Path of the Vampire forum

His hand slid through the air like a serpent striking at its prey. There was no flesh nor muscle to stop the assault. Instead, his fist crashed against a brittle, hollow, dry rib cage, and the bone there exploded like a mishandled container of talcum powder. The ancient thing he was facing off against was flung back, its legs planted firm, spine nearly creating a right angle, before it snapped back into place. One couldn't really describe a skeletal being as menacing. There were no notable facial features to discern or assign emotional significance. Heathen very nearly missed the snap of the blade as it whirled through the air towards him. A fake step in the direction of the rusty, dull thing was enough to confuse his opponent. Enough for him to spin, deliver a literally crushing blow to the zombie's temple. Seconds later, it was little more than dust and a pile of bone fragments.

The Catacombs were interesting. Heathen had seen something like them at one point when he was watching Indiana Jones. He kept expecting to find something deeper. Some unnoticed chamber that would take him deeper into the heart of the city's underbelly. But all of that was just fanciful thought, wasn't it? Vampires were real. Maybe anything was possible. He thought that to himself sometimes. If vampires existed, then what else was out there? What was the story, behind the story, behind the story? He didn't fancy himself an explorer. Or a scientist. He knew his limitations, but that didn't change the curiosity which burned naturally in his chest. Maybe that was the human condition; what had pushed men to the new world, to explore the deep sea, and space.

He wanted to know, but there were more immediate concerns to worry about. Like the gang. And himself. He had to get stronger every day because it seemed like every day he discovered something newer and more powerful. Like when he'd been human, he'd been a rodent in a maze without realizing it. Now he was a vampire. A scientist. And he could see, from up above, that there were all sorts of dangers in the maze. Pitfalls, spikes, crushing walls. Everything got worse the further out one looked. Danger was around every single corner.

He was doing okay against the ancient zombies, but what about the next thing and the next thing? There was always something bigger and badder. The only way to survive in the maze, the rat race, was to be tougher. Well he was certainly operating at a learning curve, wasn't he? The worst part was that he was conflicted. He had these desires. How did he prioritize them? He had these needs. How did he sate them? He had these questions, but they were without answer.

Shuffling some antique scraps of metal into his bag, he began down a dark corridor.

The question, he assumed, was rhetorical.

Last episode of Lost, the big reveal. Everyone in Harper Rock was secretly truly dead, and living through the tortures of a hellish afterlife. Scene end. Roll credits.

He 'stumbled' on the man purely by accident. The Titanic and the iceberg. He had been on a specific trajectory, and the guy in the rumpled suit was there as well. Observation told Heathen the guy had been fighting, but the clothing didn't match the situation. Something was off there. He could feel it in the pit of his gut, he just couldn't put his finger on it. Bottom line – was this other man dangerous? He looked for obvious signs of instability, and figured he'd just brush past him to exit.

But the next words were directed at him. He glanced up. "Have you considered moving?" He asked, his gaze locking with Lincoln's for a moment before he pulled open his bag to retrieve a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. The cut of his frayed-edge, slim-fit black chino shorts didn't allow for much to fit into his pockets at all. Totally lacking in function, especially after he'd added grommets, which revealed snippets of chalk white skin and green alien print briefs. His shirt was just a mesh tank-top with arm holes that cut down his sides. There was a print on the front of an alien with huge dark eyes and green-grey skin. It was not obviously spray-painted by hand.

He wore cherry red leather Doc Martens with neon green laces.

The first lungful of smoke erupted into the air a moment later, flowing from nostrils as he dug the tip of his tongue into his teeth as if he was trying to get something which had been wedged between them. His stare was, at best, blank. "What are you doing down here anyway, if you don't like those things?" Then again, maybe that was the point. Heathen knew what it was to intentionally seek out people or things he didn't like. That way his conscience was clear of him potentially blowing up on his friends. He didn't have to restrain himself or waste his time with fake niceness.

Sometimes just punching someone really was the answer.

He heard two sets of footsteps approaching from the distance, with a combination of preternaturally enhanced senses and skills he had picked up naturally growing up on the south side of Chicago. Politicians made the claim that crime rates in the area had been going down slowly over the years, and those same men and women loved to take credit for it. In truth, there was just a lower instance of reported criminal activity. Snitches were likely to get killed, and people were encouraged not to involve the police. Instead, they handled things on the street. Growing up in that environment, a person developed a sixth sense. Fight or flight.

The one lesson Anton Graham had taught his son, usually when he was avoiding calls from his sponsor, had been that real men always fought. They always faced up to the demons knocking at their doors, and handled their problems before they had a chance to grow. Ironic twist of fate. As a child, Heathen hadn't known any better. His father had been rarely around, and the stark contrast to his mother's firm hand made the boy's affections for the would-be patriarch enviable. It had only been after years of getting into scrapes that Heathen put together his father was just a **** up like so many countless other people. Just a guy talking out of his *** about things he didn't really care about, and really didn't believe.

But by then, the lesson had taken.

"One sec." He said to Lincoln, though he had no clue if he'd actually be back. There was someone coming and he wanted to see who they were.

His hand came to rest on the crumbling stone wall. He felt coagulated blood and something greasy under his palm. His legs worked automatically, shoving him towards the sound, tucked as he was close to the rough and jagged rock edges. The fingers of his other hand slid down so he could pull a long hunting knife from his boot. He felt a little more complete like that. He rounded a corner, and ran almost bodily into a woman who seemed to be putting her hair up. His arm instinctively slid back, so he could tuck his weapon behind his back and then carefully wedge it against his waistband so he could pull it quickly if need be. He wasn't sexist per se, but a quick assessment led him to believe he could overpower the woman if she tried to attack. But maybe she was packin', so who the **** knew?

He heard footsteps in the distance still and he silently peered into her eyes, then nodded in the direction she came from. "Friend?" He asked. It was dark, and hard to make out a ton of exact details, but there was something familiar about the way she carried herself.

Another of the south side rules: Never get involved in business that doesn't have anything to do with you. Especially if it could get your *** kicked, or get you killed. Heroes were in short supply on the streets, and there was a reason for that. Chicago wasn't Disney. The good guy usually didn't win, and when the odds were stacked against you, you weren't more likely to be successful. But young Milo had inherited the Graham concrete skull. He exhaled a haze of gray that spread from nostrils and lips, surrounding him, leaving behind the shortest trail in the direction he'd come from. In such a small space, it was likely suffocating.

He stared down over her features. Right. Money. It was always about money. His hand dropped back, so fingers could wrap around the hilt of his hunting knife slowly, almost imperceptibly, though it was likely Lincoln was in the perfect line of sight to pick up on it. Heathen wasn't dumb. He knew they should leave. Run. The place had a lot of chambers, but it was essentially a big circle, so they could just take the long way around and hopefully avoid conflict altogether. He didn't even get a chance to answer her question though, because some big guy rolled up on them. Heathen's gaze briefly darted towards Lincoln.

His knife was out. "Hey. Hey **** OFF!" He bellowed, getting right in front of the guy who was going after the lady who'd just made a run for it. In a blur, a gun came out. Before Heathen could respond, a shot rang out, and he had a hand clasped over his side, pale digits stained red as blood poured over them and his shirt. His gaze dropped.

"You SHOT me!" Came his voice like a whip. "You ******* shot me!" He repeated. Apparently, this other guy meant business. A thousand thoughts pumped through his brain at once. How connected was this guy? Was he part of one of the local gangs? Would Heathen be getting himself into a world of trouble if he did something permanent? Unfortunately, those thoughts, that survival instinct was outshone by the sight of red and the way it numbed his brain. He lept closer, slashing at the hand holding the gun. He managed to rip one digit off before the weapon fell to the floor with a clunk. He stepped right against a chest, and with bloody fingers, pulled his cigarette from his mouth so he could slam the lit end right against the center of a forehead.

"You fuckin' ashtray, piece of ****, mother-******." He hissed.

It was almost as if he didn't even realize there were other people there still.