|| Wearing
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The Necropolis was the last place Robin ever thought he’d ever be employed. The dim, dark interior pulsed with a darkness that could border in seedy, but there was something serious and sinister about it. As a human, he’d have felt completely out of place. A lamb in a lion’s den, an innocent amongst deviants. Robin’s own deviance had never been violently inclined; dominance and submission weren’t common words peppered in the diatribes of his literate vocabulary. The writer was far too preoccupied with his wine, red – normally the cheapest he could find, anything more expensive was normally given to him by some kind sharing soul or other. Robin had a way about him. Like a lost puppy, he often got what he needed just by bumbling along in life.
Like the tome that he had been given by Lorelai; Lorelai, whom he assumed must have skipped town with Levi. For all Robin was aware, anyway – he hadn’t heard from her, and the url for the internet forum that he had sometimes checked had been lost the last time his computer crashed due to a rogue Trojan. That tome had long since been replaced by one given to him by Fleur, his strange, masked friend; at least, when he found himself back in her apartment and sprawled on her couch, she was often there.
Robin gravitated toward company.
Although he’d had a job with Mora, it was a job he wasn’t really sure he was qualified for – he really had no idea what he did, and whenever anyone asked about the company he worked for, and what it stood for, he often had to shrug. The advertisement that he’d stumbled across for the Necropolis had seemed right up his alley – seemed, and so he thought he would double check. Answered in the affirmative, he had met with Amaranthia, and he had secured his position as the Necropolis’s first vampiric blood doll.
If only he’d known about this place when he was human.
The job wasn’t hard, though it would have been easier as a human. There were more vampires looking to feed from willing humans than there were vampires looking to feed from willing vampires. The need was there, but the fear no doubt superseded it. There were blood thieves, too, Robin mused. Humans, who might come looking for his specific brand of cruor. His job was to find them. To pick them out of the crowd, to offer his services with a full guarantee that no names would be shared. Secrets would be safe – for remuneration, of course. Eventually, the word would spread. Eventually, more clients might seek him out. For now, Robin was enjoying his new status; he was enjoying cleaning up, dressing up.
He didn’t think he’d ever looked so slick.
The suit fit him like a glove; Robin meandered the upper floor of the club, the dark, seductive bass of the music pulsing through his limbs. The flash of the bright lights revealed the ice-hue of his eyes – surreal, against alabaster skin. Once upon a time, Robin had always looked sickly. Like a drunk, down-and-out. Now, he looked like he was someone. Which thoroughly amused him.
The night had just begun. He had to prove his worth. He had to prove that he was worth something, as an employee. This could be the start of something magnificent.
