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Victor's boots splashed on puddles against the slick pavement as he ducked into the narrow alley. His eyes darted nervously through the darkness. He did not want to scare anyone with his mismatched appearance. Each step sent familiar shards of pain through his body, a constant reminder of his cobbled-together existence.
Above him, unseen in the shadows of a rusted fire escape, the Drifter's crimson eyes tracked his movement with ancient hunger, lips curling back to reveal teeth that had tasted centuries of blood. The predator's fingers tightened around the metal railing, the anticipation of the hunt sending a delicious tremor through his body.
"Just one more block," Victor murmured to himself. He did not want to use his pact’s powers too often. The more he used them, the more often he ended up back at The Baroness with The Doorman, who always wanted something. A story. His time. an experience. His mind replayed the day's disappointments like a broken film reel. Another dead end. The morgue attendant had looked at his scarred face with pity before turning him away. "You're chasing ghosts."
Ghosts. If only that were true. Victor knew what he was, a walking collection of corpses, stitched together by an unknown creator and abandoned to wander the streets of the Cursed Apple. He flexed his left hand, watching as the barbed wire wrapped around his arm shifted against his skin, using the pinprick pain to distract from other pains in his body.
From his perch above, the Drifter inhaled deeply, savoring the curious scent of his prey. not quite human, not quite ixian, and a hint of otherworldly power. A great power that seemed familiar. It was an intoxicating blend that made his hunger sing. He traced a black talon along the rusted metal of the fire escape, enjoying the scrape of nail against iron. His cap cast deeper shadows across his already obscured face. "Quel délice," he whispered, his drawl caressing the words like a lover. "What a delicious little anomaly you are."
The alley stretched before Victor, narrow and consuming. Graffiti-stained walls rose on either side, urban symbols of forgotten territories and fallen streetkings. Water dripped from somewhere unseen, creating puddles that reflected the occasional flash of headlights. The smell of garbage and urine hung thick in the humid night air, but Victor barely noticed. His senses were dulled by the constant thrum of pain that came with his existence.
The Drifter shifted his weight, his body moving with the liquid grace of a predator who had perfected his hunt over centuries. He pressed himself against the metal rungs, feeling them dig into his chest through the torn leather jacket and tattered shirt. The red trim along its edges caught what little light filtered into the alley, like fresh blood drawn to the surface of skin. His unruly hair spilled from beneath his cap as he leaned forward, his body tensing with anticipation.
The moment stretched between them. Predator and prey connected by an invisible thread of fate. The Drifter's tongue slid across his lips, tasting the night air and the promise it held. He had stalked many through these city streets, but this one… this beautiful cross-species abomination called to him in ways he couldn't explain. Perhaps it was the way the creature moved, each step deliberate despite obvious pain. It would be too easy. Sometimes easy was good. It did not have a chance to fear. The fear of prey made it sour.
When the Drifter finally moved, it was with such swift ferocity that the air itself seemed to part before him. He launched from the fire escape in a blur of shadow and crimson eyes, descending upon his prey with claws extended like eagle talons and teeth bared. The collision drove Victor back against the brick wall, the impact knocking precious air from his lungs. Talons like blackened knives punched into Victor’s bare shoulder and chest, not just tearing but gouging deep furrows through muscle and down to bone.
Victor's eyes widened in shock and pain as his back slammed against the graffiti-stained bricks. The Drifter's weight pressed against him, hot and solid, pinning him with supernatural strength. Those talons raked deeper, tearing through flesh that had never truly belonged to Victor in the first place.
The Drifter pressed his body closer. One leg forcing its way between Victor's thighs in a gesture both dominating and intimate, the position making it harder to merely slip away to the side.
Their faces were close enough that Victor could see the centuries of hunger reflected in those inhuman eyes, could feel the ancient power radiating from the vampire's form. One blood-stained vampiric hand still buried in Victor's torn flesh, meanwhile his own ixian hand gripping the vampire's shoulder to push him away with punishing force.
"Are you afraid, pretty thing? You should be." He forced through his prey’s unnatural strength and leaned closer to Victor's exposed neck. Victor’s blood smeared between them, painting Drifter’s already grimy shirt. “Your heart beats so frantically. You are strong., I like that” The predator's eyes gleamed with hunger as he watched a droplet of blood trace its way down the curve of Victor's chest, moving too sluggishly over the man’s scars and stitches. Strange color but different species did have different blood colors. The vampire’s fingers seized Victor’s jaw, thumb digging in hard enough to leave bruises, tilting his head to expose the vulnerable line of his throat. His fangs pierced Victor's flesh with practiced precision, his mouth sealing over the wound in anticipation of the hot rush of sustenance.
The pain from the bite was immediate and oddly, Victor realized with growing curiosity, an almost pleasurable sensation radiating from the puncture wounds. He leaned into the sensation, allowing it to wash through his nervous system.
What flooded The Drifter’s tongue instead was a bitter, chemical taste that burned like liquid fire. Embalming fluid. A cocktail no living being should harbor. The vampire's eyes widened in shock as the acrid fluid seared down his throat, his body convulsing against Victor's in an involuntary rejection of the toxic meal. The Drifter's hands were clutching at Victor's shoulders as he tried to process what manner of creature he had attempted to feed upon. "Merde!" the Drifter choked, tearing his mouth away from Victor's neck. A gout of fluid spilled from between his lips, splattering against the pavement below. The vampire staggered backwards, his hand flying to his throat as the chemical burn spread through his mouth and down his esophagus. "What poison runs through your veins?!"
Victor watched with widening eyes as his attacker doubled over in a fit of coughing, black-nailed hands clawing at his own throat. The embalming fluid that preserved his body, the very substance that kept him in his half-life state, had become an unexpected weapon. He could taste the shock of it, metallic and sharp at the back of his throat, a phantom sensation from where the Drifter's fangs had pierced him. He kicked the drifter away, anything to get that leg out from between his own.
"Burns like hellfire," the Drifter spat, his elegant cadence fractured by pain. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of pinkish fluid on his pale skin. His crimson eyes, once predatory and confident, now regarded Victor with a mixture of pain and fascination. "What are you? No living man tastes of chemicals and the bitter taste of death."
Victor's chest heaved as he pressed himself against the alley wall, watching his attacker struggle. At the moment, it felt like this was the safest choice, to not turn his back to his attacker. To keep himself grounded and steady. The embalming fluid from his wounds continued their descent down his torso, each droplet taking its time as if unsure of gravity's demands. The barbed wire that was coiled around his left arm seemed to hum in response to his heightened emotional state. "Death and I," he said, his voice low and steady despite the trembling in his limbs, "we're old companions."
The Drifter's lip curled back in a snarl, revealing fangs still stained with Victor's so-called blood. He made another retching sound, his body bent and vulnerable in a way that contradicted his earlier predatory grace. "You smell alive enough to hunt. Your heart beats. But your blood," He spat again, trying to clear the burning sensation. "Your blood is poison."
Victor felt something unfamiliar rising within him, It was not quite pride, but perhaps the closest thing to it he'd experienced since waking on that slab. The constant dread that haunted his every waking moment now swelled into something like defiance. His lips curved into what might have been a smile on someone more practiced in the expression. "I didn't ask for this existence," Victor said, pressing his palm against the wound at his neck, feeling the wet beneath his fingers. "But I'm not ready to end it. Not like I could if I wanted."
The Drifter straightened slowly, his supernatural constitution already fighting the effects of the embalming fluid. His eyes never left Victor's face, studying the made-man’s features as if seeing them clearly for the first time. "You're a fascinating… abomination," he said, his voice recovering its melodic quality. "A beautiful monster."
Victor recognized the shift in the vampire's stance which was no longer the pure predator, but something more cautious, more intrigued.
"Typically, I am feared" the Drifter said, wiping the corner of his mouth. His tongue darted out to touch his lower lip, and he winced at the lingering burn. "and most prey doesn't fight back quite so... effectively."
Victor's eyes held the vampire's crimson gaze without flinching. The pain from his wounds had settled into a dull throb, just one more voice in the chorus of discomfort that was his constant companion. "I'm told I'm an acquired taste," Victor said, the delivery deadpan.
The Drifter's eyes widened fractionally before a surprised laugh escaped him, quickly turning into another cough as the chemical burn reasserted itself. "Humor from the dead," he rasped, pressing a hand to his chest as if to contain the pain there. “Your creator has a sick sense of humor," the Drifter said, gesturing toward Victor's patchwork body with a black-nailed hand. "Creating something that walks and talks like prey but tastes of death and rot. And that eye…"
Victor's fingers traced one of the prominent suture lines that ran across his left pectoral, following it to where it disappeared beneath a fresh claw mark. "If I ever find them, I'll be sure to pass along your compliments. As for my eye…" He smirked, “It is a recent addition, the only part of my assembly that I remember quite vividly.” His blood-stained hands twitched with the desire to maul.
"You've earned a reprieve," the Drifter said, taking another step back. His gaze flickered to the wound on Victor's neck, where the fluid continued to seep without urgency. "Though I don't imagine many of my kind would make the same mistake twice."
The edge he'd gained was a fleeting advantage born of surprise and his own unnatural composition. It wouldn't last; already the Drifter was regaining his composure, the pain in his expression fading as his immortal body processed the toxins. But for this moment, in this filthy alley where so many others had met their end at the vampire's hands. Victor felt the familiar tingle before he saw it. The green electricity that had kept him alive since his awakening, now coiling through the barbed wire wrapped around his left arm like a serpent waking from slumber. The metal heated against his arm’s flesh, each barb becoming a conductor for the power that surged from somewhere deep within his body. His eyes locked with the Drifter's crimson gaze as he raised his arm, palm outward, fingers splayed in a gesture that was both defensive and threatening. The electricity arced between the coils, casting eerie shadows across the graffiti-stained walls of the alley, illuminating the space between predator and prey with a glow.
The Drifter’s eyes widening as the green light reflected in their crimson depths. He took a half-step back, his body tensing in preparation for whatever was being unleash unto him.
Victor didn't answer with words. Instead, he channeled the surge, feeling the familiar burn as the current raced through pathways not designed to carry such power. The electricity leapt from Victor's outstretched hand with a crackling hiss, a jagged bolt of shocking green that bridged the gap between them in an instant. It struck the Drifter square in the chest.
In an instant, vampire's body went rigid, his back arching in a beautiful curve of agony as the current seized every muscle and nerve. A sound escaped the Drifter's lips that was not quite a scream and not quite a laugh as his body convulsed under the assault. His arms spread wide, fingers splayed and trembling, head thrown back to expose the long line of his throat. Sparks sizzled against the wet concrete where the Drifter's boots struggled for purchase. The puddles around them hissed and steamed.
Victor maintained the connection as long as he could, watching with detached fascination as his attacker writhed in the grip of his power.
The vampire collapsed to his knees, his body still twitching with aftershocks. Steam rose from his clothing, and the scent of burned leather and singed hair filled the narrow space between them.
Victor stood motionless, his arm still extended but lowering, the barbed wire now burning against his skin. He felt strangely hollow after the discharge, yet simultaneously more present in his body than he had been moments before.
For several heartbeats, neither moved. The only sounds were the Drifter's ragged breathing and the distant wail of sirens that never seemed to fade in the Cursed Apple. Then, with a shudder that ran the length of his body, the vampire began to laugh! A low, rich sound that held equal measures of pain and admiration. He forced himself upright on trembling limbs. His movements lacked their earlier fluid grace, but still carried the predatory elegance that seemed intrinsic to his being.
Victor remained silent, watching as the Drifter regained his composure. He had to admit. It was admirable for someone to stand after being struck by lighting.
The vampire's crimson eyes had lost none of their intensity, but something had shifted in his gaze. It was irritation that seemed almost petulant. "I've fed on princes and paupers," the Drifter continued, straightening his tattered jacket with black-nailed hands that still trembled slightly. "Viscounts have trembled at my approach. Yet here I am, brought to my knees by a patchwork man who carries death in his veins and lightning in his touch." He shook his head, a crooked grin spreading across his face. "The indignity of it all."
Victor lowered his arm slowly, cautious of any sudden movement from his adversary. "You attacked me," he stated simply.
"That I did, cher," the Drifter agreed and took a step forward, then paused when Victor tensed. "Easy now." The vampire's gaze traveled over Victor's exposed torso, taking in the network of scars and sutures that mapped the junctions between different bodies, the fresh wounds from their struggle. "I'm no necrophiliac," he said, his voice dropping to a purr despite the insult embedded in his words. " Now that I properly look at you… I don't do corpses. My mistake." The crooked grin returned, revealing the tips of fangs. "But you're something else entirely, aren't you? Not quite dead, not quite alive. Freak,"
Before Victor could respond, the Drifter took a step backwards, his form seeming to blur at the edges as if already becoming one with the shadows. "We will meet again, mon étrange ami. Perhaps under more... agreeable circumstances." With a final curse that might have been admiration or frustration, the vampire melted back into the darkness, his crimson eyes the last to disappear, two glowing embers that lingered a moment longer before being swallowed by the night.
Victor stood alone in the aftermath, the night air felt cool against his skin, a pleasant contrast to the heat that had coursed through him during the electrical discharge. His nerves hummed with residual power, a faint echo of the energy that had surged through him moments before. He examined his left arm and flexed his fingers, feeling the last sparks of electricity dissipate into the night. There was a curious satisfaction in this moment, in having faced something ancient and dangerous and emerged alive once again.
He touched the wound at his neck. It would need cleaning and possibly new stitches, but it wasn't a fatal injury. Nothing ever was for him. Death had already claimed every part of him once before his life, and yet still, he walked.
Victor stepped away from the scene of the confrontation, he scanning the shadows for any sign of crimson eyes watching from the darkness. Finding none, he raised his left arm and traced a rectangle upon the wall. “…I did not think I would need His service so soon, but his meticulous perfection… will bring me together again.“ Opening a door, as he opened it he heard a voice that had become all too familiar.
“The Baroness welcomes you with open arms, my sutured swain. How may I be of service?”
“You don't happen to have needles and thread on you by chance?”