Summary:Multiple kinds of horror meet up. Also, Eve is there. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Night time…is the RIGHT time.
She was detecting telltale reactions from the preservatives in the packaged pints, but was not sure if it was biological, neural, or psychosomatic. She did know that she might have to hunt again. But in a world of CCTV, smartphones, cop cameras, and private security, one had to be careful.
Then, something came up. A story about a rapist whose case was dropped for lack of evidence. She had done her research. Research was the hallmark of any good scientist. Phillip Travers. A long history of sexual degeneracy, bolstered by the successful intimidation of his victims.
His current M.O.? Various underground bars, raves, and "alternative" clubs. Then she found his current hunting ground, a place called The Bared Neck. An industrial/goth gathering place for a particular subset.
A "vampire" club. And Travers was going around as a "lead vampire," seeking the submissive and the gullible to fill the empty lump of coal acting as his heart.
A man like that…the world was better off without him. And that was why the tall woman in the leather catsuit with the corset, leather bracers, and black calf-high boots stepped up to the front door, which was actually a back door. Eldritch music pounded from within like a diseased heart…
This is Eve's scene.
IT has been her scene for years and years. The Goth community is always evolving and people are coming and going and Eve has establised herself as a sort of Elder Goth on the local scene, given that she's been part of it as long as anyone can remember.
She's there, dressed in the height of elegant, gothic fashion, with a dress that can only be called a renaissance affair, right down to the hood that covers her bunched blue hair. She might've heard of Travers. She might even be keeping an eye out for him. Assholes entirely plentiful but people preying on a community closer to her /might/ just be enough to attract her attention. Sometimes, they need to be warned off or otherwise dealt with. That may even be why she's here tonight, keeping a casual eye out.
Just in case, see.
The bouncer looks out at the pale face framed by raven hair. "Passphrase."
She looked at him, and her eyes suddenly became hot red, and he could actually SEE the fangs as she snarled, "NOW."
The bouncer blinked, then opened the door. She was an unfamiliar face, but she certainly took the time to dress the part. "Nice fangs," he said appreciatively. He had a set of his own, the finest dental acrylic.
"Made them myself," she said in a low, husky voice as she moved past him. Some band called Collide was doing a heavy gothic version of Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit." It added to the surreal nature of the place.
It wasn't what she thought it would be. No morass of bodies in black latex, squirming over each other like worms. It looked like any one of a hundred bars she had been in. The people were dressed in a mishmash of styles. Leather, latex, lace, metal. Goth, gothpunk, steampunk, BDSM. But they were collected in groups and pairs. She could smell them. She could hear them, poetic platitudes, vows of love and death and immortality. And the usual runs over topics. Friends, family, work, significant others. She looked out at the bar proper, drinking all of it in, red eyes gleaming in the dim light.
If we're honest, Morbius is not the kind of person you 'miss' when they make an entrance.
Eve /certainly/ finds her eyes drawn that way as she makes herself known. There's just something different about her mien in this place. She stares, unblinking, for all of about ten seconds before she turns her attention back to the table companions she has, whom have just gotten busy with each other and are moving off, with apologies of course, to further indulge their desire for a good time with each other.
"Well, shit," mutters Eve. There goes her conversation.
Michelle begins moving forward. She does cut a very imposing figure, and the red-eye contacts and the fake fangs look VERY real. Either she's a poseur, or she's gone all into her persona.
Then she sees him.
He is sitting in a rear booth, speaking quietly to some platinum-haired young woman. All black, little mustache, goatee, contacts to give him that 'dead' look, and slightly-yellowed fangs to match his actual teeth. A few other women are nearby, their attention focused on him as he talks some rubbish about the loneliness of his existence, the ennui of centuries. She had to stifle a chuckle as she moved closer.
Eve's eyes track the movement, of course. If there's one thing she can get behind, it's commitment to an aesthetic. Especially this one.
When Morbius passes by her table,a s she inevitably will, she offers a, "Looking badass, lady," to her on her passage.
Then her eyes follow to where she's /looking/.
Ah. Him.
"… I'd keep my distance from that one," she adds.
She pauses at the table. The comment surprises her. She looks to the goth girl who spoke, and she gives Eve a warm smile. As warm as a smile can be while still sporting inch-long fangs. "…Thank you," she says sincerely, even pleasantly.
When Eve comments about keeping her distance, the woman looks back to Travers. She regards him for a moment. "Do not worry for my welfare…I am simply extending an invitation to him." She nods to Eve, then moves towards Travers.
Phillip Travers (or, as his 'coterie' knows him, DarkChylde) notices the lean, tall woman approach him. There was something noble, almost exotic in her pale face. It annoyed him. People who thought they were better than him.
In that moment, he decided to destroy her tonight.
"Greetings. You are in the presence of DarkChylde, the prince of New York."
It was all she could do to keep from laughing. This crude, pretentious would-be dybbuk? Royalty?
Calm. Calm. Remember the role you are supposed to play.
"I come from Eastern Europe…and I am here to extend an invitation to you."
"Oh my god no," blurts Eve when he introduces himself loud enough for her to here, botha s Darkchylde and as Prince.
"DID YOU REALLY JUST…"
She throws her head back, hood falling away as she just /bursts out laughing/. She can't help it.
Travers gave Eve a dark look, then looked to Michelle. "As you can see, they will let the riffraff in from time to time." He spotted the VIP entrance near the rear exit, then smiled. That would work. The alarm for that exit was not working. He could take her to the VIP room, show her how much of a prince he REALLY was, then slip out the back.
"Perhaps…we should retire to a private room, and then you can tell me more of this invitation? What is your name?"
The woman looked at him and simply replied, "I think a private room would be best. And you may call me MORBIUS."
Travers chuckled. "I like it. You don't seem as morbid as your name suggests." He waved the women away, gave Eve another glare and strode towards the VIP room.
He is wearing leather pants, even.
Honestly, Eve has concerns. This Morbius girl — what a name, right? — is rather intent on getting this guy alone. This guy is, in fact, utterly bad news.
"Leather pants?" she repeats. "I think that makes it clear to everyone that not only do you not qualify as 'having taste', you qualify as the single most pretentious gasbag in a club full of people cosplaying Vampires. But, hey. Don't let me keep you from taking up the nice, young, naive lady on her offer." She rolls her eyes, leaning back in her seat.
"/Leather pants/. Prince of the City. The nineties called and they, actually, they'd just laugh and say 'good fucking luck with that'."
Travers sneered at her. The annoying goth girl was going to be outside, and he was going to be inside with the woman and Mr. Rohypnol. The other women watched him go with longing in their eyes, lending credence to what P.T. Barnum had said about the birth rate of suckers.
HE closed and locked the door, palming a pill and hiding it between two fingers. It was an old skill and was good for a few things. He turned back to her, saying with haughty indifference, "So…tell me of this invitation…" he began…
And then he was picked up and slammed against the side of the wall. He was dimly aware that his patent-leather shoes were no longer touching the floor. He opened his eyes, but he found himself looking into the crimson eyes of the woman, and her lips parted and…wow, those were some impressive fangs.
"Yes…the invitation." And then her mouth was opening wider and wider.
"WELCOME…TO THE FOOD CHAIN."
The door suddenly began thumping, and a guy near the door said, "Jeez, he corralled another one."
Oh, that's it.
Also, those sounds. What they bring to mind. Gross.
Eve soon gets to her feet and says, "Well, that's enough for me for tonight. Later, Bob," she says to the guy near the door as she passes by him.
And then she's walking around to the back exit. If the rumors are true, well…
He'll be coming through tyhat door any minute now.
A few minutes later, the back door opens, and Travers comes out. However, he does not come out alone.
At first glance, he looks drunk, his head slumped forward, and he is being…well dragged. The woman with the long black hair and the long white fangs and the dominatrix outfit is moving him along, like any decent human being would help a drunk man.
She stops as she sees Eve. She is slightly startled, but then says, "Pardon me. I need to get him out of here, he's dead on his feet."
"…wait, what?" says Eve. This is clearly not what she expected like, at all. "Are you seriously Weekend at Bernie-ing me here?" She manages to stammer out once she gets past the shock of, well, the weird lady walking out with a dead body. "You… you /killed/ him?"
The woman looks puzzled. "Who is Bernie?" she asks, missing the reference entirely. She reaches into her pocket, and a black Land Rover beeps 30 feet away. "He wanted to be a dead person. I simply obliged him." She carries the body (fairly easily, actually) to the Land Rover, and actually TOSSING him into the back seat.
Eve pulls out her phone. IS she intendeding to call the police? It's possible. Or maybe she's just bringing up a meme appropriate for the moment becasue of course she is. Whetheror not she gets the chance is up to Michelle.
"You can't just go around /murdering/ people," she says, firmly. "Even if they're that guy. And have questionable taste. Or no taste." He'd probably taste delicious but that's neither here nor there.
Michelle pauses, then takes a pill bottle out of her coat pocket, tossing it to Eve, The bottom label lists it as flunitrazepam. AKA rohypnol. The top label, hand-written, says, "Happy Girl Pills."
The pill bottle has over 50 pills in it.
"He was planning to use those on me. His name is Phillip Travers and he is a career rapist." She closes the door on the body. "The world is better off without him."
Eve effortlessly catches the bottle. She has a look at it. "I heard the rumors. That's why I was keeping an eye on him. Guess I didn't need to worry about saving you from the jackass, but there's still a method of dealing with people like that that doesn't involve, you know, /murder/. Given that we've got the proof /right here/." She tosses the bottle in her hand.
"So, you killed him. Working for someone?"
The woman paused, looking at Eve. Then she understands. "No. This was not a…a 'hit.' I have…a condition. If you wonder what the condition is, then let me make it clear. I am not wearing contact lenses…and the fangs are real."
"Did… did you just tell me you're a for-real vampire?" says Eve, blinking her eyes at the fanged woman. "Like… for real?" She blinks her eyes several more times. She's trying to proccess this. She was just trying to decide what to do with the murderer in front of her and now that complicates things considerably.
This is…rather difficult. She frowns in thought, then says, "I do not run from holy symbols. I can cross running water. Sunlight will not turn me to ash, but it is quite bothersome. I rather enjoy garlic."
She rubs her face, looking aggrieved.
"I had undergone treatment for a rare strain of porphyria. This…was the result. Food provides no actual nourishment. I need approximately two pints of whole blood every 24 hours."
"So you killed this guy… to eat him."
Eve looks at him. Just /looks/ at the body. "You picked him because you figured he was an asshole nobody'd miss and then you could eat him with no actual consequence."
She seems remarkably calm about this horror.
"I did not pick him because he was an…'asshole.' I chose him because he was a human predator, has ruined 15 lives I know of, and showed no sign of stopping. He was a rabid dog someone had to stop. He simply served an additional purpose as well. I feel no remorse for ending his life." The woman opened the driver's-side door, but did not get in. "Do you intend to call the police on me?"
"…I mean you just described an asshole."
Eve points this out calmly, lowering her phone. "No. What good would that do? Pretty sure you're more dangerous to them than they are to you, given the short work you made of that guy." She narrows her eyes. "But I'm not entirely sure what *I* should do with you."
The woman tilted her head. "I do not wish to harm anyone else, especially officers of the law. Or innocent people who have nothing to do with this. I wish simply to leave. If you can find one person that will mourn his passing, let me know."
"Doubt even his mom'd really mourn who this guy is now. Maybe she'll mourn the kid she used to know, though." Eve shrugs her shoulders. "No, I'm concerned about who else you'll hurt to meet that requirement. You might've gotten lucky with this son of a bitch, but that doesn't mean you always will." She lets out a breath. "We should talk. More."
The woman nodded. "I shall return her then, at another time." So saying, she slid behind the wheel of the Land Rover. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have to find a place to get rid of this waste of oxygen."
She waves, then drives out of the ally…