Path of the Vampire forum

Ninth
[FOR THE CURE]

Gliding the blade across the whetstone, Gretchen hazarded a glance around the room. There were no familiar faces amongst the crowd, though the hair at the back of her neck rose when she laid eyes upon some. Vampires. Every cell in her being rejected their existence, and decades’ worth of training only furthered her aversion. It took monumental effort not to denounce her supposed allies. She didn’t trust a single one of them not to sabotage the militia once the pool of enemies had thinned. It went against one’s very nature to support one’s extinction.

The paladin ground her teeth together as she cast her glance back to the whetstone. If she wished to remain on this side of history, she had to bide her time and not act on her hatred — at least not yet. Once the cure was weaponised, the tables would turn. Until then, until the cure was irrefutable and readily accessible…

Sheathing the sharpened blade, Gretchen returned the warm whetstone to its padded pouch. Her abdomen protested as she rose to her feet, the fresh gunshot wound deftly sewn together but still only a few hours fresh. The blood that had leaked onto her shirt was a dead giveaway, one she wished to erase before her next confrontation. For now, she was safe on the ninth floor, as safe as one could be with vampire lurking in their midst.

Nearing the group by the elevator, she addressed the first person who caught her eye. The accent was thick, though it did not immediately give away her German ancestry. No, years living in Britain had softened her consonants, though there was no denying she came from the old continent. It was always the w that gave her away.

“You. Where are the faucets on this floor?”

Harrison was not an inherently violent man. A Minister for the church of Scotland, he believed in equality and fairness, he believed in kindness and common decency toward all mankind. He believed in forgiveness. Perhaps, in showing kindness to those who were misguided, they would realise their mistakes and turn their lives around, somehow. Down on the ninth floor, in the basement of the lab he’d so recently taken up arms, he felt unsteady. Nearby, a childe who needed him, wounded and bleeding and not due to anyone in this facility.

They kept company with hunters who hated them just for what they were; hunters who hadn’t hurt them, as yet, but from the looks in their eyes Harrison could tell that they wanted to. They did not see Enver as a man who would willingly save the lives of others, despite his ego. They did not see Harrison as a man who clung to vampirism only because he would be dead otherwise.

The minister would be forever thankful that his life had been returned to him though, given the choice, he would return to his humanity. In his vampirism he had not harmed anyone who did not beg first to be harmed. He had killed no one for his own nourishment. He took blood from bags and knew soon he would outdrink the blood that he himself had donated in humanity. He felt guilt, but he also wished to live. It was a common dilemma.

If he could convince the humans present that not all vampires were bad, that not all vampires were inherently demons, he would. But it would take more than one conversation. He was here because his sire was here; he was not asked, he came unbidden. He came to support the cure; to offer it to those who would much rather be without the burden of drinking blood for survival. He only hoped that it would not become a Big Pharm Farce. He hoped that it was true. He hoped, oh, God he hoped the good guys would come through.

Harrison was headed for the elevator so that he could take it up to the ground, so that he could go into the city where there was a shop that would sell him strange orbs to replenish his healing ability. What use was he if he could not heal those who required it? He was brought up short, however, addressed rather abruptly before he could enter the metallic chamber.

”Faucets?” he glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed toward bathrooms located to the south. ”In the bathrooms,” he said, his own accent very clearly Scottish. His gaze dropped to the blood-stained abdomen.

”Do you need help? I can heal… I might be able to, once, before I leave…” he said. Could he? He’d not tried on a human before…

Gretchen spent time on this floor due to the relative safety it provided when she rested between assaults. The few who crowded the main area around the elevator were supposedly allies, and though she couldn’t trust a vampire any further than she could spit, those who’d joined the militia had done so with the understanding that violence amongst its members was unacceptable. It didn’t mean she was safe from attack, but there was a greater chance of safety here than on a lower floor. It was a matter of numbers, not sentiment.

Disinterested in this level beyond its makeshift forte likeness, she’d not wasted any time locating bathrooms. Her gaze had settled on exits, the now defunct computer terminal, and the many unfamiliar faces. Before she could follow the man’s gaze southwards, he continued to speak.

Of course he could heal. That was hers, and every other hunter’s problem. They healed. They healed like no other. Beheadings, pyres… The old ways no longer worked. They just kept healing.

—oh, Gretchen realised. He was referring to her wound. He could heal her wound. The thought of him touching her made her skin crawl. She had learned that some vampires retained their human warmth, but that did not make their touch any more appealing.

Then again… Her mind staggered, her lip curled in disgust at the mere thought she humoured. Healing this wound would help her in the long run, if he could, in fact, do it.

No, she couldn’t— she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she did. To take help from a vampire… it went against everything she stood for. It was taking everything in her power to restrain the instinct of taking advantage of his proximity to stab him in the heart. Not to mention she could heal herself — at least in part. It required effort she did not want to put forth at this time, and if she wasn’t going to, then she wouldn’t settle for someone else’s help, especially not that of a vampire.

“No,” she replied, her candidness loosening her tongue, “I don’t trust you.”

It didn’t matter that he looked sincere, or that his face had been amongst the many labelled ‘militia’ on the screen. Gretchen had seen how exquisitely vampires could act, and she had no desire to find herself accepting the helping hand. It was a classic case of cutting one’s nose to spite their face. It was easier to live with a gaping, painful wound, than the knowledge she’d sunk so low.