hahaha oh my god no one knows me here except Steph and Lisa. 8| I'm a dead man.
but I thought I'd jump into the story duel competition, this is my dev, if you'd care to visit: www.yourpleasantdarkness.deviantart.com, and this is my story. |D; it's a little poor, because none of you know my characters too well (except Lisa and Steph), but I hope it's sufficiently entertaining to you all. - x -; -cracks knuckles- and herrrre. we...
go.
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"All in a Day's Work", or, "How Private (and Psychic) Investigators Operate on a Daily Basis".
Kohl black smeared across a face once pale as unlined paper. The mirror gawked back at the figure before it, as if struggling to comprehend what it saw. Reaching behind myself, I tied the final touch into place with a wrench of bandanna fabric. The black cloth clung to the gelled-up auburn hair and made it stick out in rooster-esque fashion.
Stepping back, I studied what was now in front of me with the diligent nature of ********. Clothes were clothes and label me what you will, I don’t care. I never did care. And I sure as hell won’t care in the future. The shirt was decent; a wife beater the color of crumbling rust, with a spray-painted skeletal rib cage across (where else) the ribs. A few pendants hung in pendulum form against the front of my chest, just over the heart. Tapping them, I listened to the band before me (well, to pardon the pun, to the left of me and out the stage-room door) string out its last, sorry breaths of guitar work. They weren’t entirely shitty, but they certainly lacked a lot of finesse…and skill…and amplifiers. Not their fault, though. Also not their fault their lead singer seemed to have a porcupine caught in her throat. Poor girl.
Grimacing, I tugged the shirt into place to keep it from riding up over the raw new tattoo I had (unfortunately) decided to acquire earlier. It was a tiny flame, uncolored and etched into the upper part of my hip, just on the bone. I could’ve got it on my shoulders, but that just seemed so unnecessarily cliché (says the man in the red, black, and white, preparing to have a death-metal battle). Like flames themselves weren’t. I made another face and patted my side, yanking the multiple belts into place with a swift jerk of my hand. I sure as hell didn’t want to pants myself on-stage.
On-stage? s**t. Three years ago and I would have been happy to simply crawl under several layers of rugs to avoid being out in front of people and performing. Let alone performing my own work. Maybe Simon was right. I think I had lost my mind. Then again, I wasn’t the one who had pleaded to come along on another perilous mission just to make sure I was still useful to people I didn’t like. That was Simon for you, anyway. Typical and predictable because he had an affixation with doing things and keeping busy. I would, too, though, if I was in his situation. Thank…something that I wasn’t.
“Kale?” Cameron poked his head into the room and I nearly beat him over the head with my flying V. Undercover, Cameron was barely recognizable. He’d gelled back his hair to a slicked, sleek helmet, plastered to his neck. His clothes were much more business-like than usual, and a pencil-thin mustache was etched under his (false) hooked nose. Those blue eyes were the same, however--Cam never bothered with contacts when a simple (ha, ha) glamour was just as readily available. The clients we were handling tonight weren’t magic, at least. I almost rolled my eyes at that particular line of thought, too. Three years ago, I would’ve spat liquid laughing over the notion of “magic” and “glamours”. But less than three feet to the left of me was living proof that such things existed. “We’re almost ready.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I groused to the fake MC and his even faker Brooklyn accent.
“I’m on it, alright? ********. I hate these outfits. I always get tangled.” I tugged on the back of the shirt, where two entirely unnecessary additions of fabric were looped, and studded with heavy steel points. “Why do these Goth punks bother with s**t like this? Honestly.”
Cameron arched an eyebrow and leant against the door, folding his burly arms across his barrel chest, accentuated further by the padding he wore to make himself look just a little bigger. Crossing one leg over the other, he propped one aforementioned long limb against the doorway nearby. The smoke machine unfurled around his legs for dramatic flair and the stage lighting cast his face into violent fuchsia shadows.
“If I remember cerrec’ly,” Cam said, dropping his fake accent for his true-blue Irish one. “Ye yerself ‘ad neon-green ‘air the firs’ time we met, not’er mention a variety o’other oddities about ye, loike piercings up the wazoo--”
“Piercings up the wazoo would probably hurt like hell,” I noted dryly, raking one black-polished (goddammit) hand through my spiked-up hair. “Besides, that was then. This is now.” I flung out my arms and turned around to face Cameron with an exasperated shrug. “Look at me! I look like I stepped off the covers of ’Walking Cliché’ magazine!”
“Or ’Ot Topic,” Cam put in helpfully. I snapped down a hand, grabbed a fistful of stage make-up, and flung it at him. He ducked out of the way with a throaty laugh and straightened, adjusting his black silk tie. Stepping into the full, sickly glow of the florescent yellow lights of the back room, he sat down on the sagging director’s chair with a menacing little creak. Folding his lean, white hands atop his chest, he watched me through the mirror as I finished swabbing my eyes black as night (and just as poetic, too) before adding something in a low voice to me.
“There’s more o’em out there than we initially thought, boyo. Simon is set up righ’ where’e needs ter be, ‘owever. The dealers moigh’ be a variety o’places throughout the club. Jus’ be careful, a’roigh?” He waited for a response as I turned away from the mirror, shrugging my guitar over my shoulder. “These creeps aren’t normal. Tha’much is fer certain. I’m pretty sure ye and I both know tha’.”
“You told me this wasn’t a magic-only mission,” I pointed out. The Black Irish raised his eyebrows innocently and lifted his hands, his large body following the motion with a roll (and a struggling flail as the director’s chair sagged more underneath him in a most dissatisfactory way) to his feet.
“Dun’look a’me, I dun’make the rules. The point is, there’s somethin’ fishy wit’ the products, and sure ter be somethin’ fishy wit’ the dealers. We already know they’ve been guzzlin’ Chimera Blood--” The mention of that particular item sent a ripple of repulsion down my spine, “--An’ now they seem ter be dealin’ in Nosfer.”
“Nosfer?” I asked dryly. “What is that, some kind of vampire blood?”
I’d been joking, of course. But the solemn expression on Cameron’s face stunned me to the bone and prevented my hand from reaching the carton of cigarettes on the bureau nearby. I stared at the taller man and slowly dropped my hand back to my side with a limp ‘thump’ of surprise.
“…You can’t be ******** serious, Cameron.”
“Oh, aye,” he said glumly. “Dead serious, I’m afraid, wit no--well, maybe a little--pun intended.” He rubbed his jaw and smoothed his mustache into place, beginning to pace throughout the crowded room as the audience outside whistled and applauded (for some reason) for the alternative-rock band who had finally finished their sorry little debut.
“But won’t that just spread diseases?” I protested, wandering after Cameron as he became lost in thought. “I mean, Chimera Blood is one thing--the genetic mixture of the liquids and the way it’s made prevents sicknesses from being spread, but…I mean, ********! Vampire blood comes from dead things, not--living things. It’s like if I went into a graveyard and--” I cut myself off, too grossed out to continue. Whenever I got too literal or read or saw some horrifying image, the OCD in me would repeat it over and over again. Already I felt my gorge opening up in nauseous dislike, so I clamped my mouth shut and rubbed my stomach slightly. Tzer, stirring in my head, put in his two cents with a dry tone only I could hear.
“Think of it this way. The necrophiliacs must be out of their minds right now.”
“Ew,” I said aloud out of sheer repugnance. Cameron raised his eyebrows. I pointed to my head with an air of utter innocence. “Head daemon. Giving me useless information, as usual.”
“Did you know Simon Cowell is a Libra?”
“Did you know that I don’t give a s**t?”
“Well, whatever,” Cameron said, stepping back sharply to peer out onto the stage with a slight wave of his hand at someone I couldn’t see. “Jus’ get ou’there. It’s yet turn now. I’ll go announce ye.” Glancing back at me, he tipped me a jaunty salute with a swivel of his fingers from his brow out, and bowed out (ha, ha) into the shadows once more. With a boom of Brooklyn accent he slipped on like a vocal glove, he declared my presence with ritualistic ease. I drew in a deep breath and closed my eyes, bracing for the moment I could enter.
“Ladies an’ gentlemen,” Cameron drawled into the tinny mic modeled after god-knows-when. “Introducin’ the one man act known to razzle, dazzle, and defy all logic, I give to you Rory McSaget!”
Rory? Not my idea. McSaget? Also not my idea. Cameron often said my humor was as bad as an actor’s with a similar name, but I didn’t see it. Shaking my head, I hoisted up the guitar a bit higher and slunk onto stage from behind the raspberry curtains. Cameron, clapping with the rest of the crowd, stepped aside and disappeared into the other wings of the stage. I drew the guitar off of my back and set a foot on the lone stool in the center of the stage, propping the V up on my leg. The crowd was less intimidating than I had expected. Just a lot of smoky teenager smothering themselves in the cramped orchestra pit beneath the stage with its various round tables. The place had once been an interior bandstand, of sorts, now converted into a room-by-decades bar. The bar itself was futuristic, sleek, and made of pure silver-colored metal. People came dressed in all shapes and sizes, Cam being the essence of the 1930’s, and myself, supposed to resemble something dragged (kicking and screaming) out of the 80’s where it should’ve lain dead for the rest of eternity. Expectant eyes gleamed in the blue, shifting lights of the club’s overhead system. I rolled my eyes heavenwards and was nearly blinded by a singular beam of bright, white light. Sure, leave the blind man in the light booth. That’s a brilliant idea. At least he had been informed of which button was which before the show began. But he couldn’t even see anything, so I hoped to hell his earpiece was working. I tested my head-mic (a subtle disguise for my own earpiece) with a mutter of “check, one two, check, one two”, before clearing my throat and settling my hands back on the humming V strings.
Nothing seemed terribly out-of-the-ordinary--yet. There were a few men conversing by the bar, their heads bowed and voices low. One of them, I knew, was Avion--glamoured, of course. A bigass fairy-man can’t be seen frolicking around in a place like this. A Renn faire, maybe, but not a local haunt like this. I settled for guessing the redhead wasn’t him--he wouldn’t choose something so close to his twin sister’s hair color (namely because it was eye-catching, and not very “him” at all). So that left the black-skinned man in the white fedora, or the thin, black-haired fellow whose voice was too low to hear. They seemed to be discussing something important, because the red-haired man’s gaunt face flew into a blackened expression, and he slammed his pale fingers down on the bar. His attire was modern--just a typical three-piece suit. The black man chuckled at his rage and puffed on his cigar, fingers tapping against his lips. I shook my head and bowed it back towards my guitar, trying to focus on the task at hand. If Avion was there, I hoped the close contact with the steel didn’t rattle his judgment--or his abilities.
Plugging in the amplifier and straightening, I chose something simple to play, at first. “Smoke on the Water”, one of the first “complex” songs any child learns on the guitar. The crowd began to mutter in dislike at the obvious ease of the song, then seemed to grow silent as I twisted the chords into something new, first smoothly riding into “Inna-Gadda-Davida”, then quickly drawing my fingers up to begin throwing additional notes into the metallic twangs and plucks. I created a rock medley symphony, something boring to me (but hopefully not the crowd) from Alice in Chains, KISS, Poison--all the old bands, or bands of the 80’s that matched my attire more completely than the prior two choices. I think I even threw in a little Black Sabbath, something I was a little ashamed to know. If I started waggling my tongue and spouting off verses of evil, I really would fit the cliché. I think after this I was going to throw out my entire wardrobe and start over. It was too humiliating to think that a while back, I’d thought it was “all that” to be living on the edge.
And why did I do that, anyway? Did I want to stick out like a sore thumb? I should’ve thought about blending in a long time ago. Different people are dangerous persons to be--they get noticed. And in my line of work, to get noticed is to get arrested, or shot--or worse. I grimly yanked my fingers along the keys with a squeal of metal strings that caused a roar of pleasure to burst from the crowd. A musical orgy orgasm. Fantastic. God, I hate people so much. Shaking my head in the rhythm (the “throes”, if one will), I tried to ignore the fact that they were there, clamoring and pawing at the stage with their grubby little hands and--s**t, fingers slipped, don’t miss a note, if you do, they’ll eat you alive--everything else. Three years ago, I had performed at the bar I used to work at (before it burned down, conveniently enough). Three years ago, that is how Kramer found me. Wailing my lungs out to “While my Guitar Gently Weeps” and shivering in internal fright at the tiny audience I faced back in New Orleans. This undercover mission had taken me far from home; as had the three years prior that still haunted my sleep. Chicago’s air gave me fresh relief from the stagnant cesspool of Katrina victims and already-homeless, proclaiming their misfortunes with rattles of bone and clacks of shopping carts. I tugged on the strings, surgically dancing my fingers over the spine of the guitar to tap into it, drawing fluid notes from it as a doctor would to test a patient’s physical state. I glimpsed, through a haze of cigarette smoke, Simon working in the light booth. His white-blonde hair was swept over his face, red shades in place over his sightless eyes. He looked alien, as if he was a cotton seed or dandelion that had escaped and become ensnared by some foreign object. He spun a knob absently and the lights went down, going red. I saw money, through the cluttered crowd, shift hands with a shake of two palms. One black, the other pale as snow. In a fleeting look, I saw Cameron in the wings of the stage, bobbing his head and tapping his feet in time to the music. Beer was flung into the air in a slow-motion flick of moisture, hanging for a moment, before splattering to the earth. I drew in a deep breath and, still playing with one hand, reached down over the stage for a shot glass. The girl holding it willingly obliged, and I made no great show (but sure as hell tried) avoiding her fingers. Lifting the tequila to my lips, I inhaled the fumes briefly with a flare of my nostrils, lifted the alcohol up, and poured it into my mouth. A few droplets escaped and slithered down my throat. I nearly vomited.
“Ow,” Tzer put in with a growl, twitching irritably (which translated as a shudder that coursed through my entire body). I spat the liquid out, and it emerged as fire, rocketing through the air. Puffing up my cheeks to keep the flames going, I darted a glance down to make sure I had the right chords to continue playing. DADGAD…then what, then what, then what, s**t, s**t, s**t. Ah, there we go. C. I shifted my fingers sharply and sped up the song, making up my own material as I went. The flames sputtered out with a lick of affection against the raspberry curtains above (thank god for fireproof material), and I kicked aside the stool to finish with a grand flaring of strings as my knees hit the stage. So far, the men in the back were still speaking casually to one another, the redhead gesticulating madly to the air as the black and white men watched him with placid discord, their faces matching only in expression that most rich men wore: utter and complete boredom with just a lovely hint of irritation. I swept up into another solo to buy myself time, leaning my body back in a dramatic way (which also gave me a better angle to see the open front door of the bar) as my fingers climaxed the bridge of the Flying V.
That’s the first time I saw him.
He wasn’t really a man a person would look at twice, except for how tall he was (and god, what a snout). His frame was thin and gangly, a good six-and-a-half feet tall or so by my (slightly upside-down) estimate. His black hair was combed back like Cameron’s, though more efficiently and less messily. He had a long black-and-white scarf wrapped around his neck (odd, for this time of year, but the hipster fashion knows no season), which hung down nearly to his waist. Hands buried deep in his dark brown jacket, he shuffled up to the bar and sat down, combing a thin set of fingers through his hair. He tossed an order at the bartender in her silver space-suit, and then bowed his head as if praying for some reason or another.
The three men beside him to the left immediately went still. A crescent smile of Cheshire delight crept across the black man’s face, revealing teeth white as pearls. The redhead in front of him exploded into a gleaming grin of pleasure. The black-haired man merely bowed his head and light a clove, placing it between his lips without so much as cracking a smile. The taller newcomer didn’t seem to notice. I finished my little show and slithered back up to my feet with a bow, listening with half an ear to the ringing applause that boomed through the air.
The trio of men were closing in. The redhead’s elongated jaw hung wide open with mirthful greed, as he licked his sallow lips and swept his hand down to draw something pointed from his side. His mocha-skinned companion extinguished his martini with a flair of fingers and popped the pimento into his mouth before sliding to his feet as well, smoothly walking towards the door. Their black-haired triplet followed, his hands folded oddly into his sleeves. The tall, thin man with the nose like a beak inclined his head over the bar. I watched as the redhead drew something else and pressed it gently to the man’s back. The gesture was so subtle that it almost looked like Ginger (hello, nicknames, how are you today?) was patting Beaky on the back for something good he just did.
The crowd continued to roar. Unable to hear anything except “encore, encore” I grimaced faintly and swung the guitar around, keeping my eyes focused straight ahead on the scene unfolding as the scarf-wearing fellow raised his shaking hands warily away from the bourbon he’d just ordered. Beginning to strum anew, and too focused to add much to it, I walked to the edge of the stage and caught a glint of a knife, able to discern a slightly panicky, heavily-accented voice over the crowd’s initial humming and chatter.
“Please, no,” Beaky was saying. “I mean no harm, I do--eef you geeve me but a moment, I can--I ‘aff money, please, I geeve it--I geeve you all of--”
“Shut up,” suggested Fedora lightly. His fingers switched out the small blade that I’d caught a glimmer of and lightly tapped the man’s jugular. Beaky froze, back stiffening. “It isn’t your money we are after.” Fedora seemed to have a faint North African vibe to his velvety voice. I missed a note and hastened to make up for it with a quick bridge to something by Saliva. That ought to keep the crowd occupied as I sought for a signal to give Cam. I waved my fingers at him slightly, and he nodded, lifting his fingers to the earpiece in his ear as he--I hoped--connected with Simon in the booth.
“I do not ‘aff anything else!” Cried Beaky. He obviously didn’t want a confrontation. The knife slid forward, but seemed to miss as the bigger man conveniently leant forward. Fedora stumbled, the switchblade poking Ginger in the shoulder with a pinch of steel. He yelped and jerked away with a curse, and his pistol (the one he’d hidden in his sleeve) blasted off with the sound of soda being opened too quickly, pinged a bullet off the bar, and hit the ceiling.
“Simon!” I hissed into my mouthpiece, and threw down the poor Flying V. “Lights!”
As good as--no, better--than his word, Simon doused the lights in the club as fast as he could. Night vision flared to life (thanks, Tzer) and I could see the panicking forms of the screaming crowd in full detail, albeit somewhat blurred as if they moved through molasses, and thermally (meaning certain parts of their bodies were brighter than others due to the amount of heat those body parts gave off). Leaping off the stage, I swung around in the air and grabbed one part of the curtains, landing on a table to steady myself before rolling off. Ginger was struggling to regain control as people shouldered him. One hand was around Beaky’s throat, and he was trying to keep it that way. Beaky squirmed, but didn’t seem to want to get too close to Ginger. Fedora’s black-haired associate was visible, but it was difficult to see him--as his body wasn’t giving off much light at all. Come to think of it, neither was Beaky’s--I’d only known he was there at all because of his white-and-black scarf. Through the chaos, I shoved aside the barmaid (sorry, lady) and swung around in time to see Fedora’s bee-eff-eff in Armani snap the latter man’s wrist as he lifted his hand, an odd contraption barely visible for a moment before it fell, and then slam his mocha forehead against the bar with a crack of bone. Drawing the man’s hands behind his back, Avion (in black-haired, gray-eyed glory) quickly dropped him, moving on to Ginger, whose hand was frantically sawing at the scarf, cutting the poor visitor’s neck here and there with shallow and panicky slashes. The latter abruptly seemed to lose his craven edge, however, as he saw help was coming. He dropped heavily to the floor and flung his body forwards. Long legs whipped up to grab Ginger and hurl him around towards the bar. It was like watching water flow, it was that smooth. I saw the third man (their associate who had hidden himself in the crowd) bumbling his way through the dark, and clipped him across the head with a napkin-holder. He dropped like a stone as the lights blasted back on, and men in blue crowded the door. Cameron clipped his cellphone shut and slipped off the stage into the tumultuous crowd. I flashed him a dry scowl as he innocently approached, unharmed and unruffled. Avion, drawing his fedora off of his black-haired head, tugged his black silk tie (a talisman for a glamour) into place, surveying the two men who were now unconscious and strewn on either side of the bar. Patrons fled, and I put a chair over the duo’s unconscious associate for safekeeping.
“All in a day’s work, genel’men,” Cameron piped up, clapping his hands together. The cops growled a thank-you to the unwanted private investigators (us) as they shuffled by, picking up the dealers with a swift hand. I recognized the mug of the dark-skinned man up close. Kasir Abdul, a dealer in “fine narcotics and exotics”, as his little white cards liked to say. He’d been a friend of Kramer’s--the man who had 'made me', a dealer in Chimera Blood and other aforementioned horrors. Well, this guy wouldn't be called a 'friend', necessarily, but certainly an associate. Smoke from the smoke machine welled up and trickled with a relieved sigh down the stage on either side, into the table-strewn orchestra pit. Simon, gleeful that his boring work was over, started playing with the lights and sound mixers, beat-boxing filtering through the cobwebby speakers of the bar. Avion, ignoring Cameron and Simon alike, knelt beside the black-haired man and touched his shoulder.
“Are you alright?” He asked in his solemn way, voice deep as the bottom of a grave. Frightened, bright blue eyes stared up at him as a pale hand clutched the bloody side of his neck. I felt a lurch in my gut as pointed fangs appeared, just barely--and were just as swiftly hidden by a set of pale, thin lips. When no reply came, Avion pressed again, his voice taking on a slightly more audible edge of concern as his brows knitted together. In his human disguise, the fairy man looked like an undertaker--I didn’t blame the newcomer for not immediately replying. “What is your name?”
“…N…Niko. Nikolas,” the man answered at last, eyes darting between the police, thugs, and us. He swallowed hard and flashed a weak smile, no sign of elongated canines anywhere. The narcotics hustlers were dragged away, one at a time, as his accent became more clear to us in the unclogged air made fresh by Chicago’s many breezes.
“My name ees Nikolas.”
but I thought I'd jump into the story duel competition, this is my dev, if you'd care to visit: www.yourpleasantdarkness.deviantart.com, and this is my story. |D; it's a little poor, because none of you know my characters too well (except Lisa and Steph), but I hope it's sufficiently entertaining to you all. - x -; -cracks knuckles- and herrrre. we...
go.
---
"All in a Day's Work", or, "How Private (and Psychic) Investigators Operate on a Daily Basis".
Kohl black smeared across a face once pale as unlined paper. The mirror gawked back at the figure before it, as if struggling to comprehend what it saw. Reaching behind myself, I tied the final touch into place with a wrench of bandanna fabric. The black cloth clung to the gelled-up auburn hair and made it stick out in rooster-esque fashion.
Stepping back, I studied what was now in front of me with the diligent nature of ********. Clothes were clothes and label me what you will, I don’t care. I never did care. And I sure as hell won’t care in the future. The shirt was decent; a wife beater the color of crumbling rust, with a spray-painted skeletal rib cage across (where else) the ribs. A few pendants hung in pendulum form against the front of my chest, just over the heart. Tapping them, I listened to the band before me (well, to pardon the pun, to the left of me and out the stage-room door) string out its last, sorry breaths of guitar work. They weren’t entirely shitty, but they certainly lacked a lot of finesse…and skill…and amplifiers. Not their fault, though. Also not their fault their lead singer seemed to have a porcupine caught in her throat. Poor girl.
Grimacing, I tugged the shirt into place to keep it from riding up over the raw new tattoo I had (unfortunately) decided to acquire earlier. It was a tiny flame, uncolored and etched into the upper part of my hip, just on the bone. I could’ve got it on my shoulders, but that just seemed so unnecessarily cliché (says the man in the red, black, and white, preparing to have a death-metal battle). Like flames themselves weren’t. I made another face and patted my side, yanking the multiple belts into place with a swift jerk of my hand. I sure as hell didn’t want to pants myself on-stage.
On-stage? s**t. Three years ago and I would have been happy to simply crawl under several layers of rugs to avoid being out in front of people and performing. Let alone performing my own work. Maybe Simon was right. I think I had lost my mind. Then again, I wasn’t the one who had pleaded to come along on another perilous mission just to make sure I was still useful to people I didn’t like. That was Simon for you, anyway. Typical and predictable because he had an affixation with doing things and keeping busy. I would, too, though, if I was in his situation. Thank…something that I wasn’t.
“Kale?” Cameron poked his head into the room and I nearly beat him over the head with my flying V. Undercover, Cameron was barely recognizable. He’d gelled back his hair to a slicked, sleek helmet, plastered to his neck. His clothes were much more business-like than usual, and a pencil-thin mustache was etched under his (false) hooked nose. Those blue eyes were the same, however--Cam never bothered with contacts when a simple (ha, ha) glamour was just as readily available. The clients we were handling tonight weren’t magic, at least. I almost rolled my eyes at that particular line of thought, too. Three years ago, I would’ve spat liquid laughing over the notion of “magic” and “glamours”. But less than three feet to the left of me was living proof that such things existed. “We’re almost ready.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I groused to the fake MC and his even faker Brooklyn accent.
“I’m on it, alright? ********. I hate these outfits. I always get tangled.” I tugged on the back of the shirt, where two entirely unnecessary additions of fabric were looped, and studded with heavy steel points. “Why do these Goth punks bother with s**t like this? Honestly.”
Cameron arched an eyebrow and leant against the door, folding his burly arms across his barrel chest, accentuated further by the padding he wore to make himself look just a little bigger. Crossing one leg over the other, he propped one aforementioned long limb against the doorway nearby. The smoke machine unfurled around his legs for dramatic flair and the stage lighting cast his face into violent fuchsia shadows.
“If I remember cerrec’ly,” Cam said, dropping his fake accent for his true-blue Irish one. “Ye yerself ‘ad neon-green ‘air the firs’ time we met, not’er mention a variety o’other oddities about ye, loike piercings up the wazoo--”
“Piercings up the wazoo would probably hurt like hell,” I noted dryly, raking one black-polished (goddammit) hand through my spiked-up hair. “Besides, that was then. This is now.” I flung out my arms and turned around to face Cameron with an exasperated shrug. “Look at me! I look like I stepped off the covers of ’Walking Cliché’ magazine!”
“Or ’Ot Topic,” Cam put in helpfully. I snapped down a hand, grabbed a fistful of stage make-up, and flung it at him. He ducked out of the way with a throaty laugh and straightened, adjusting his black silk tie. Stepping into the full, sickly glow of the florescent yellow lights of the back room, he sat down on the sagging director’s chair with a menacing little creak. Folding his lean, white hands atop his chest, he watched me through the mirror as I finished swabbing my eyes black as night (and just as poetic, too) before adding something in a low voice to me.
“There’s more o’em out there than we initially thought, boyo. Simon is set up righ’ where’e needs ter be, ‘owever. The dealers moigh’ be a variety o’places throughout the club. Jus’ be careful, a’roigh?” He waited for a response as I turned away from the mirror, shrugging my guitar over my shoulder. “These creeps aren’t normal. Tha’much is fer certain. I’m pretty sure ye and I both know tha’.”
“You told me this wasn’t a magic-only mission,” I pointed out. The Black Irish raised his eyebrows innocently and lifted his hands, his large body following the motion with a roll (and a struggling flail as the director’s chair sagged more underneath him in a most dissatisfactory way) to his feet.
“Dun’look a’me, I dun’make the rules. The point is, there’s somethin’ fishy wit’ the products, and sure ter be somethin’ fishy wit’ the dealers. We already know they’ve been guzzlin’ Chimera Blood--” The mention of that particular item sent a ripple of repulsion down my spine, “--An’ now they seem ter be dealin’ in Nosfer.”
“Nosfer?” I asked dryly. “What is that, some kind of vampire blood?”
I’d been joking, of course. But the solemn expression on Cameron’s face stunned me to the bone and prevented my hand from reaching the carton of cigarettes on the bureau nearby. I stared at the taller man and slowly dropped my hand back to my side with a limp ‘thump’ of surprise.
“…You can’t be ******** serious, Cameron.”
“Oh, aye,” he said glumly. “Dead serious, I’m afraid, wit no--well, maybe a little--pun intended.” He rubbed his jaw and smoothed his mustache into place, beginning to pace throughout the crowded room as the audience outside whistled and applauded (for some reason) for the alternative-rock band who had finally finished their sorry little debut.
“But won’t that just spread diseases?” I protested, wandering after Cameron as he became lost in thought. “I mean, Chimera Blood is one thing--the genetic mixture of the liquids and the way it’s made prevents sicknesses from being spread, but…I mean, ********! Vampire blood comes from dead things, not--living things. It’s like if I went into a graveyard and--” I cut myself off, too grossed out to continue. Whenever I got too literal or read or saw some horrifying image, the OCD in me would repeat it over and over again. Already I felt my gorge opening up in nauseous dislike, so I clamped my mouth shut and rubbed my stomach slightly. Tzer, stirring in my head, put in his two cents with a dry tone only I could hear.
“Think of it this way. The necrophiliacs must be out of their minds right now.”
“Ew,” I said aloud out of sheer repugnance. Cameron raised his eyebrows. I pointed to my head with an air of utter innocence. “Head daemon. Giving me useless information, as usual.”
“Did you know Simon Cowell is a Libra?”
“Did you know that I don’t give a s**t?”
“Well, whatever,” Cameron said, stepping back sharply to peer out onto the stage with a slight wave of his hand at someone I couldn’t see. “Jus’ get ou’there. It’s yet turn now. I’ll go announce ye.” Glancing back at me, he tipped me a jaunty salute with a swivel of his fingers from his brow out, and bowed out (ha, ha) into the shadows once more. With a boom of Brooklyn accent he slipped on like a vocal glove, he declared my presence with ritualistic ease. I drew in a deep breath and closed my eyes, bracing for the moment I could enter.
“Ladies an’ gentlemen,” Cameron drawled into the tinny mic modeled after god-knows-when. “Introducin’ the one man act known to razzle, dazzle, and defy all logic, I give to you Rory McSaget!”
Rory? Not my idea. McSaget? Also not my idea. Cameron often said my humor was as bad as an actor’s with a similar name, but I didn’t see it. Shaking my head, I hoisted up the guitar a bit higher and slunk onto stage from behind the raspberry curtains. Cameron, clapping with the rest of the crowd, stepped aside and disappeared into the other wings of the stage. I drew the guitar off of my back and set a foot on the lone stool in the center of the stage, propping the V up on my leg. The crowd was less intimidating than I had expected. Just a lot of smoky teenager smothering themselves in the cramped orchestra pit beneath the stage with its various round tables. The place had once been an interior bandstand, of sorts, now converted into a room-by-decades bar. The bar itself was futuristic, sleek, and made of pure silver-colored metal. People came dressed in all shapes and sizes, Cam being the essence of the 1930’s, and myself, supposed to resemble something dragged (kicking and screaming) out of the 80’s where it should’ve lain dead for the rest of eternity. Expectant eyes gleamed in the blue, shifting lights of the club’s overhead system. I rolled my eyes heavenwards and was nearly blinded by a singular beam of bright, white light. Sure, leave the blind man in the light booth. That’s a brilliant idea. At least he had been informed of which button was which before the show began. But he couldn’t even see anything, so I hoped to hell his earpiece was working. I tested my head-mic (a subtle disguise for my own earpiece) with a mutter of “check, one two, check, one two”, before clearing my throat and settling my hands back on the humming V strings.
Nothing seemed terribly out-of-the-ordinary--yet. There were a few men conversing by the bar, their heads bowed and voices low. One of them, I knew, was Avion--glamoured, of course. A bigass fairy-man can’t be seen frolicking around in a place like this. A Renn faire, maybe, but not a local haunt like this. I settled for guessing the redhead wasn’t him--he wouldn’t choose something so close to his twin sister’s hair color (namely because it was eye-catching, and not very “him” at all). So that left the black-skinned man in the white fedora, or the thin, black-haired fellow whose voice was too low to hear. They seemed to be discussing something important, because the red-haired man’s gaunt face flew into a blackened expression, and he slammed his pale fingers down on the bar. His attire was modern--just a typical three-piece suit. The black man chuckled at his rage and puffed on his cigar, fingers tapping against his lips. I shook my head and bowed it back towards my guitar, trying to focus on the task at hand. If Avion was there, I hoped the close contact with the steel didn’t rattle his judgment--or his abilities.
Plugging in the amplifier and straightening, I chose something simple to play, at first. “Smoke on the Water”, one of the first “complex” songs any child learns on the guitar. The crowd began to mutter in dislike at the obvious ease of the song, then seemed to grow silent as I twisted the chords into something new, first smoothly riding into “Inna-Gadda-Davida”, then quickly drawing my fingers up to begin throwing additional notes into the metallic twangs and plucks. I created a rock medley symphony, something boring to me (but hopefully not the crowd) from Alice in Chains, KISS, Poison--all the old bands, or bands of the 80’s that matched my attire more completely than the prior two choices. I think I even threw in a little Black Sabbath, something I was a little ashamed to know. If I started waggling my tongue and spouting off verses of evil, I really would fit the cliché. I think after this I was going to throw out my entire wardrobe and start over. It was too humiliating to think that a while back, I’d thought it was “all that” to be living on the edge.
And why did I do that, anyway? Did I want to stick out like a sore thumb? I should’ve thought about blending in a long time ago. Different people are dangerous persons to be--they get noticed. And in my line of work, to get noticed is to get arrested, or shot--or worse. I grimly yanked my fingers along the keys with a squeal of metal strings that caused a roar of pleasure to burst from the crowd. A musical orgy orgasm. Fantastic. God, I hate people so much. Shaking my head in the rhythm (the “throes”, if one will), I tried to ignore the fact that they were there, clamoring and pawing at the stage with their grubby little hands and--s**t, fingers slipped, don’t miss a note, if you do, they’ll eat you alive--everything else. Three years ago, I had performed at the bar I used to work at (before it burned down, conveniently enough). Three years ago, that is how Kramer found me. Wailing my lungs out to “While my Guitar Gently Weeps” and shivering in internal fright at the tiny audience I faced back in New Orleans. This undercover mission had taken me far from home; as had the three years prior that still haunted my sleep. Chicago’s air gave me fresh relief from the stagnant cesspool of Katrina victims and already-homeless, proclaiming their misfortunes with rattles of bone and clacks of shopping carts. I tugged on the strings, surgically dancing my fingers over the spine of the guitar to tap into it, drawing fluid notes from it as a doctor would to test a patient’s physical state. I glimpsed, through a haze of cigarette smoke, Simon working in the light booth. His white-blonde hair was swept over his face, red shades in place over his sightless eyes. He looked alien, as if he was a cotton seed or dandelion that had escaped and become ensnared by some foreign object. He spun a knob absently and the lights went down, going red. I saw money, through the cluttered crowd, shift hands with a shake of two palms. One black, the other pale as snow. In a fleeting look, I saw Cameron in the wings of the stage, bobbing his head and tapping his feet in time to the music. Beer was flung into the air in a slow-motion flick of moisture, hanging for a moment, before splattering to the earth. I drew in a deep breath and, still playing with one hand, reached down over the stage for a shot glass. The girl holding it willingly obliged, and I made no great show (but sure as hell tried) avoiding her fingers. Lifting the tequila to my lips, I inhaled the fumes briefly with a flare of my nostrils, lifted the alcohol up, and poured it into my mouth. A few droplets escaped and slithered down my throat. I nearly vomited.
“Ow,” Tzer put in with a growl, twitching irritably (which translated as a shudder that coursed through my entire body). I spat the liquid out, and it emerged as fire, rocketing through the air. Puffing up my cheeks to keep the flames going, I darted a glance down to make sure I had the right chords to continue playing. DADGAD…then what, then what, then what, s**t, s**t, s**t. Ah, there we go. C. I shifted my fingers sharply and sped up the song, making up my own material as I went. The flames sputtered out with a lick of affection against the raspberry curtains above (thank god for fireproof material), and I kicked aside the stool to finish with a grand flaring of strings as my knees hit the stage. So far, the men in the back were still speaking casually to one another, the redhead gesticulating madly to the air as the black and white men watched him with placid discord, their faces matching only in expression that most rich men wore: utter and complete boredom with just a lovely hint of irritation. I swept up into another solo to buy myself time, leaning my body back in a dramatic way (which also gave me a better angle to see the open front door of the bar) as my fingers climaxed the bridge of the Flying V.
That’s the first time I saw him.
He wasn’t really a man a person would look at twice, except for how tall he was (and god, what a snout). His frame was thin and gangly, a good six-and-a-half feet tall or so by my (slightly upside-down) estimate. His black hair was combed back like Cameron’s, though more efficiently and less messily. He had a long black-and-white scarf wrapped around his neck (odd, for this time of year, but the hipster fashion knows no season), which hung down nearly to his waist. Hands buried deep in his dark brown jacket, he shuffled up to the bar and sat down, combing a thin set of fingers through his hair. He tossed an order at the bartender in her silver space-suit, and then bowed his head as if praying for some reason or another.
The three men beside him to the left immediately went still. A crescent smile of Cheshire delight crept across the black man’s face, revealing teeth white as pearls. The redhead in front of him exploded into a gleaming grin of pleasure. The black-haired man merely bowed his head and light a clove, placing it between his lips without so much as cracking a smile. The taller newcomer didn’t seem to notice. I finished my little show and slithered back up to my feet with a bow, listening with half an ear to the ringing applause that boomed through the air.
The trio of men were closing in. The redhead’s elongated jaw hung wide open with mirthful greed, as he licked his sallow lips and swept his hand down to draw something pointed from his side. His mocha-skinned companion extinguished his martini with a flair of fingers and popped the pimento into his mouth before sliding to his feet as well, smoothly walking towards the door. Their black-haired triplet followed, his hands folded oddly into his sleeves. The tall, thin man with the nose like a beak inclined his head over the bar. I watched as the redhead drew something else and pressed it gently to the man’s back. The gesture was so subtle that it almost looked like Ginger (hello, nicknames, how are you today?) was patting Beaky on the back for something good he just did.
The crowd continued to roar. Unable to hear anything except “encore, encore” I grimaced faintly and swung the guitar around, keeping my eyes focused straight ahead on the scene unfolding as the scarf-wearing fellow raised his shaking hands warily away from the bourbon he’d just ordered. Beginning to strum anew, and too focused to add much to it, I walked to the edge of the stage and caught a glint of a knife, able to discern a slightly panicky, heavily-accented voice over the crowd’s initial humming and chatter.
“Please, no,” Beaky was saying. “I mean no harm, I do--eef you geeve me but a moment, I can--I ‘aff money, please, I geeve it--I geeve you all of--”
“Shut up,” suggested Fedora lightly. His fingers switched out the small blade that I’d caught a glimmer of and lightly tapped the man’s jugular. Beaky froze, back stiffening. “It isn’t your money we are after.” Fedora seemed to have a faint North African vibe to his velvety voice. I missed a note and hastened to make up for it with a quick bridge to something by Saliva. That ought to keep the crowd occupied as I sought for a signal to give Cam. I waved my fingers at him slightly, and he nodded, lifting his fingers to the earpiece in his ear as he--I hoped--connected with Simon in the booth.
“I do not ‘aff anything else!” Cried Beaky. He obviously didn’t want a confrontation. The knife slid forward, but seemed to miss as the bigger man conveniently leant forward. Fedora stumbled, the switchblade poking Ginger in the shoulder with a pinch of steel. He yelped and jerked away with a curse, and his pistol (the one he’d hidden in his sleeve) blasted off with the sound of soda being opened too quickly, pinged a bullet off the bar, and hit the ceiling.
“Simon!” I hissed into my mouthpiece, and threw down the poor Flying V. “Lights!”
As good as--no, better--than his word, Simon doused the lights in the club as fast as he could. Night vision flared to life (thanks, Tzer) and I could see the panicking forms of the screaming crowd in full detail, albeit somewhat blurred as if they moved through molasses, and thermally (meaning certain parts of their bodies were brighter than others due to the amount of heat those body parts gave off). Leaping off the stage, I swung around in the air and grabbed one part of the curtains, landing on a table to steady myself before rolling off. Ginger was struggling to regain control as people shouldered him. One hand was around Beaky’s throat, and he was trying to keep it that way. Beaky squirmed, but didn’t seem to want to get too close to Ginger. Fedora’s black-haired associate was visible, but it was difficult to see him--as his body wasn’t giving off much light at all. Come to think of it, neither was Beaky’s--I’d only known he was there at all because of his white-and-black scarf. Through the chaos, I shoved aside the barmaid (sorry, lady) and swung around in time to see Fedora’s bee-eff-eff in Armani snap the latter man’s wrist as he lifted his hand, an odd contraption barely visible for a moment before it fell, and then slam his mocha forehead against the bar with a crack of bone. Drawing the man’s hands behind his back, Avion (in black-haired, gray-eyed glory) quickly dropped him, moving on to Ginger, whose hand was frantically sawing at the scarf, cutting the poor visitor’s neck here and there with shallow and panicky slashes. The latter abruptly seemed to lose his craven edge, however, as he saw help was coming. He dropped heavily to the floor and flung his body forwards. Long legs whipped up to grab Ginger and hurl him around towards the bar. It was like watching water flow, it was that smooth. I saw the third man (their associate who had hidden himself in the crowd) bumbling his way through the dark, and clipped him across the head with a napkin-holder. He dropped like a stone as the lights blasted back on, and men in blue crowded the door. Cameron clipped his cellphone shut and slipped off the stage into the tumultuous crowd. I flashed him a dry scowl as he innocently approached, unharmed and unruffled. Avion, drawing his fedora off of his black-haired head, tugged his black silk tie (a talisman for a glamour) into place, surveying the two men who were now unconscious and strewn on either side of the bar. Patrons fled, and I put a chair over the duo’s unconscious associate for safekeeping.
“All in a day’s work, genel’men,” Cameron piped up, clapping his hands together. The cops growled a thank-you to the unwanted private investigators (us) as they shuffled by, picking up the dealers with a swift hand. I recognized the mug of the dark-skinned man up close. Kasir Abdul, a dealer in “fine narcotics and exotics”, as his little white cards liked to say. He’d been a friend of Kramer’s--the man who had 'made me', a dealer in Chimera Blood and other aforementioned horrors. Well, this guy wouldn't be called a 'friend', necessarily, but certainly an associate. Smoke from the smoke machine welled up and trickled with a relieved sigh down the stage on either side, into the table-strewn orchestra pit. Simon, gleeful that his boring work was over, started playing with the lights and sound mixers, beat-boxing filtering through the cobwebby speakers of the bar. Avion, ignoring Cameron and Simon alike, knelt beside the black-haired man and touched his shoulder.
“Are you alright?” He asked in his solemn way, voice deep as the bottom of a grave. Frightened, bright blue eyes stared up at him as a pale hand clutched the bloody side of his neck. I felt a lurch in my gut as pointed fangs appeared, just barely--and were just as swiftly hidden by a set of pale, thin lips. When no reply came, Avion pressed again, his voice taking on a slightly more audible edge of concern as his brows knitted together. In his human disguise, the fairy man looked like an undertaker--I didn’t blame the newcomer for not immediately replying. “What is your name?”
“…N…Niko. Nikolas,” the man answered at last, eyes darting between the police, thugs, and us. He swallowed hard and flashed a weak smile, no sign of elongated canines anywhere. The narcotics hustlers were dragged away, one at a time, as his accent became more clear to us in the unclogged air made fresh by Chicago’s many breezes.
“My name ees Nikolas.”
