. He knew what that felt like. And so he sat, and he stared. And he waited to see if he’d be offering this kid a place to stay, or throwing him out to the curb.

[Bjorn]

Surviving was exhausting. This new life of his was no life at all; it was an endless cycle of hunt and hurt and be hurt and hide and heal. After weeks of stealing blood and shedding blood, he had finally come across something different. He’d been caught feeding before — many times, in fact — but this time things had played out differently. Nothing had singed or pierced his flesh. Nobody gave chase. Nobody aimed their phone at him and made for the crowds. And it was that singularity which kept him seated in this uncomfortable leather chair. Uncomfortable because he’d grown so used to hard surfaces and squalor; for months, the weekly shower at the homeless shelter had been the only luxury he could afford. That, and the occasional case of ammunition for a weapon he’d grown disturbingly adept at firing.

Bjorn had expected the worse… Lies! If he was entirely honest with himself, he hadn’t known what to expect. ****, he still didn’t what would come of it. The new year had brought with it all manner of things into existence that he no longer knew what to expect aside from burns from the sun and debilitating thirst should he deny himself too long. It was that very uncertainty which paralysed him. Bjørn Solberg had always known what he wanted, what was expected of him, and what lay ahead of him. This unadulterated chaos that was his life now — that was this situation he’d gotten himself into — was too alien for him to manage.

So he did what he did best: he watched and waited. He watched the nameless stranger approach, noticing how familiarity seemed to cling to him the way bad luck had clung to Bjorn these past months. The fledgling watched for hidden hands reaching for concealed weapons. He strained to hear the words exchanged, though none reached his ears what with the musical racket starting up again on stage. He’d thought nothing of the spot he’d picked out until he’d seen the musicians start setting up.

(Bjorn presumed the sensory overload was a symptom of his new physical self, that the very thing that made him capable of inhuman feats was also incapacitating.)

Logic told him to rise above his paranoia, but experience urged him to be weary. Mind battling itself was the perfect summation of his daily situation. Much to his dismay, the unease didn’t lessen when the Australian folded himself into the chair across from him.

The words however, gave him something to focus on amidst the external and internal disarray. They elicited a strange physical response, as though they were wringing something inside his chest like one would a soaked dishtowel.

Maybe Bjorn was a lost cause. He had come this far, but his hands were stained with blood that no amount of water or bleach could remove. He had killed innocent people. With time, he’d learned to feed with care and in moderation, but that did not absolve him from the murders he’d committed — much like Carl. He’d also shot guards and officers who had been doing no more than their jobs. It might have been easy for others to disassociate what they’d become from who they were, but the fledging couldn’t deceive himself with such dichotomous explanations. Bjørn had never faltered in his understanding of himself until very recently.

Morality was a luxury afforded only by those with agency who were conscientious of their choices. Were these the first few weeks following whatever had turned him into a vampire, then he might have sought to exonerate himself of the deeds he’d done, but it had been much longer than that and he knew better now. That wasn’t to say he felt particularly blameworthy of what he’d done in order to survive. Perhaps it was the lack of remorse then which made him feel guilty. Or perhaps he was acutely conscience-stricken but unable to assume the full weight of his culpability lest it keep him from surviving. Whichever it was, he was finding it hard to compromise with his actions.

Bjorn realised he’d hunched forward, elbows propped on his knees and hands in his hair.
His mind was relentless in its search for meaning, thoughts unrelenting.
Tightening his grasp on his dishevelled curls, he opened his eyes to stare at the table between them and found its edges blurred. Dampness met his cheek as he blinked, and he buried the heel of his hands into his eyelids and willed himself to keep his turmoil internal. This was neither the place nor the company in which to lose his composure.

He took an unneeded breath, wide shoulders heaving.
He exhaled loudly and unfolded himself, seeking strength from the control he exerted in slowly reclining into the leather seat. His elbows found the armrests, his fingers fidgeting in mid-air above his lap. His story? If only it was that easy.

“I remember being here before when I was— When—” The words clung to his throat like cooling wax. His nostrils flared as he bit back his anguish, refusing to let his composed exterior ripple. Clearing his throat, he narrowed his eyes and focused them on the man before him, trying to block out the sensory barrage which didn’t bode well with his emotional state. The music was like sandpaper to his frayed nerves.

“—before. I’ve gotten better at just taking what I need since, and if you hadn’t interrupted, they’d have just found him there, a little worse for wear. I’m not— ”

Anxiety and thirst and oversensitivity were agitating him. One of his hands found his hair again, the skin on his knuckles revealing how tightly he was twisting the strands. His other hand clung to his thigh through the dark denim of his jeans as yet another pain delivery mechanism to centre himself.

“I didn’t get a handbook with my membership card, alright? I don’t ask to get caught, but I do. I don’t want— I didn’t ask for any of this., okay? So unless you know how to reverse it, I don’t see how you can be of service.”

The hand in his hair dropped to his face, scrubbing at it violently as he pressed his eyes shut.

It was too bright in here.
Too warm with the fireplace going.
Too loud with the band playing.
Too tight with the stolen jacket digging into his large frame.
Too smokey.
Too much.

It was all too ******* much.

[Lancaster]

The emotion that rolled from the lanky teenager – to an old veteran like Lancaster, he looked like a teenager – was at contradiction with his words. To begin with, anyway. Pearly whites ground together as he prepared to stand and show this guy the door. If you hadn’t interrupted, they’d have just found him there. The words were hardly encouraging, a defiant excuse that didn’t lend to remorse.

The maelstrom of emotion that Lancaster could feel, as if it were his own, was hard to decipher. Was there guilt in there, or just irritation? Was the grief only for himself, or for those that he had killed along the way? With some things, Lancaster knew what it was like to not have an instruction manual. He himself didn’t know how to control some of the things he was capable of, nor did he know why or when he had manifested them. In the beginning, at least, he had someone to help him – someone who had continued to help him until he had found his own feet. Someone who he now didn’t consider sire but instead equal. He had learned that in the grand scheme of things, there weren’t too many vampires of his age in this city – vampiric age. The sundering had occurred a year or two before he’d been turned. Pi, he figured, had to have been one of the first dozens turned in the first year. How many were still around? As far as ratio was concerned, there were more new than old. Lancaster didn’t need help anymore. Lancaster was there to help.

Regardless of the attitude with which the words were uttered – Lancaster put it down to the guy being born as part of Generation Y, their respect generally lacking – he chose to hear the words instead. He overlooked the disregard and bitter disdain, and instead focused on the meaning.

This was a fledgling, then. One new to the life of vampirism, and one who lacked support and guidance. A breath of air was released in a resigned sigh.

”You don’t have to kill everyone you bite,” he said in a low murmur.

”There are places you can go, quieter parts of the city where you can feed without being seen and let them walk away, no harm no foul. They don’t remember,” he started to explain.

”You learn control. I can help. If control is beyond your abilities, there are black market shops. You’ll need money – a job. I can help. You will be capable of new things, of dangerous things. Again, control might not be possible, but I have been around a while, mate. I feel like I’ve seen it all, heard it all. I can help,” he repeated. Clearly, the guy didn’t know much at all if he wasn’t aware of all the ways Lancaster could help.

”Do you want to go somewhere quieter?” he offered. The kid was clearly out of sorts.

[Bjorn]

The hand propped across his face remained as it was when the Australian spoke. Calloused fingertips pressed into the cold skin around his eyes as he listened with difficulty.

Alive, Bjorn had been in control of it all. There was time allotted to relinquish that control, to drink and partake in a seasonal drug habit that he’d been lucky enough not to lose himself to. Perhaps he had considering where he was now. Throughout his human life, the expectations of his parents had eventually become his own, and the standard by which he judged himself grew extreme with each accomplishment. Now, he had no points of reference, and no control either.

“Yes—” he gritted out as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“To your help and going somewhere else.”

Bjorn had questions — thousands of them, it would seem. The most pressing question was why. How bleak a life vampirism was if he begun to question the kindness of strangers.

[Lancaster]

It was times like these that Lancaster wished they’d picked a more serene spot for the pub. On the cusp of Redwood and Stag Heath, Lancaster’s was smack bang in the middle of a busy strip – next door: Nightmode. Down the road, on either side: The Handle Bar and Serpentine. It was a busy area. It’d be a nice to have a park to go to, somewhere with fresh air in walking distance. But there was nowhere. They’d have to walk a couple of blocks, at least, into the next district to find a nice park.

”We can go upstairs. It’s the backpackers, and my apartment,” he said. It would be quiet, and it would be private. As skittish as this guy was, though…

”Or we can go for a walk, get some fresh air,” he said. It wasn’t as if they’d been cooped up all night, or that the fresh air was necessarily required. But there was something about this kid’s demeanour that had the Allurist assuming he’d prefer the wide open while they talked, rather than being cooped up in a crowded pub attic.

”My name’s Lancaster, by the way,” he said, offering a hand after standing. They were about to get to know each other quite well – names would be a good start.