Vampire in DC

[TheHamtaro]

- A Very Bad Day -



If you want to survive in Gotham, keep your head down and mind your own business.

That's a lesson people learn quick after some time in her streets. It often came with a pat on the back and a few dollars in your pocket, or a bullet through the skull in some nasty back alley because somebody was having a bad day.

John knew it because he lived it. He grew up in these very streets after all, knew all about those shady deals below gothic towers, the people in charge of the clubs and galleries and Fortune Five Hundred companies, and all those new and exciting opportunities that attracted fresh blood by the thousands every single day, all eager to live the life in one of the most crime-infested, murderous places in the whole damn world.

Lovely.

But it didn't stop people from coming to this hellhole. How could they not? The highest concentration of wealthy individuals in the US of A, and all the advantages it presented: high-paying corporate jobs, massive consumer bases for luxury goods, so much money flowing from their deep pockets to the industrial complex, arts and movie scenes, research and development, academia, and architecture.

You name it, Gotham has it, and she has it better than just about everyone else.

The best restaurants, best bars, best nightclubs, golf courses, best insane criminals, and the best equally insane vigilante. Gotham has style. It has pizzazz. All the glamour you could want and then some more.

Even the healthcare system was as good as it could get, and unlike Metropolis, going there wouldn't ruin your entire financial future for three generations—thanks, Bruce Wayne, for that one.

Now consider the insanely cheap rent. As long as you're willing to live in the more impoverished parts of town, you'll quickly figure out why everyone from the bright-eyed would-be starlet to the gritty dock worker and just about everyone looking for a fresh start would flock around the city like vultures who have yet to realize they are the carcass.

Then again, John couldn't fault them. He was no better.

Born to one of the many nocturnal animals who dwelled in Gotham's high-end clubs, looking for a fancy lay they could hopefully entertain long enough to experience that eight-figure lifestyle and maybe sneak a cake into their oven if they were ambitious.

Since he didn't grow up living La Dolce Vita in some out-of-town mansion, and was often left to eat cereal for days on end while that hag was off trying to appear younger and kinder than she really was, it was safe to say it didn't work out so well for Mrs. Harker.

No, her brand of predation was less baby-trapping millionaires and more like marrying a succession of reasonably wealthy, doubtlessly abusive, mentally unsound individuals.

Hiding bruises on a child's arms was easier than figuring out which blue blood fathered him—unless it was the bouncer, or the club owner, or one of his friends.

Her activities got them from Park Row to Gotham Village to Burnside, and finally made him leave home to live with a touchy-feely anesthesiologist in the Metropolis suburbs.

Not the worst stepfather he's had. By far.

Obviously, he ran away as soon as possible to the one place where three hundred bucks could get you a roof over your head for a good month, where nobody cared enough to ask about your age or demand to see your ID as long as you paid up and didn't make too much noise.

A place where anyone could get a decent wage breaking their backs on the docks, as long as they had the sense not to check what's inside those crates.

After all, to live in Gotham is to keep your head down and mind your own business.

That's the first rule of the game. Follow it, and you'll hopefully make it through the night.

Unless somebody was having a bad day and decided to make it your problem.

"Listen, I'm not looking for trouble," John said—something that would get a pretty boy like him mugged, beaten up, and sexually assaulted any other night.

But since the two gentlemen in front of him had guns, and since there was a man with a hole in his skull taking a nap on the floor, that ship had already sailed.

"I've heard nothing, seen nothing. In fact, I think I might not even be here," he said as sincerely as he could, hoping to at least get them talking. "Works for ya?"

Now, he knew there was no way they'd just let him go, but if one of them started monologuing instead of shooting, he could try and make a run for it.

It was worth a shot. It was late at night, and the street lighting in East End wasn't the best. They were only one block away from Brideshead, and that place was a labyrinth of tightly packed buildings. He knew he could lose them there.

All he needed was an opening, and he could zigzag his way to safety.

"Thorne said no witnesses, old man," he heard a snarky voice say, though it could've been his imagination.

"Sorry, kid, but it won't do." One of them approached, getting closer and closer to the one flickering lamppost lighting the alley. He could clearly see the shiny barrel of a huge revolver, the surprisingly nice suit, and the balding grey hair of the old man in front of him.

Crap.

He saw his face.

Now things got much more complicated, but there was still hope. Maybe he could—

Bang.

Before he knew it, he was lying on the floor, a burning pain digging through his chest until the adrenaline kicked in.

Whistle.

"Darn, Joe, nice shot!" he heard the other guy—a younger man—say. He sounded amused, as if shooting some seventeen-year-old kid on his way home was normal.

Maybe it was normal. This kind of thing happened every day in Gotham. The Batman couldn't be everywhere, and the police were too busy being nowhere.

"Shut it, Keith. I told you to make sure people wouldn't get close," Joe—the man who just shot him—said, though he didn't sound all that pissed.

"Yeah, yeah, no need to make a fuss. It's just some nobody."

Huh. A nobody, was he? John wanted to get mad, to flip him off, curse at him—do something, anything. But he couldn't. He was just so tired. So cold.

Breathing was starting to be painful. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he was feeling sleepy.

"—Go make sure he's dead, and do it properly this time," the older man ordered in the tired voice of someone who dealt with too much bullshit to care.

He heard two sets of footsteps—one leaving, the other coming toward him.

I am so dead.

He was tired. He was hurting. But even with his vision getting all blurry, he could clearly see the bored expression on the man's face. The carelessness. The contempt as he stepped on his bloodied chest, pressing on the wound just because he could.

Just shoot me already, you sadistic fuck.

John didn't groan or whimper. He wouldn't give him that pleasure.

The pressure soon left, but the pain was still there.

"He's dead," he could faintly hear that criminal fuck-up say amidst the sound of his footsteps.

It was always like this when the bat was busy somewhere. The rats would get out and party, as if to convince themselves they ruled this city and no amount of beatings from a freak in costume would change it.

"Good. Now get rid of our communist friend over here. I have places to be."

"Screw you."

He started thinking about his life, what little he'd accomplished so far, his nonexistent legacy. The outcome was most displeasing—shit all nothing.

He barely lived. All those years were spent trying to survive.

There were no goals guiding his actions. No higher purpose.

And now it was ending. In some nasty alley. Killed by random mooks for the crime of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

He closed his eyes and waited for death.

[Warning: Host dying before scheduled time.]

[Brute force awakening?]

What the heck?

He was tempted to just gawk at it for a while, wondering whether he was hallucinating or if hell was a computer science course. However, he was dying, and if the magical text wall of death could help out, then he was all for it.

Yes.

He regretted it immediately.

[Integration started. Brace yourself.]

The mother of all headaches befell him. Then came the memories—memories that were decidedly not his, and yet so familiar.

A whole other lifetime. Another, decidedly more boring world.

Crap.

In the span of a few seconds, John had lived and died.

He knew it was worth it.

He knew the past. The secrets of this world.

He knew the curse he received as a boon. His path to survival.

He was still John Harker, that literal son of a bitch from Crime Alley, but he was more.

[Memory Transfer Complete. You will now receive the Dark Gift.]

He braced himself.

He was wrong.

It was so much worse.

No amount of pain could compare to the cold. The awful cold.

His eyes burned.

His heart stopped beating.

Yet he felt strong.

The bullet wound in his chest was healing already.

It was inhuman.

He was inhuman.

[Vampire System Activated.]

A small part of him mourned what was lost. Another was excited by the power that would soon be his to wield.

Both were meaningless in front of the hunger.

[Warning: Blood reserves dangerously low. Frenzy imminent!]

What the hell?

I… need…

And it all went dark.

. . .

Keith Gunman was having a very good day.

He had three grams of the purest coke money could buy in his pocket, two escorts waiting in his hotel room, and he got to put a bullet in that stupid vodka-drinking dumbass.

Working for Rupert Thorne was awesome.

He whistled a nice tune while throwing his Soviet friend in a nearby dumpster.

Crack.

There was nothing.

Just a puddle of blood.

"We shot a damn spook," he muttered.

"No, he won't."

"What?!"

The lamppost flickered.

Red eyes.

"Don't—don't come close!"

Bang. Bang. Bang.

And a clawed hand ripped his throat open.

With his final thoughts, he cursed this beast.

Thorne said no witnesses. What a joke…

Keith Gunman died in some nasty back alley, all because somebody was having a bad day.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- The Game is The Game -




- Vampire Rule N°1: Sunlight will not make you sparkle.

…

Falling into a bloodlust induced frenzy and going to a frathouse party were oddly similar experiences.

You wake up in a stranger's bathtub, covered in another stranger's bodily fluids, your brain is a mess and you struggle to remember where you are, what you did, and who you did.

Luckily for one John Harker, vampirism was a gateway to abilities some might consider unnatural, and that included getting rid of supernatural hangovers.

'I messed up,' He thought, still immobile in the empty tub, 'I remember ripping off that man's throat, feasting on his blood before leaving for safety'

Safety was a relative term, he ended up back in this body's 'apartment', though it was in his humble opinion more of a crackhouse than anything else.

He, in that beastly state did not bother with getting rid of the body either, he just threw it in the dumpster alongside those thug's other victim, a sort of poetic justice.

At least his thirst was sated for now, even if he wasted much of that man's blood, it was still enough to fill a good third of his reserves.

Still, checking it wouldn't work.

If he didn't use the more straining powers, he should be able to last two or three days before needing another meal, but he'd rather not risk it.

'Let's get moving,' With a single thought, his eyes burned red and his senses grew sharper, the sound of distant cars and voices and the occasional gunshot grew louder and louder, he could hear every bristle, every step taken by the fourty eights people who lived in this building.

Every word, every action and gesture were laid bare before his eyes.

More than that, he could see them, the blood in their veins, so warm and bountiful, so appetizing.

It would be so easy to break into the homes of his sleeping neighbours, savour their blood until not a single drop is left of them, he knew he could get away with it too.

'I doubt they're the type who's keen on neck washes though.' He thought, most of them were likely drug addicts anyway, and he knew better than to start feeding off the blood of junkies.

Now certain that he was truly alone in his new 'home', and that it was nighttime judging by the relative calm and quiet, he felt that it was safe to leave the safety of his gross bathroom and discover the marvels of his equally disgusting studio.

'Yeah, that's a crackhouse.' He noted drily.

The first thing he noticed was how utterly empty it was, sure he had only recently moved in, but it was supposed to be the room of a young man, not a ghost.

The walls were cracked, the paint had worn off years ago, and if he wasn't an undead he would worry about the risk of asbestos contamination.

The only decorations were the suspicious stains on the walls.

There were boxes upon boxes of wrapping, take-outs, Chinese food, pizza boxes and soda cans his host body didn't bother throwing out, it formed a second floor, and he didn't need superhuman senses to see the many roaches roaming around, eating the rests.

'Guess that's what happens when you let a teenage high school drop-out live alone in the ghetto.' Jon thought, kicking a pizza box away and watching a swarm of bugs flee for their lives, 'Should I just burn it?'

Looking at those pests made his skin crawl, but the mere thought of fire was enough to put him on edge, so that was a bad idea for the moment.

'Anyway, let's see how much money I've saved up,' He thought, trying to repress images of him agonizing in an inferno, his regeneration only torturing him further until there was no more blood to spend.

He walked up to his 'bed', which happened to be the only piece of furniture in the entire house, it wasn't that good of a hiding place for his money stash, but the alternative was sticking it in the loo and hoping he wouldn't forget and take a shit.

John looked at the dirty mattress, covered with a thick layer of what seemed be plastic wrap, that was a pretty ingenious way not to touch whatever the hell those stains on the mattress were.

A single neatly folded bed sheet rested above it; the only clean item in this whole house, including him.

He moved it, and did his best to ignore the family of roaches that scurried away, now wasn't the time to give a shit. He recovered a plastic bag he had shoved in a hole in the wall, and opened it to reveal a few crumpled bills, mostly tens and fives.

"45 dollars," He counted in disbelief, he might not have all the details of this body's life, but he remembered enough to know he was no slacker, nor was he a drugged addict, and he sure as hell didn't splurge money into stuff he didn't need. "This is bad."

Rend day was in a week, and this wasn't the kind of place where you can just ask the landlord to wait a couple days

The whole building was owned by the mob, and those who couldn't pay had a tendency to disappear, only for them to star in pornographic movies if they were lucky, or butchered up in some back alley if they were men.

Now he could decide to flip them off then eat them like the overgrown mosquito that he was, but that would attract the type of attention he didn't need.

Not to mention the odds of him being disturbed during the day, ending his new life by reenacting the witch burnings didn't sound so hot.

That, and vampire or not, being shot in the face with a shotgun would still result in having a very bad day.

So he'd either have to make an extra 255 dollars in one week, or somehow learn how to mesmerize people.

'And then there's this bullshit.' He thought, looking up to see the ever so strange red wall of text appearing in front of him.

[Vampire System fully integrated.]

[New Task Available: Know Thyself.]

It didn't take some absurdly high IQ and the collective wisdom Tony Stark, Reed Richards and Jerry from accounting to understand what was going on.

Eager to test out the real specs of this so called 'system', he tried to see if a mere thought was enough to use it, since physical contact wouldn't always work.

And work it did, much to his satisfaction.

[- Tasks:

• Know Thyself:

You have successfully integrated the Vampire System to your being, explore it's features and the rules which govern your blood or let ignorance drive you to your final death.

• Difficulty: F
• Reward: 1 EXP
• Progression: 1/3]

That was...informative.

Getting missions was expected, and some form of reward was also a given, that's what he signed up for after all.

But a single experience point? And only three features including the Tasks Interface?

John couldn't help but feel envious of the lucky bastard who got the Gamer System somewhere in the multiverse.

'Well, there's nothing I can do about it.'

The second feature he checked was the most obvious one.

'Status.'

[ Level: 1

• Name: Jonathan Harker.
• Age: 16
• Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.
• Race: Vampire (Fledgling)
• Blood Points: 35/100
• Exp: 0/10]

'Talk about being minimalist.' John whistled, though it was a bit underwhelming.

He looked at the nearly empty panel, no health points or mana reserves in sight. Level, name, race and age were all pretty straightforward, but the rest were a bit more confusing.

[Crackhouse Resident:

You are a not-so-proud resident of one of Gotham's many ultra-low income housing initiatives, and you certainly look the part...and smell it too.

Lower reputation with those of superior social standing, which is pretty much everyone.

Increased reputation with crackheads, hobos and the least fortunate.]

...He really needed a shower.

[Jailbait:

Through genetic superiority, supernatural changes and a high-stress life in the streets, your mind and body are much more mature than a sixteen years old ought to be.

Age is just a number, and jail is but a room.]

He had no comments.

No complaints.

But no comments either.

[Blood Points: 35/100

Nightly Consumption: 10 points. (The amount used to wake up each night.)

One sip of blood from a healthy prey is equivalent to five blood points, draining an adult to death would amount to fifty points, more if the quality is high.]

Waking up took blood, using his powers took blood and he was pretty sure popping a boner would also require spending some blood.

[Affirmative.]

'...Darn.'

[Experience: 0/10

Experience is the measure of your growth, which can be obtained through maturing and understanding the intricacies of your power, indulging the ambitions and desires of the beast within or consuming high quality blood.]

'So get used to my powers, complete the system tasks and be a power-hungry, blood drinking humanoid mosquito?'

He could do that!

[Task Progression: 2/3]

'Inventory.' He tried, hoping to get an answer even if he knew how unlikely it was.

'Team Interface? Infection?' He tried again.

[The Vampire System cannot be used by anyone but the host.]

John wasn't sure way, but he felt like thousands of people just sighed in relief, he did his best to quell his curiosity knowing nothing good would come out of this mess.

Sigh

'Abilities.'

[Abilities:

• Vampiric Physiology:

The user possesses the traits, attributes, characteristics and abilities of a vampire, a being who subsists by feeding on the life essence of living creatures.

This includes enhanced physical, mental and sensorial abilities in addition to an ageless lifespan. However, a deadly weakness to fire and sunlight is also applied.]

'Fair enough, I'm a good looking humanoid mosquito.'

[- Bloodbuff:

Consumes blood to further enhance your physical capabilities.]

'Can I use it in the bedroom?' Was his first question.

[Task Completed!]

[Reward: +1 Exp.]

And just like this, the red screen disappeared leaving him alone in his crackhouse with the most basic of plans and the ever present temptation of just going on a blood-drinking spree.

John changed his clothes to a relatively cleaner set, going out with a bloodstained shirt was bad enough, but the bullet-sized hole right in the middle would make people think that he stole it off some corpse.

Some might appreciate the hustle, but that's not the best look.

He opened the door, nearly breaking off the handle, every single part of that house was in ruin. But it was still in a better state than the hallway, Jon barely avoided the smelly puddles of piss, discarded needles and other trash accumulated all the way down the stairs.

'Next time, I'll jump off the window.' He took a deep breath when he finally left that junkyard of a building, once more thankful that he didn't need to breath on the way down.

The streets were dark and poorly lit, perks of living in the middle of the concrete maze that was Gotham's low income neighbourhoods.

There was barely a handful of people hanging out, smoking or playing a dice game after a tough day in a tough world . But he knew some random back alley wouldn't suit his needs.

No, if you want to observe the community, you need to spend the time in the corners.

A street corner was prime real estate for everyone looking to make a dollar.

Mainly because it was filled with people looking to lose a dollar.

Businesses of all kinds, from the mom and pops shop to the small time drug seller, prostitutes and panhandlers, everyone was in the corner trying to make ends meet.

Of course, not all corners are made equal, but John had a good enough grasp of his body's memories to know the best spots in Brideshead.

Why go there though? That would be a valid question, if he was looking to feed, targeting STD-ridden whores, perpetually high addicts, or twitchy kids with guns and an inferiority complex doesn't exactly sound like a smart idea.

But he wasn't hunting for blood.

No, John was hunting for opportunities.

"Hey kid! can you help me real quick?!" A sickly looking brown man with unkept hair, oversized clothes and the kind of untreated bruises, scars and overall appearance of the most important and vital part of the drug game; the american dopefiend.

Most people, including him, have learned to ignore their existence.

Just looking at them was asking to be hustled, and they were the very best at getting a dollar out of a man.

But this one was different.

Maybe it was that spark in his eyes, the conviction to survive another day in the streets, or the easy smile on his face in spite of his rotting teeth, or even the borderline endearing misery of this poor fella.

Or the fact that he was dragging up a whole fridge despite being in an uphill street, his arms and legs shaking and looking like they were about to give out.

Yeah, it was probably the fridge.

John shook his head grinning, that man barely had any meat on his bones, he was clearly biting off more than he could chew.

"Please?" The man insisted, chuckling uneasily.

Well, if he was asking so nicely.

He walked up to him and grabbed the out-of-place kitchen appliance, giving the stranger a second to steady himself before helping him push it up.

At least, that's what he intended.

What ended up happening was him easily pushing up the fridge and the man all but collapsing forward and nearly falling down face-first like some hood version of Quirinius Quirell

He'd try to stop his fall, but he was clearly not that good at holding back his strenght, and he might just end up breaking his ribs on accident.

Also, watching him fall down was too funny.

"I'm alright, I'm alright." The man said despite nobody asking, he managed to recover like only a homeless fiend could. "Thanks for helping me out, man, folks around here don't have no human decency."

"You're welcome," John smiled, amused, "Where do you wanna put it?"

"It's fine, kid, just give me a few seconds to catch my break and I'll move it myself." He said, waving his hand cooly, but his shaky legs betrayed him.

"Nonsense, you look like you're about to keel over," He said, his voice full of mirth, "You know what? I'll carry it for you, got nothing else to do anyway."

The man looked surprised, and more than a little suspicious.

Someone casually helping you out in Gotham was a strange occurrence, if not a welcomed one, but a stranger going out of his way and spending time and energy for a random junky...

Well, that's one way of ending up butchered by some psycho.

John realized it a bit too late, still somewhat unfamiliar with a gothamite's way of thinking, but quickly found a way to salvage the situation.

"You're planning on scrapping it, no? I'll help you out for twenty bucks." He mentioned offhandedly, smirking when the stranger relaxed.

Despite his talk of 'human decency', he answered kindness with suspicion and only felt at ease when a form of profiteering was involved.

John could almost respect it.

"Twenty, are you crazy? I'll barely make twenty bucks out of this old junk if I'm lucky!" He said, shaking his head, "Nah man, this aien't right."

"Do you think I'm stupid? This is full of good steel, you'd easily make forty dollars." He argued, raising an eyebrow.

"Let's get moving, the scrapyard's a good thirty minutes walk from here, and it would be nice to get some sleep while it's still dark," The wiry man said, his previous fatigue all but gone, "Name's Bubbles by the way, and there's no way in hell I'm paying you twenty bucks to move a fridge."

"Call me John," He said after debating wether or not he should use his real name, "And twenty's a good price, there's no way you could move it alone either."

"What about five bucks?" Bubbles said innocently, well, as innocent as a middle-aged junkie could sound.

"Five dollars? You're breaking my balls."

"Now you know how it feels! Kids these days, trying to hustle up their elders. Tsk." He shook his head, "Back in my day, we'd do this shit for free! And we'd be happy to get an attaboy or some candy."

"That's why you were some poor arse kids," John shot back, "Fifteen bucks, and no less."

"We might've been poor, but we had principles, you younglings be going rogue." He said morosely, before sighing deeply, "I'll go up to ten bucks, can't believe I'm letting you play me like that."

John smiled, they were finally going somewhere.

"Ten bucks, and you show me around the neighbourhood," He said, "Haven't been here for long, and I don't like being clueless about the streets."

"Deal." Bubbles smiled, the kind of smile one made after ripping off a sucker real nice, but that was fine.

John knew he could've pushed for more, but making money wasn't his main goal, or he wouldn't spend precious minutes of moonlight on some druggie.

"You new in town?"

"Nah, I was born here, left when I was a kid but ended up coming back anyway." He answered neutrally, he couldn't exactly explain the kind of mess his memories were right now.

"You're still a kid." Bubbles said drily.

"Piss off." He cursed, but only got a laugh out of the happy man.

"Why'd you come back to this shithole anyway? I mean, Gotham's nice for some folks, but they sure don't live in East End."

He couldn't be more right. If not for his vampirism benefitting from the smog, frequent rains, storms and snowy days and the overall depressingly dark atomosphere of the city, then he wouldn't bother staying.

His host body didn't know anything else, and calling the social services didn't even cross his mind.

"Well, you know how it is…" He said, pushing the refrigerator, "You can take a kid out of Gotham, but you can't take Gotham out of the kid."

"Yeah," Bubbles nodded grimly, "That's some gay ass shit you just said."

He almost dropped the fridge.

"Screw you, Bubbles." He said, repressing a smile, his drug-taking companion had no such reservations though, laughing wildly in the middle of the night with no regard for those who tried to get some sleep.

The Joker will probably appear in quite a few nightmare.

"So what do you wanna know?" John paused at the question, and couldn't help but smile.

It was an unnerving, hungry smile.

"Everything."

. . .

John watched a car stop right in front of an exceptionally fat young man, the window was pulled down, words were exchanged and money was given.

The horizontally challenged fellow raised two fingers, and a teenager came running to pass something to the driver who went off just as quickly.

'Ah, the polished art of drug dealing in the streets of Gotham, the money and the dope never get in contact.' John was rather amused, these children were barely out of middle school but they were already working a package.

"What about them?" He asked his cheerful companion, the noble Bubbles, swindler of vampires.

He took one look at the poster child for urban obesity before answering, as he did with the dozens of groups they've encountered before.

"That's Lil' Kevin, he's slinging a package for Hungry last I heard," Bubbles said, scratching his arm, he wore long sleeves and heavy clothes but anyone could guess how badly he abused his veins, "You should be careful around him, he's a toddler, but people say he's already made his bones."

"Duly noted." John said, earning himself a strange look from his clueless informant.

If dope fiends were good at one thing, then it's knowing the street.

Who runs with whom? Where's the best real estate? Who got killed yesterday and why? Who's the hottest chick around and why is it Cat Woman? These were all questions they could answer, if you bother asking the right way.

The thirty minutes walk to the scrapyard ended up taking them a full hour, further convincing John that he was the one who got played.

But he didn't mind, now he had a pretty idea of the local turfs and street dynamics.

There was no mention of men belonging to Falcone or that bastard Rupert Thorn, all he got was independents and semi-independent players who paid up to bigger fish, but none of belonged to a higher class of criminals.

The comics and shows often portrayed them and their goons as mustache twirling villains involved across all levels of misdemeanours from petty theft to retail selling of conveniently unnamed drugs.

But that couldn't be the case, now could it? People like them wouldn't be caught dead in the same room as the dope, nor would their men, or the men of their men.

No, the game was dangerous, and while they could make more if they had their own men in the streets, it was the kind of greedy foolishness that brings down an empire.

Smart men would let their money, muscle and connection do the work.

They'd smuggle in shipments of coke from the south at ten or twenty grands per pure kilo, then do wholesale distributions in the city or in the whole country if they're big enough.

A single killo could bring up to 180.000$ if they knew how to manage the supply.

(AN: These are the actual figures.)

That's how the underground benefits from the major ports, and John would bet his arse that la crème de la crème of Gotham's criminal eutrepeneurs worked like this.

And John already knew how he could get his share.

They arrived at the scrapyard which was nearly empty, few people bother bringing the stuff they 'found' so late in the night. But there were still enough for them stay open and hire someone for the night shifts.

The fact that said people often brought brand new items whose origins are dubious at best might or might not have something to do with their decision.

Nobody could prove anything, anyway.

'That's Gotham, I guess, even legit businesses are a bit dirty.' John wasn't exactly in a position to blame them.

It was their turn to present Bubble's findings to the worker, a fat man with salt and pepper hair, bags under his eyes and a face that screamed 'Piss off, I don't want to be here.'

He barely reacted when he John left a whole refrigerator in front of him, nor did he react when Bubbles opened it to reveal a whole microwave shoved inside.

"What the heck?" John looked at the shameless junkie.

"Forty bucks for the fridge, it's in a pretty good state, fifteen for the microwave." The worker said monotonously, reaching into his pocket when Bubbles nodded earnestly.

"Thanks man," He nodded at the worker who barely reacted, counted his bills before handing him one, "Here, ten dollars, as promised."

Yeah, he got played.

"No hard feelings, right? The game is the game."

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Batman -



Vampire Rule N°2: Don't drink the blood of junkies.

. . . . . . . . . .

"See ya later Johnny Boy!"

And just like that, John was alone in the city with ten dollars in his pocket and a mind full of borderline insane plans.

The night was young, and he had much to do.

With barely a third of his blood reserves filled, he couldn't risk testing the limits of his capacity, not to mention the lack of living relatives for him to slaughter.

But he couldn't go on a hunt either, lest he feeds on inferior blood, and his instincts told him that it was a very bad idea.

He didn't want to catch the vampire equivalent of an STD.

Truth be told, what he needed right now was money.

Money to secure a roof over his head.

He ought to get himself some supplies to protect his home from the sunlight, sleeping in the bathtub because the windows couldn't close properly wasn't sustainable.

He also needed clothes, everything he owned was dirty, oversized rags that literally smelled like poverty.

Keeping that Crackhouse Resident title wasn't good for business.

You can look as good as you want, but dressed like the lowliest of hood rats, he wouldn't even be able to attract some wicked cougar looking to take advantage of him.

Then he would need weapons, knives or at least a good baseball bat, he couldn't exactly reveal his claws and fangs each time he got into a fight, now could he?

Guns might be a bit too ambitious for the moment, not to mention his lack of experience with anything but those small revolvers for self-defence, and he never even used it.

Anything else could wait until he got his affairs sorted out.

As for his hunger, if push comes to shove he'll just sneak into someone's house and bite them while they sleep.

'Let's hope it doesn't come to that,' He thought, not particularly thrilled by the prospect of sinking his teeths into a stranger's neck, but that was the cost of being a vampire.

At least he didn't buzz around like a mosquito when he feeds.

John sighed, before focusing his senses to check for a possible tail, finding none.

Call him paranoid, but he wasn't about to act recklessly when he was still literally a newborn.

His eyes burned red, enhancing his already clear vision and turning him into a radar for blood, his ears picked up on people's heartbeats, discussions in the apartment nearby, the homeless woman squirming in a vacant house.

It was thrilling, until the culmination of his sharp senses resulted in him knowing that an obese man was jerking off to catgirls somewhere in the scrapyard.

'Yuck.' Was his thought on the matter.

Somewhere, a blue haired lady of easy virtue and loud disposition likely imploded in a rant about kink shaming.

John followed his instincts, crouched low, feeling the tension build up in his legs before releasing it in an inhumanly high jump.

He couldn't help but smile widely, it was utterly amazing.

'And that's without Bloodbuff.'

The young man felt light as a feather, in control despite being a whopping thirty feet above the ground.

Said control promptly vanished when he started falling into a nearby low-rise building, barely holding onto the edge and almost smashing somebody's window in the process.

'Alright, I'll have to work on this.' He thought, easily pushing himself up to the roof.

He started running, his attention divided between making sure he wasn't being observed, trying to not break the roof on accident and avoiding another potential crash.

whoosh

His second attempt was more successful, and so was the third one, and the fourth...

Moving like this was becoming easier and easier, and soon he was able to pick more speed, avoid the obstacles more easily, keep tabs on his surroundings without losing his focus.

He could still improve, mastering his basic abilities was very much a work in progress, one that would take him weeks if not months to finish.

Only then could consider developing new ones.

'Being a human mosquito is awesome.'

. . . . . .

"Yo, get your ass in the stash boy, we need a refill!" A young, fat teenager yelled at his wiry counterpart after yet another sale.

His street name was ironically Little Kevin, one of the many soldiers looking to make his fortune in the corners, one dopefiend at a time.

He's been in the game since he was a younger, more naive fatso, started as a lookout, working for clout in the kindergarten then graduated to hopper working day and night in the corners making that bread.

It's been years, years of paying up the lion's share of the package, only making minimum wage despite months spent in the boy's village and more than a couple 'rough rides' with those nice folks in the Gotham PD.

His ribs still hurt from that one time...

But that was then, and now was now.

He's been promoted, made a real soldier for his trouble, and he makes points on the package.

He gets a percentage, if you're a school boy.

"How much did we make?" He unwrapped a lollipop and asked his money guy, a youngster wearing an oversized Tom and Jerry hoody.

Kevin wasn't dumb, the older guys schooled him right and he listened well.

They told him to always separate the dope guy from the money guy, and never to touch the drugs himself.

"Maaaan, we're heavy as f*ck!" The kid removed a huge stack of bills and smelled them like it was his hot teacher's panties.

"How much?" Kevin spat on the ground, before tasting the sweets, he didn't have time for this dumbass bullshit.

"F-five hundred, maybe six?" He stammered, he thought he was sneaky counting the bills again.

"Five or six? Make up your fu*king mind….shit, I'm getting hungry, go stash it with Duke while Mikey's refilling. Amma get us some Chinese food."

Lil' Kevin glared at each one of the socially promoted retards that made up his crew as a warning not to muck up while he's off. He only had five boys to work with, two children working as lookout on a school night, one middle school kids slinging for him, one bank and one guy holding the stash.

His boss would send someone to get the money and deliver a new package every week, the time it takes them to run a couple G-pack in this corner, it wasn't prime real estate but still pretty fucking good.

Good enough to need a big fella with a big gun off the streets to protect the dope and money.

The three stooges went into of the many vacant houses nearby and knocked three time on the large wooden plank they used to cover the door before opening.

The guy inside had orders to shoot first and ask later, so they needed a way to recognize each others.

It wasn't necessary though, the man with the gun had been busy polishing his other weapon while holding a roughed up issue of the Gotham Playboys Magazine and barely managed to make himself look right when they got in.

He was slouching on scavenged torn up sofa right next to the flash light they used to light up the room.

Any other night, they would've laughed their asses off before threatening to tell Kevin about it unless the horny shithead paid their mouths shut, but tonight was different.

"Man! You're gonna get—Yooo you heard that?" The Tom & Jerry guy, Dennis, said, his smile fading instantly. "Don't tell me you bought a girl Duke, or I'm seriously gonna bury your ass!"

"Fuck you." Duke flipped him off, though he didn't look that threatening with his pants half-on , "Must've been a rat."

He still picked up his gun, just in case.

Criminals are a superstitious bunch, after all.

But in this case, they were right.

Crack

A black blue broke through the make-shift door and collided with a helpless Mikey, slamming him face first at the wall.

"THE HELL IS THAT!?" Duke screamed, raising his gun just in time to see the business end of some disgusting sneakers two inches away from his face.

Crunch

Dennis felt numb, his gaze locked in the ground.

In less than three seconds, his entire world was flipped upside down.

Mikey was french kissing the wall.

Duke was knocked out cold, his face a broken mess.

And he was alone with this...this thing, his only weapon a flip knife he didn't dare bring out, that would just be suicide.

Maybe if he begged, it would let him go?

He mustered enough courage to raise his eyes, and then wish he hadn't.

For an instant, the light blinded him, but what came next was much worse.

It stood there, freakishly tall, it's foot soaked in his crewmate's blood was stepping on the one flashlight lighting the room, keeping firmly pointed at him.

That thing was covered in the shadows, and the only thing he could see was a pair of burning red eyes peering into his soul and finding it lacking.

He felt his stomach turning, and his pants felt all warm and tight, then blacked out.

Dennis woke up to someone screaming and slapping him, he opened his eyes to see a furious looking Lil' Kevin towering over him holding a bag full of Chinese food.

His Tom & Jerry hoody was mess of blood and what smelled like urine, Duke and Mikey were groaning loudly on the ground, clearly needing medical help, and there was a hole in the wall where they kept the dope and money.

They'd lost nearly a grand worth of dope and twice as much cash.

"What in the flying fuck happened here!?" His boss shouted, spittle flying everywhere, his fist clenching so tight his fat ass started sweating.

To that, Dennis could only say one word.

"Batman."

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Midnight Snack -

. . .




Vampire Rule N°3: Would you like it if someone fu**ed your sandwich? No? That's why virgin blood is superior.



. . . . . . . . . . .


"Thank you for your purchase…" A monotonous voice told John as he left the store, the miserable-looking clerk with huge bags under his eyes then returned to his book.

John didn't bother answering, instead leaving the store with two hundred dollars worth of wooden boards, trash bags, bleach, deodorant, nails, plain white sheets, and various tools.

Transporting the whole thing without a vehicle was a hassle, and it did make him look like a nutjob, but this was Gotham and nobody gave a shit when it wasn't their turn to give a shit.

'I need to get myself some proper clothes next,' John thought, completely unbothered by the various people sizing him up to see if he was a good mark, 'I'll do that after I get my apartment situation sorted out.'

It took him a thirty-minute walk and bus ride to get back home, and two different people tried to rob him along the way.

Then again, he did live in Brideshead, and that was as East End as it could get.

He stopped breathing while going up the stairs, now knowing better than to suffer the stench, opened his door, and was welcomed by the sight of his very own crackhouse.

And with the spoils he got from his little visit in that corner boy's stash, he even had the heroin.

A thousand dollars worth of dope, sitting right there in his bathroom, and he had absolutely no use for it.

Selling it was beneath him, giving it away was stupid, throwing it in the sewers? Killer Croc might get high and come back for more, but it was also a huge waste.

A small, insidious voice in his head told him to just work the package; he would surely come across many more G-packs, and he wasn't exactly in a position to refuse a thousand bucks.

But he crushed it swiftly. Spreading this filth around would just create more dopefiends, kill other users, and create a whole bunch of orphans who would surely become the next generation of gangbangers and drug addicts.

This kind of bullshit would just lower the overall blood quality.

And that was something he couldn't accept.

'At least I got the two grands and a gun.' He smiled, genuinely pleased with himself, 'That's more than this body could hustle in four months of work.'

Playing stick-up boy wasn't sustainable, and for people who can't take a couple bullets in the chest and shrug it off, not very safe either.

But he didn't need to do it for long, and he could eat a few shots if need be, so he wasn't too worried at the moment.

Dropping his supplies, John got to work turning his filthy crackhouse into a less disgusting crackhome.

He used some disinfecting wipes to clean his hands and nails, until now stained with blood and grime. He wouldn't catch an illness, but it was no reason to let himself go.

Not to mention how rude it would be to make someone sick after eating them.

With his hands no longer making Grandpa Nurgle proud, he put on a pair of gloves.

Then another pair of gloves, just to be sure.

Only then did he open up the first trash bag, start scooping up some of the trash, and ignored how utterly disgusting it was. If old John didn't get shot, then he would've died of some medieval sickness.

One bag turned into two, then three, and four, and slowly the piles of cardboard, plastic, aluminum cans, stained papers, and other trash started disappearing.

One hour, two packs of trash bags, and a whole bottle of detergent later, John's house was now clean enough to be a pigsty.

Hurray!

'A couple more days of intense cleaning, and it might just become fit for human presence.' He thought, sitting on the mattress and wishing he could reward himself with some food.

It was at this moment of light celebration that a New York–sized rat chose to take a stroll right in front of John.

'Maybe more than a couple days, all things considered.'

It was almost 4 AM, and he would rather be ready to sleep by then, so he decided to make haste and finish his work for the night.

Grabbing the plain sheets and the nails along with a hammer, he started turning them into makeshift curtains.

He then boarded them up with every single plank he got, before covering it up with two more layers of white sheets as an added precaution.

Call him paranoid, but he would rather not get burned alive because he was too lazy to make sure the sun couldn't pass through.

He finished his work by using his last three new sheets to improve his bedding situation.

Laying out the first one under his plastic-wrap-covered mattress as a carpet of sorts, wrapping the second one around the mattress itself, and finally using the last one as a protective cocoon.

The one his previous body owned was used normally, covering him head to toe as a final measure.

It wasn't the kind of things he pictured when he thought about life as a vampire, but now that he got there, it became an obvious necessity.

And another burden.

Once he's wealthier, he could start considering a safer and more glamorous way of protecting himself without looking like a complete freak show.

But even then, he would need many safe houses around the city, or the country even, and they were more likely to look like this than some luxury mansion.

That was the distant future though, and his present was here and it demanded his full attention.

Minutes passed, and he felt himself growing more and more sleepy, more tired.

He tried to resist the torpor as much as possible to make future plans easier.

John knew he could force himself out of day sleep if push came to shove, but it would require so much blood that his current reserves would be emptied three times over.

Then again, pretty much everything was possible if he had enough blood to waste.

By 4 AM, his mind and body were a sluggish mess.

At 4:30, he could barely move.

[Hidden Task Complete!]

[Safe Haven N°1]

[Objective: Create a relatively safe haven with reduced chances of burning alive during the day.]

[Reward: 1 Exp Point]

'Nice!'

He blacked out a few minutes after.

. . .

The next night, John woke up to a feeling of growing hunger.

[Blood Points: 25/100]

He needed to feed soon unless he wanted to risk another frenzy, and who knows what he could do without a proper target right next to him?

While going about his business the night before, he made sure to scout out a few good spots where he could get a nice meal, so to speak.

Nothing too fancy: a good enough nightclub here, a fancy bar there, a 24h gym, and one of the many, many community colleges open in Gotham.

'The problem is, I look like a crackhead.' He glanced at his clothes, old, ratty, and covered in dubious stains.

That meant he had to do another investment.

After making sure his stuff was properly hidden, he stopped breathing and left his fairly disgusting house for a horrifyingly gross stairway.

He really needed to find a better place.

. . .

'Getting new clothes in this economy might've been a bad idea.' A troubled John left the clothing shop with naught but a few bags and a much lighter wallet.

The young lady who made the sale, though, seemed very happy.

How on earth could a couple outfits cost him a thousand bucks?!

All he got was some casual wear for night-to-night life in the city, some warmer clothes and a winter coat with the added benefit of further concealing his figure, some sportswear to avoid tearing his pants while taking advantage of that enhanced agility, and a few smart casual pieces to build a decent image in the eyes of the people he plans on eating.

…Alright, it might be quite a lot of clothes.

And he did buy more than he first intended…

He also might have accidentally avoided the cheaper stores and ended up at a higher-end boutique instead…

'Still, a thousand dollars is just robbery.'

He purposefully ignored how he made double that amount through actual robbery.

At least, he could go on a proper hunt after dropping his bags in the crackhouse; it would be his very first hunt.

'I hope I won't end up biting some coked-up slut.' He thought, and that was a genuine worry he had.

Such were the complications of a vampire's life: wondering whether or not your next target got fucked within the last couple days, something you can really only figure out after taking a bite.

[New Task Available: The Limits of Your Palate]

[Objective: As a vampire, only the blood of the living can sustain your unlife. Most of the regular food turns to ash within your mouth; others will disgust you on a fundamental level. But there are some meals you can tolerate, or even enjoy to some extent! Finding out will allow you to avoid suspicion by publicly eating, concealing your true nature.]

[Reward: 1 Exp Point]

… John started at the red mission text, before wordlessly dismissing it.

He, however, changed his plans to dropping off the bags, checking out that decent-looking diner in Grand Avenue, potentially vomiting his weaselly black guts out, then going to some seedy nightclub to torture his enhanced hearing and sink his teeth into some poor soul.

Then maybe vomiting a second time, for vastly different reasons.

Nobody said being a vampire was easy.

He walked into a poorly lit alley, hearing the distant bangs of gunshots two streets down, knowing the cops won't bother sending someone and the citizens wouldn't bother reporting it either.

In an instant he disappeared, unbeknownst to the people shopping and scamming and touting in the dead of night.

No one noticed him going from roof to roof, his body moving at speeds mere humans could only imagine.

No one cared when he emerged from another dark corner, and only the would-be thieves cared enough to look at him and his large shopping bags, but he was too big and too unsettling for them to try their luck.

He wasn't complaining though.

Again he went up those darn stairs, passing by another tenant and girlfriend who tensed as they met, fearing the worst.

John paid them no mind, content to go back home and put his bags near his bed. He stripped down, pausing for a moment to admire his compact, rock-hard muscles; the many scars he collected in this lifetime all but gone, leaving him with smooth pale skin.

He put on a clean black t-shirt with a matching leather jacket, a pair of jeans, and Chelsea boots.

Well-dressed enough to stand out from the local crackheads and small-time thugs, but not enough to attract needless attention.

He looked like he could rock a nice suit, but dressing like that in these parts was just asking to be robbed.

Satisfied with his looks, he checked his status hoping to lose that rather offensive title; alas, it was still there.

[Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.]

The stench of the hood was still on him, and losing it would take more than a new wardrobe.

Figuratively speaking, of course, he didn't have a wardrobe.

John emptied his pockets, counting the dirty twenties and tens until he got roughly eleven hundred dollars; he put a grand safely in his jacket's inner pocket, and left the rest in his jeans.

He was ready to go.

Taking a walk now that he no longer looked utterly miserable was a rather pleasant experience, but he still didn't fancy lingering in Brideshead more than necessary.

He passed by several drug corners operated by different crews of different sizes, each of them vying for prime real estate and shouting about their product.

"Spider Bags! Spider Bags!"

"Red Tops! It'll make you sparkle! Get some Red Tops!"

"Death Row! Death Row right here!"

He saw kids as young as ten working in the corners as lookouts and touts, getting schooled by their elders.

Some groups were more sophisticated than others, some had better product, others just held so much territory it didn't even matter what kind of weak dope they throw at the fiends.

Addicts will buy it anyway.

Nowhere did he see a shadow of the Cosa Nostra, the supposed kings of the east side; not a word of Italian was spoken in the corners, just regular poor English.

No, it was just people from the East Side cannibalizing themselves to get that bag.

Once he got past Brideshead, he started seeing a few police cars patrolling every once in a while, though the slingers were still out there selling their product.

If the cops stopped, the corner boys ran.

If they didn't, business continued as usual.

The boys in blue were so ineffective it was almost comical. At this point, all they could do was arrest people for possession or rough up people they knew they couldn't jail for long.

They were out in the streets fighting the war on drugs, making an innocent man strip down on the cold pavement, punching children, and showing them that the authorities were no better than they were.

Stealing drugs and money and jewelry and whatever the heck they could get away with, like stickup boys with a fancy badge and legally obtained boomstick.

Meanwhile, the real gangsters won't ever be caught touching a package or working a street like a bunch of ignorant peasants, and the big shots bringing the dope and coke inside the city were probably out there having a party with the politicians and other wealthy weasels funding the police department.

As for the bat, what could he do? Beat up a fourteen-year-old living in one room with his siblings and addict mother? The man is too kind for this.

As John blitzed through the roofs, the streets started getting brighter and cleaner too.

The towers and rowhouses and urban nightmares that made up the mess of low-income housing projects, the vacant buildings turned warehouses and havens for dealers and addicts alike, the misery and grim and depression of the East Side.

It started fading.

There were more and more civilians going about their business, honest taxpayers trying to survive and stay away from the hell a few miles away from them.

Things started becoming more working class; there were proper cars and shops, and people actually looked rather normal and not props in some rapper's song. Policemen were out there making folks feel relatively safer; it was still Gotham though, and the cop was not much better than the crook.

Still, it was an improvement.

'Not for me though,' John thought, realizing that staying in the shadows in such a place wouldn't hide him all that well if he didn't know how to sneak around properly.

He jumped down from the roof, one hand sliding across the wall keeping his fall nice and slow, less loud when he reached the ground.

The vampire blended in with the humans, only getting a few second looks, whether it was because of his good looks or the aura of the hood making people uneasy was still unknown.

...Just kidding, he knew he looked that good.

There wasn't exactly a crowd outside; most people in these neighborhoods were at home getting a good night's sleep before a hard day in the docks and factories and other honest jobs that paid too little for too much effort.

But they were less careful than East Side folks.

It felt warmer, more humane.

People walking side by side on the sidewalk, parents holding their child's hand, young people laughing and joking without keeping an eye out for their opps, or the likely possibility of starting a fight with you because they outnumbered you and felt like you looked at them wrong.

It was cathartic and made his desire to move out even greater.

He even managed to take a cab! And the driver didn't look like Ted Bundy's uglier cousin!

"Where you going?" The middle-aged man asked when he got in.

"Grand Avenue."

"Sure thing, we'll get there in a few if the traffic's good."

The cab driver wasn't much of a talker, so John was left free to lean against the window and watch the people and the streets, seeing what Gotham was like for normal people.

And sure, there were a couple gunshots here and there, and he did see a few shoplifters and muggers working their hustle, along with ladies of the night with few clothes and too much makeup.

But compared to Brideshead? This was a paradise.

The ride felt much too quick for his taste, but he still paid and tipped the good man.

He took a stroll for a couple minutes, and only then did he reach his destination.

In front of him was a sixties diner with two large neon-lit words standing above the entrance.

"Pauli's Diner."

But to him, the name and the significance weren't the most interesting part.

'Oh, what do we have here?' He couldn't help but chuckle.

He saw the waitress through the glass, leaning against the counter and reading something. She was a pretty thing, black-haired and bright-eyed with just the right proportions.

A nice meal.

He could almost forgive the kill-me-yellow low-cut uniform with the diner's logo on it, though it did nothing to conceal her rather sizeable bust.

More importantly though, he recognized her.

At this point, John already knew he found his meal for the night.

.........

Yo!

I'm the author, the one and only Hamtaro of the Mighty Cheeks.

Give me some likes, write a review, or face my wrath.

You have been warned.

(This story is currently at chapter 44 on other platforms. Just google Vampire in DC Hamtaro and you'll get it; I will try to bring all the chapters here as soon as possible.)

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Thanks for the Meal Part 1 -

. . .


Vampire Rule N°4: Unlife isn't some cheesy movie for Tweens, don't expect people to fall head over heels because you're pale and look somewhat constipated.

. . . . . . . . . .



Max Black was safely nestled behind the counter and nursing a much-deserved cup of coffee, she really hated working nights in the diner, but the month was ending and her wallet was empty, and being a nighttime waitress paid better than just counting on the tips of other struggling clients.



At least it's quiet most of the time, people come by to get a snack and hardly ever decide to eat it there.



However, this wasn't most days.



She held back a sigh, and squinted her eyes to have a better look at the stranger sitting at one of the table booths, his back facing her.



'Nice back,' a voice in her mind purred, and she would agree if it didn't sound like her drunken slut of a mother.



No, she wasn't a mother, she didn't deserve that title.



Mothers were supposed to look after their children, protect them from the angry, hurtful world out there. Not snort line after line of coke while two men with real ugly faces joked about the kind of fun three people could have together.



Nope, that woman was just the body she came out off.



'Bad thoughts,' She chided, and decided to punish/reward herself with a nice bottle of whiskey...before remembering how broke she was.



Maybe hot stuff would leave a nice tip?



He better, with the kind of stuff he bought, all sorts of pies, drinks and a nice serving of coffee, that's at least sixty dollar sitting on his table.



That's double what she makes in a full day's work, all ten hours of dealing with ungrateful grouches, troublesome idiots, hipsters and the occasional pervert.



And he was just blazing it as if he didn't care.



She was so busy drilling a hole behind his back that she barely noticed him turning his head to call her out.



Max froze in place for a moment, believing she just got caught checking him out, and prepared herself for the onslaught of attempts to get in her pants.



'At least, the tips are gonna be good.' She tried to see the bright side, 'and he does look yummy.'



That much was true.



With his high cheekbones, bright blue eyes, red lips so pretty she couldn't help but wonder what they tasted like. Don't get her started on his insanely soft-looking, shoulder length black hair...would it be creepy if she asked what kind of conditioner he uses?



Yeah, he looked good.



"Excuse me, could I have more coffee?" He called her, looking more amused than anything else.



"Sure," Was her answer, gliding to refill his cup and taking a good look at his table in the process.



His very full tables, filled with all kinds of food Han wouldn't let her touch without paying full price despite her working there for months.



Most of them were left untouched, he barely finished the chocolate and cherry cakes.



Those delicious chocolate and cherry cakes…



Her eyes were glued to it, now that they truly experienced what yummy was, and she rememberd that she ate nothing but a pack of gum and a few cups of coffee.



"I think I might've ordered a bit too much, would you like to have some?" He asked, and in that instant she might've kissed him if he wasn't potentially a psychopath looking to make some new age sculptures with her guts.



This was Gotham City.



Even if he wasn't a psycho killer, she had a boyfriend.



Cheating at 20 years old wasn't a good look, even if it was an improvement compared to the woman who raised her.



However, free food was free food.



"Dis is delicious," She mumbled, finishing a slice of pie in five bites without using her hands, a personal record.



"Glad you're enjoying it," The food dispenser said, looking at her cleaning his table in ways most waitresses never would, talk about going above and beyond for the client.



'Client is king, even if he's an idiot throwing away good food.' She thought, almost moaning when the chocolate melted in her mouth, now this was the life!



'Yeah, he's definitely a psycho,' She thought, he was sitting there chewing his food with a grimace as if it was cardboard.



Sure, Oleg was most certainly not a good chef, but he couldn't mess up a strawberry cheese cake that badly.



"Not good enough for you tastes?" She asked, not intending to be that harsh since he did share his food with her, despite being a reckless spender and snob jackass.



"I'm sorry?" And there he went, apologizing to make her feel bad, boy was playing around with forces beyond him, "It's quite good, just can't find the appetite."



"Why you some kind of diet-crazy model?" She pressed, half-curious and half-eager to poke the rich kid a bit, "Why'd you spend sixty bucks on shitty diner if you're just gonna throw it away?"



With the way she talked to him earlier, her tip was already gone, so why bother playing nice at this point?



Being rude wasn't as nice as money, but it had its own charm.



Him frowning and giving her a 'How is that any your f*cking business, b*tch?' before giving her an opening to throw a few jabs at his ego was the outcome she expected, it's the one she'd gotten many, many time before and likely the reason she didn't make nearly as much money as she should've on tips.



Alas, hot stuff over there was dead-set on subverting her expectations.



No, there was no shouting or cussing and no opportunity to tell him that his dick was smaller than he'd like it to be, which was always true.



Instead, that gorgeous prick had the audacity to laugh.



Her back started tingling, and she felt her stomach drop, as if she did something extremely stupid.



"I wish I was, things would be much easier that way," He kept grinning even as she gave him her best glare, "Nah, the truth is that I couldn't afford a meal these last few days, so I thought it'd treat myself now that I'm doing better…"



"Oh," was all she could say.



She didn't think he was lying, telling her he's broke as hell wasn't all that smart if he wanted to get laid, and he didn't seem the type of guy who needs to aim for a pity-f*ck.



Max didn't feel bad for him, she was buried in way too much shit to afford that kind of nonsense, she wasn't that kind of girl anyway...but she didn't feel all that good about herself for some reason.



'Must be the food, Oleg probably spat in the dough for shit and giggles.'



If she didn't feel like looking at him right now, it was for a completely unrelated reason.



But despite her best efforts, an insidious voice kept whispering in her head, a voice that sounded like an elderly african american man for some reason.



'You done messed up girl,' It said, 'Fix your mess while I go get some milk.'



It defitely wasn't coming back with the milk.



"It's still stupid though," She said more petulantly than she intended, her gaze locked firmly on what was left of her cake...



If someone talked to her like that, she'd probably punch them in the nuts, and here she was dishing it out to a stranger who invited her to share his meal.



She really was her mother's daughter.



"Hm, maybe, but at least it gave me an excuse." He said, and she raised her eyes only to regret immediately.



He had no business looking that good, it should be illegal.



"An excuse to do what?" She asked, staring at his eyes way too long to be able to play it off, so she just owned it and continued ogling.



"To get a dinner date with you." He said it as if he was talking about the weather, taking a sip of his coffee.



"It's not a date." Max said, ignoring how corny he sounded, and how good it felt to hear it for some reason.

"Really? It sure does look like one."



She took a second to think about it.



A man and a woman eating and talking alone in a restaurant, albeit a rotten one.



It did look like a date.



"It isn't one though."



He looked at her with an expression universally recognized as 'Bitch please'.



"It is not a date." She insisted.



"Sure~" He said, rolling his eyes, "Then what is it?"



"I'm helping you finish your food."



"And I'm letting you ogle me, that's just part of our dinner date." He waved his hand to dismiss her words.



There was no denying her ogling, so she just ignored that part and hoped real hard that he'd let it go.



"It's two in the morning, we are not having a dinner date."



"Breakfast date then? Darn, our relationship is moving fast, can't say I dislike it though." He whistled, a small smile on his face, "What's your name by the way?"



She hated to admit defeat, but there was no way she was winning this battle, not without bringing the big guns.



"I have a boyfriend," Max said, dropping the B-bomb, and waited for the fallout.



Either he gives up, or he says he doesn't care and makes an arse of himself.



'Checkmate, b*tch.'



"Hi, 'I have a boyfriend', I'm John." He continued smiling.



Or he makes a dad joke.



Yes, this John guy was dead set on subverting her expectations.



And the worst part was that she was actually having fun.



Too much fun maybe.



Max could've flipped him off and left at any point if she truly wanted to, but she stayed put and enjoyed the banter.



At some point, she probably went a bit too far.



Maybe it was when she started laughing with him instead of at him.



Or when she let herself feel something when he started matching her humor, tentatively at first when he was not yet certain of how far she'd go, then following her into the sweet depths of political incorrectness and jokes so dark even the French football team wouldn't take them.



Maybe it was the moment she realized they were sharing one booth, their elbows touching every so often, then just kept enjoying the moment.



The looks they shared might've clued her in, but it all felt so natural, so innocent, as if they were just children sharing secrets and not two adults making dirty jokes.



But if she was honest with herself, something she tried to do as little as possible to avoid having to actually deal with her problems instead of shoving them into a corner of her mind then making jokes about them.



If she did choose to be honest, then she'd know it was too late the moment she joked about her childhood but got neither laughs nor pity.



He held her hand so gently it felt warm, despite how cold his skin really was.



"Your mother's a b*tch." He said, and that was as romantic as it could get in her books.



Yes, she might do something wrong, but she was ready to deal with the consequences.



"Ow, what the heck are you made of, dude?" She asked, rubbing her knuckles after they collided with his ribs.



"Why did you punch me?" He asked with a mock-frown and the pleased smile of a man who felt manly.



"You said my mother's a wrinkled ugly b*tch."



"You might've added a few things, but it's true."


"Yeah, but you don't get to say it." She explained, "And my hand still hurts, you should be more considerate."



"Want me to kiss it better?" He asked with a charming smile, and at that moment she felt like she was having a breakfast date with some sort of devious monster.



And she wouldn't have it any other way.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Thanks for the Meal Part 2 -

. . .

Vampire Rule N°5: You are not immune to STDs, so beware of whose neck you're biting.

. . . . . . . . . .



When Max Black clocked in this evening for night-shift in this crappy diner, she expected many things, including but not limited to serving a bunch of starving hookers, chasing off hobos and losing her mind out of sheer boredom and fatigue.



What she certainly did not expect however, was for an insanely hot, utterly annoying, overly patient stranger to just barge in and decide they were having a date.



Even then, what were the odds that it would actually be enjoyable?



Worse still, she had a boyfriend.



Her first boyfriend that didn't try to rape her after giving her one drink too many, or ended sleeping with her mother because she didn't put out, or tried to take her virginity in her high school's toilets.



No, this was actually a decent guy.



Never got in a fight, never said anything bad, and he sure as hell wasn't going to cheat on her.



He went to college, majored in arts, he was part of a band! They still hadn't taken off, but those things don't just happen overnight, it took time and she knew he had the potential to go big if he put his mind to it.



Even if it didn't happen, she'd stand by him, they would find a way to make things work together.



He was such a nice guy, after all.



So why was she being held by another man?



A man she knew nothing about, and yet her head was pressed on the crook of his neck, his cold but soothing palms caressing her hair and that charming voice whispering things she couldn't understand yet craved desperately.



The booth wasn't meant to hold two people in such a way, but her kept her comfortable on his lap all the same.



She kept wondering how it came to that, but he kissed her neck once more and she felt herself melt against him, her toes curled and a moan escaped her mouth.



"More…"



It might be a mistake, but she was too far gone to care about it.



His lips left her skin, but she continues to ride the pleasure, shuddering when his tongue licked neck playfully.



The pleasure faded, leaving her sleepy but content, she could feel herself go despite her will but she still had enough eneregy to make on more request.



"Don't leave me, please."



. . .



"I might've overdone it…" John mumbled, tucking a strand of his new friend behind her ear.



Was it right to call her a friend after bringing her such pleasure? After feasting on her four times in a row, carefully repressing that primal desire to drink her blood till all that is left of her is an empty husk?



After seducing her so mercilessly? Despite her fruitless attempts to avoid such an outcome.



It probably wasn't, but when he looked at her flushed face and the peaceful smile on her face while she tried to merge her body into his, there was no regret in his heart.



[Task Completed: The Limits of Your Palate]



[Reward: 1 Experience Point.]



'Nice,'



He was one step closer to reaching a new level of power, his attention was quickly shifted to something more unexpected yet rather obvious now that he thought about it.



[Hidden Task Completed: First Hunt]



[Objective: Embrace your new nature and sink your fangs onto mortal flesh for the first time without falling into frenzy.]



[Reward: 2 Exp, Ability: Blush of Life.]



In instant, the red texted shifted to display his abilities.



[Abilities:

[Vampiric Physiology]



[Bloodbuff]



[New: Blush of Life]



[Spend 5 Blood Points per hour to maintain a simulacrum of life, restoring most bodily functions and allowing you to maintain the masquerade more easily.]



Did he just rewarded with the ability to pop a boner?



Well, he wasn't complaining.



When he dismissed that last panel, he expected the onslaught of notifications to end, but he was pleasantly surprised with yet another unexpected reward.



[A successful hunt on your chosen prey might avail you an increase in power, the obtention or further growth of an ability or a debuff if the blood is of poor quality.



For greater spoils, target those with extensive power, skills and importance in addition to their health and your own chosen preferences.



Going against it might result in a decrease in Experience, level or the loss of an ability in some cases.]



[Successful Embrace: Max Black]



[Blood quality: C (virgin, healthy, willing.)]



[You have unlocked the ability: Presence, 5 Experience Points]



[Ability: Presence Lvl 1 (Exp: 0/50)



Through blood, influence.



Presence is the ability of supernatural allure and emotional manipulation to attract, sway and control crowds or individuals.



Consume blood to give a feeling or impression to those around you, ranging from awe to fear to admiration or even safety. Using it allows you to easily become the center of attention at a price.



Higher levels allows you to induce stronger feelings, effectively influence stronger minded individuals and increase the range of your ability.]



'Sheeeit,'



At his level, he could probably impress folks in a street corner or be more convincing in negotiations, but if he grinded it the right way he might just get to the point where attacking him wouldn't even cross the mind of those who approach him.



Then he looked at the experience required to level it up, and understood that it was referring to the Exp Points he gathered and not the result of intense practise.



That kind of privilege was for those with a Gamer System, not blood sucking peasants like him.



No, he was not still salty about it.



'Status.'



[ Level: 1



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 90/100



- Exp: 10/10 (Level up?)]



'Darn right I want to level up.' He thought, and waited for whatever changes would take place.



He hoped he wasn't going to bleed stinking black stuff out of his pores before turning into some jade-like beauty after a shower, then his childhood friend would appear to try and sexually harass him long enough to make him fall in love.



Until Young Master Bruce Wayne comes and—what the heck was he thinking?!



[ Level: 2



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 90/200



- Exp: 0/20]



Well, that was anti-climactic.



'I'm a hungry again.' He thought, and couldn't help but glance at the body resting in his arms before shaking his head, if he took anymore blood she would end up in real danger.



Still, it was quite late at night, it would be wise to leave if he wanted to avoid the sunlight.



But leaving her like that didn't sit well with him.



Should he leave and let her pick herself up like an adult? Or take a small risk and let her rest before waking her up?

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Presence -

. . .


Vampire Rule N°6: Being Alucard is the goal, not the starting point.



. . . . . . . . .



'It sure is nice waking next to somebody.'



These were her very first thoughts when she woke up, eyes still closed and enjoying the way her scalp was being gently massaged by those long, nimble fingers.



There was something stupidly amazing about it, the way she was being held, the sheer safety and comfort that offset any possible complaint she might have with their pretty darn bold sitting arrangement.



Yes, this was the life.



"Max." A calm, soothing voice called out between two caresses, further lulling her to sleep.



John chuckled, and she felt it rumbling pleasently in his chest.



What was even more pleasant was the way he cupped her cheeks, indulging her with soft, lazy kisses that truly did nothing to help calm her heart.



*Groans*



"You've turned me into a sappy b*tch," She growled, but still stayed glued to his now warm body, "I'll make you pay for that."



Another chuckle.





"I'm sure you will," The culprit said with a fondness he didn't bother hiding, "But you need to wake up, sweetheart."



"Don't call me that," She complained, "It's too condescending."



"Honey?" He tried.



"Too old school."



"Babe?"



"Too new school."



"Is it even a thing?" He asked, his voice betraying his curiosity.



"I don't know, can I go back to sleep?" She whined, opening her eyes and regretting instantly, looking this good should be illegal and she was ready to die on that hill, "Darn."



"What?"



"Nothing," There was no point in feeding his ego, he was already a bit too cocky for his own good, "I can't believe I fell asleep like this."



"I'm not complaining, you were really cute." He whisped, as if he was telling her a secret.



"Shut up." She smiled, but her face fell soon after, "You need to go, right?"



"No, I should've left half an hour ago," He grinned, "But I didn't have your number, so there was that."

"My shift end in a few hours, no chance I could convince you to wait?" She looked at him, looking more vulnerable than she'd ever allow herself to be, but he seemed to bring out the mushiest, most embarrassing parts of her.



"Mine starts in a few." He sounded genuinly regretful, "Maybe another time?"



As long as you don't throw me away, she wanted to say, but wisely kept her mouth shut.



She reache into her pocket to grab her pen, then feeling a bit unreasonable, she grabbed his hand and wrote her number on his skin, doing her best to make it as painful as possible without drawing blood.



'I'll let him have his revenge later on,' She smirked, thinking about all sorts of devious thing they could get up to when she wasn't supposed to be working.



Unfortunately, he didn't budge, as if he was made of solid stone.



"You're no fun, I hope you know that." She huffed, and absolutely did not blush when he was suddenly only a few centimeters away from her face.



"I can be a lot of fun, believe me."



And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the diner to contemplate her choices.



. . .



John Harker was a happy man...undead...he was a happy humanoid mosquito.

His hunger finally subsided, somewhat, and he had sowed the seeds of what might grow to become a stable source of blood and entertainment for him.



Call him an arsehole, but he couldn't help but see the value in his relationships, even if said relationship was that of a predator and a particularly pretty snack.



It was a fair trade, as far as he was concerned.



He gets blood, an increasingly dependant and thus loyal asset, and a whole lot of fun.



She gets stability, safety, and the affection of someone beyond her reach.



Everybody wins.



'I'm just glad I got there before my sandwich got f*cked.' He thought, not caring about said sandwhich's so-called 'boyfriend' for even a second.



As far as he knew, that child would be the start of a long series of disapointments that would end up with Max becoming a less disgusting, equally promiscious younger version of her horrendous mother.



This kind of life would leave her lonely, filthy and might even let her perpetuate the cycle with a fatherless child of her own.



That, or she turns into a bull dyke.



Or worse, both things could happen at the same time.



'Yes, I'll make sure she has a happier life.'

If said happiness involved her being under his grasp, who could blame him?



He took a cab to get him home in that sweet, disease ridden, crime infested East End where the only game being played was one of murder, greed and self-destruction.



John planned to get back to his crackhouse before the sun showed it's burning self up to roast him up, maybe raid a few corner boys if the occasion showed itself.



And he almost did, if he didn't hear a pained groan.



Now that wasn' that uncommon, living in Brideshead with enhanced sense meant picking up on all sorts of cries, groans and moans of people in more or less distress.



But this one was different.



He knew that voice, how could he forget it?



It's the voice of the man who swindled him on his very first night in the streets of Gotham.



The one and only Bubbles, expert dopefiend and the indirect cause of half a dozen illegal drug-seizures, losing a bunch of gangsters a nice sum of money.



'Oh boy, he looks rough,' The vampire thought, almost wincing when he saw the state of the man,'Didn't it was possible, he was already rocking the weary crackhead look before, but now that's just depressing.'



At this point, his face was just one giant bruise.



The poor man was barely able to limp his way forward, if it wasn't already obvious that he got mugged out of his already meager possesions, then he'd attract all of them East End hyenas looking for an easy meal.



John approached him, silently getting down from his vantage point in the poorly lit rooftop of some low income housing building, he creeped his way behind the man for the sake of practise if nothing else.



If he could sneak up on a veteran hustler, he could sneak up on pretty much everybody.



'Darn, I'm getting good at this.' He praised himself when he managed to stand right behind his injured not-quite-friend before clearing his throat to get his attention.



"Who?! Wait, Johnny boy? How the hell did your white ass get here?!" Bubbles all but jumped away from him, further straining himself in the process.



Great, now he was feeling bad for him.



A lesser man would be crying at this point, but Bubbles was no mere man.



He was a fiend, blessed with crackhead strenght and the resilience of a needy junkie, forged through being pierced by a thousand needles of dubious quality.



"Easy there," John said, trying to pacify the older man, but he got nothing but a few groans and panicked looks, whoever did that to him has hurt more than his body, "I need you to calm down, we need to get you some help."



"NO! Just leave me alone! Why won't you leave me alone!" Bubbles roared, eyes wide and bloodshot, but to John it sounded more like pained whining than anything else.



'There is no reasoning with the man, not while he's in this state,' He thought, now considering using this opportunity to test his newest power.



Presence must be ideal for this kind of situation, and the cost was meager.



Using it was surprisingly simple, as easy as moving his hand or looking somewhere, instincts engrained deeply in his being guided him and he was wise enough to follow.



In that instant, he felt the many possibilities his ability opened, the control it gave him was almost intoxicating.



For some blood, he could push Bubbles' fear to new heights, he could foster his rage and make him lash out, or appease him and give him some much needed peace.



John could awe, intimidate and influence on a level most people could only dream about.



"Bubbles, calm down and tell me what happened," He said, feeling the small amount of blood vanishing while his target's posture relaxed more and more. "I mean you no harm and you know it, right?"



"...Yes, I—I think so." The battered and bruised man mumbled in between two long, calming breaths, "I'm sorry I lashed out...it's—it's been a lot lately, even more than usual."



"It's alright," John said, putting even more power and blood into the ability, more than he ever intended, "You can trust me, I'm here to help you."



[Blood Points: 50/200]



'Bloody hell,' He cursed, knowing full well what just happened.



He got a taste of power and drowned in it, disregarding logic just to have a bit more fun.



In other words, he got lost in the sauce.



The affects were also rather...obvious.



*sob* *sob*



"Thanks kid, I'm really sorry—shit aien't right, I'm telling you, it aien't right." The man looked like he just met Martin Luther King, and wasted no time before telling him all about his plight.



John listened silently, only nodding every once in a while to encourage him.



"So if I understood correctly, some doped up fiend has been following you around, beating the snot out of you and taking all your money and junk."



"And my shoes! Fucker took my shoes!" Bubbles added.



"I see."



He thought about for a few moments, weighting the pros and cons of doing something about it.



For one, helping out a junkie was universally recognized as an exercise in futility.



These folks are virtually useless, spending nearly all their time getting high or looking for a way to get high. They lived and died by the corners, and would sooner die than give up the needle no matter what they say.



Most of them do die too, only a lucky few can break free.



Helping him out would also set up a troublesome precedent.



John couldn't keep giving a shit when it wasn't his turn to give a shit, or he'd never grow out of this garbage dump of a neighbourhood.



Let alone reach the limits of his potential as a vampire.



Every minute spent helping others was one he could've spent making money, hunting for blood or making his unlife that much more comfortable.



'On the other hand, Bubbles has already been a useful asset.' He thought, looking at the injured man rubbing his swollen face with a pained wince.



He was a reliable source of information, did a wonderful job snitching on every street-level dealer in the area, and that was only in exchange for some help carrying scraps.



If he was truly dependent on him, if he somehow managed to get him on his payroll, then there was no telling how profitable it could get.



Having eyes and ears in the streets, an invisible agent beyond all suspicion, who would suspect a known drugfiend in this business As long as he had his ten dollars, the hoppers wouldn't look at him at him twice.



Bubbles was also rather resourceful, more crafty than most folks out there, he'd call him enterprising if he had more ambitions than getting high and not dying.



There was also his own opinion of the man.



'I like this idiot,' He thought, it didn't have strategic value, but if he ever was to help someone than it better be a likeable person.



And Bubbles was as likable as one could be without having tits.



'What should I do?' He asked himself, but already knew the answer…





--------------------------------



Hello folks! Hamtaro here with another chapter.



Did you like the chapter? Got any suggestions? Opinions?



I'd appreciate any feedback, positive or negative, that's how you get better at doing stuff.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Future Asset -

. . .


Vampire Rule N°7: Don't be a messy eater, take what you need from people and make sure everyone involved is either satisfied with the outcome or too dead to complain.



. . . . . . . . . . . .





John looked at the beaten form of Bubbles, the noble hustler, and couldn't help but extend his help in the name of justice, peace and democracy.



It had absolutely nothing to do with the possibility of gaining a very promising asset.



Nor did he even consider the benefits of being the shining light in the life of a miserable man left behind by society, only a wicked man could desire that kind of ill-gotten loyalty.



John wasn't this kind of man, it was all done for the Greater Good.



His lips curled into a comforting smile and he unleashed his presence upon the vulnerable man for the second time, once more awing him and capturing his full attention.



"I will do everything in my power to help you get through this, Bubbles," John said with conviction, looking at him in the eyes, "You have my word."



The battered junkie stood there like a statue, mouth wide open and unable to comprehend what was happening, what he did to deserve this kind of help…



He was nothing but an addict, a filthy, unreliable, deceitful addict who'd lie and cheat and betray the people closest to him in the name of the needle.



There was no denying that.



He looked his sister in the eyes when he told her he was getting clean, before robbing her home clean and selling everything off for a few dollars.



He stole ground stashes of drugs from careless youths, and he hardly felt a thing when he watched them getting beaten for their errors.



He even stole pain killers from an ambulance for goodness's sake.



'It's all in the game.' He'd say, justifying anything and everything.



As if it meant something.



Like the game had rules, like it could be won.



That's the kind of life he has, one he knows will end somewhere in a vacant house, with him overdosing and choking on his vomit, rotting there till the neighbours complain about a dying animal stinking up the place.



But at the moment, watching the tall young man with bright blue eyes and looks that would make those movie stars seem like horse faced hobos, listening to him speak words that belonged in a church, coming out of the mouth of a lying priest before he touched his third child of the day, or some old stories where the hero would come to save the day.



He didn't feel like a dopefiend, a soldier who trusted nothing and believed in no one, a man who lived and died by the needles that ruined his life.



He didn't feel like good ol' Bubbles.



He felt like Reginald Cousins, that kid with big hopes and a kind heart, before he got chewed up and spat out by this city and the people in it and those cruel games they played.



"Alr—Alright." He barely managed to say, wiping his moist eyes and snotty nose with his sleeve.



"Good man," John smiled brightly, and Bubbles felt himself getting bolder, his body still hurt like a mean b*tch but he felt stronger somehow, braver.



He had forgotten how nice it felt to have someone looking out for him, it's been so long…



"Do you have somewhere you can crash in for the night?" The young man asked, and he nodded telling him about his hideout close by, the second floor of a warmer vacant house.



His instincts honed through years spent in the street told him to shut up, but he was brave enough to ignore it.



"Here, take this." John gave him a couple twenty dollars bills, "Get yourself some food, some shoes too if possible, it should be enough."



The vampire knew it would likely be spent on drugs, but that was not the point.



He needed to foster what little trust had been built between them, something stronger than a single positive encounter followed by a ruthless emotional bombardment when he was at his most vulnerable.



If that meant parting with a few dollars, so be it.



Technically, it was the drug dealers paying up anyway.



'I just hope he won't end up overdosing tonight...would be really funny though.' He thought, smiling a bit which the junkie took as a friendly gesture.



"Thank man, I will." Bubbles mumbled, both of them knowing he wouldn't keep his word on the matter.



"Great, let's call it a night," John said calmly, "Tommorow at midnight, you and I will take a walk around the neighbourhood and we'll teach a lesson to your troublesome little friend."



"…"



"What?"



"That's it?" The junkie asked.



"Yup, you show me the guy and I make sure he doesn't trouble you again, that's all it need to be." He said with a small small, a bit curious about the kind of far fetched plan the injured man had cooked up in his drug-craving mind.



"I dunno, I expected something more…" Bubbles scratched his head.



John shook his head.

"Sometimes, less is more." He said, bidding farwell to his his asset in the making.



The night was about to end, and he was eager to lighten a few hoppers of the burden of a full stash, keeping so much money could be very dangerous.



Then again, drug dealers were reckless bunch.



He walked into a dark alley, focusing on the world around him, his signature blue eyes turned a dangerous red and he was soon nowhere to be seen.



In the span of half an hour, Bridehead's corner boys faced yet another onslaught from a mysterious figure.

"Argh! My head!"

"My knee! He broke my knees!"

"Please don't break my balls! Take anything you want but leave my balls alone!"



Some thought it was the bat, others believed it was just a particularly competent and violent stickup boy made more fearsome by the rumours and exaggerations victims eager to salvage their reputation.



John knew not and cared not for it though.



He was four thousand dollars richer, and his bathroom was filled with more bags of heroin that he had no use for.



He slid inside his bed, content with the knowledge that he would soon be able to move away from this poorly disguised crackhouse he called home.



However, something was telling him that his peace won't last.



Most of the freaks were behind bars or confined in the Asylum, the kingpins of Gotham had greater concerns than some upstart emptying some gangster's stashes, and those with real power in this world had yet to make a move.



There was no justice league yet, no one inviting dangers of a higher caliber, but also no one to defend against such threats...Darkside, Brainiac, Trigon.



Not to mention that many alien civilizations eager to plunder, pillage and otherwise pilfer all the resources on this earth to fuel their advanced empires.



Sooner or later, the chaos would come and he must be prepared.



. . .



John felt like a soccer mum.



Life truly was unpredictable. To think that the age-defying, blood drinking abomination that he was would ever be in such a position was pure madness.



'Yet here I stand, ready to berate a bully for picking on those weaker than him.' He thought, it was almost funny.



"Is it the guy?" He asked, his voice masking his disbelief at what he was about to do, "You're sure?"



"You think I'd let you beat up some random ass cocksucker Of course it's him, I'll never forget his ugly mug." Bubbles said bitterly, glaring at the oblivious man laughing with other homeless men around a dumpster fire.



"I've never said anything about beating him up." John said, approaching the group with a nervous Bubbles in tow.



"You said you'd teach him a lesson!" The older man complained.



"And teach him I will, using words, like civilized people." He said, ignoring his whining.



Was it too late to give him up and cultivate another tool? It wasn't like he invested all that much into this guy.



"Where the f*ck you going pretty boy?" The tall, rather muscular crackhead he intended to converse with screamed at him before he could say anything, sending spittle flying everywhere.



Now John thought he was a rather calm person.



But he also just saw a drop of spit leave a junkie's mouth and land on his face.



"Change of plans, Bubs, I'm going to beat the shit out of him." He said slowly, wiping it off with his sleeve.



"Hell yeah!" Bubbles cheered.



Acting before the junkie's brain could process the information, John's fist collided with his gut at a fraction of his full strength, it was still more than enough for him to double over with a pained grunt.



The vampire was about to finish him with a kick in the mouth, but he overestimated the resilience of a crackhead.



Either that, or he underestimated his own strength.



The poor thing was choking up on his own vomit, a message has been sent and judging the look on his face, a lesson had been learned.



Before long the two of them left, following a trail of lamp-light and being observed by the many weary souls who decided to waste their time and energy on the infamous streets and corners of Brideshead.



Touts and dealers shouted their product's name as if they were street legal, advertising better than most executives with the fancy suits and briefcases.



"Lethal Injection! Our shit's so good it'll f*cking kill you!"



"Blue Tops! One blue top and you'll be flying high!"



John could see the temptations on Bubble's face, the boy was eager to join the lines of gaunt, tired petitioners standing against the building, waiting to get the dope they paid for.



He could see the plans forming in his eyes, the calculations to get himself another ten dollars for a possible midnight high.



"Don't even think about it," He warned, but knew this was the cost of doing business with a dopefiend, "We've got places to be."



"I didn't do nothing!" The fiend protested, raising his hands in the air.



"Good, you better keep it that way."



He could be sinking his fangs into a comely woman's neck, replenishing his reserves and growing in strength. Instead, he had to make sure a drug addict didn't act like a drug addict.



There wasn't much he felt buying up the shit-brown pickup truck from a local used cars salesman, the shock on his new employee's face when he gave him the keys wasn't as pleasing either, not with an empty stomach at least.



He was five grands poorer, but that was fine, he'll just put it on some dealer's tab.



"How much money do you make picking up scrap metal on average?" He asked, the still confused addict who struggled to give him a straight answer.



'I really need to feed,' John thought, more and more irritated.



"On a good day, maybe fourty dollars..." The older man finally answered, scratching his dirty beard.



"Good, I expect you to make at least five times more with this baby," He tapped the ugly but reliable vehicle, "Minus the gas and with some margin of error, that's fourteen hundred bucks every week, sixty percent of which is mine"



The street guy could only look at him with a blank look while he talked about earning sums he couldn't make in months on the streets.



"And I can't?" Bubbles asked.



"Then you better have a bloody good reason, or I'll take as you stealing for me," John said plainly, "In which case, I would be forced to track you down and rip off your nails one by one, maybe break a few teeths for good measure?"



"You'll also continue working for me until your debt is settled, then I'll just break your legs, take back my truck and we'll go our separate ways." He continued, smiling at the increasingly uncomfortable black man.



"Deal?" He asked, and got a shaky nod.



"D-deal."



John just got himself his first employee, and secured a relatively stable and almost legal income of about seven hundreds dollars a week.



Unlife was good.



It would be even better if he wasn't so hungry.



'Yup, it's time to pay a Max a little visit.'

 

[TheHamtaro]

- We Need to Talk -


Vampire Rule n°8: Always keep and maintain a few blood dolls; stable blood sources are necessary.

. . . . . . . .



It had been one week since John's started his little 'conquest' of Bubbles and his world, making the junkie financially and socially dependent on him had been an easy matter.



A shitty truck, some human interactions and just a tiny little bit of presence was all it took to have the coke-thinned, remarkably sharp dopefiend dancing in the palm of his hand.



He made sure to meet him every two nights, between a pleasant feeding session with Max or the occasional girl he picks up at a local gym when he's craving some variety in his diet, they'd usually talk business.



If business was Bubbles complaining about the hardships and obstacle he went through to secure their 'bread', always exaggerating his tales in order to get some extra brownie points or an attaboy from his not so gentle employer.



Still, John didn't mind as long as his stomach was full, cultivating beneficial relationships was key to long term success, and that meant dealing with people's bullshit with a smile on your face and laughing when appropriate.



"That damn cop kept me there for ten whole minutes, I'm telling ya, you white boys sure have it easy round these parts…" Bubbles growled at the injustice of the world while driving the pick up truck he so generously lent him.



So John gave him a warm, sympathetic smile from his place in the passenger seat.



"Only fools care about such things, Bubs, soon you and will be living a life these worms can only dream off." He said smoothly, earning himself one grateful look and an eager smile from the junkie.



"—I told him not to try playing Hungry's boy like that, but the fool didn't listen to me, ended up getting beat so hard even his whale of a girlfriend wouldn't kiss his black ass face no more." Bubbles said with a voice full of mirth, and John laughed hoping it was indeed appropriate.



It wasn't rocket science, he just had to play nice while making it clear that he was capable and willing if not eager to hurt him very badly if he so much considering messing around.



Then ever so naturally the discussion drifts off and Bubbles starts feeding him some actually relevant informations, the words of the streets rang in every dopefiend's head, it was almost like a super power. Let them stand a few hours in some corner, and they'll tell you who works for whom, who's going to get hurt, who shall be doing the hurting and for whatever stupid reason.



The more he listened to Bubbles go on and on about this and that package, the more he understood the structure of the drug market, and the more he realized how little he actually knew.



It wasn't some corporate-like, cold business structure with powerful cartels carving up territory and enforcing rules upon the many greedy players.



It was a savannah, a wild desert, a concrete jungle where hoards of beasts fuelled by money and desire came to live the their lives in service of the high.



The corner was the oasis, the haven of readily available dope and coke where the ever so thirsty fiends gathered to feed their habit like a herd of antelopes stomping and grazing their way to the watering hole.



From the depressed white collar worker driving by every day with 20$ in his pocket and so much pain he needs to drown, the single mother selling her body for a vial thinking that it was only temporary and that her children were too young to remember anyway, the career drug-addicts, hardcores who live and die by the corner and developed something of a professional pride in their hustle.



All the animals, big and small, old and young, came to get that happiness cocktail hoping it would as good as that first time, the time their brain changed forever.



Every day and every night of every week of their cursed existence.



They ignored all dangers, the fiends felt safety from both harm and shame in their numbers, Gotham was a city of millions and her fiends were in the hundred of thousands.



'Gotham has the best drug fiends,' John thought amused.



In places with such abundance of fat, juicy prey, there was bound to be swarms of highly effective predators; drug dealers, ruling their little kingdoms with fierce reputation and the occasional bout of senseless violence.



Other with smaller fangs where content to take advantage of the weak and careless, burn sellers and stash thieves.



"What's a burn artist?" John asked his more street-wise companion when the label came up.



"Stupid bastards that's what they are, they put baking soda in vials then call it dope, robbing us blind is what they really do." Bubbles answered with distaste, and a bit of begrudging respect for those capable of such a good capper.



A capper, that's what they called it, not as bad as a crime, but not honest work either.



A capper was the fiend's hustle, the petty theft and small scams a drug addict will do to get his high.



Armed robbery was a crime, shoplifting was a capper.



How else was a fiend to pay a dealer?



'That's all in the game,' John couldn't count the amount of time he heard these words from his employee's mouth.



Game wasn't always played this way though.



Even back then in the sixties when heroin conquered the East Coast of the united states, turning what was once a small industry confined to hipsters and party goers and fancy musicians looking for something stronger than vodka, into an opportunity to make some serious money.



The users went from less than a couple thousands to a real army, legions paying up in the back alleys and low income housings, up the towers and behind the clubs and bars.

Dealers were businessmen, they maintained distribution networks and provided for them, their people, their muscle and soldiers and the boys locked up who stayed silent knowing their families would be taken care off...one way, or another.



Professionals, lethal but not stupid like the fools John raided these last few days, these men had a code.



They didn't use what they sold, didn't serve or use children, wouldn't sell to people who didn't know what they were in for and didn't shoot people who didn't need to be shot.



For John who saw children as young as ten working as lookouts or even runners for teenaged drug dealers, it sounded like fantasy.



But it was the truth, people came and went, kingpins rose and fell but the rules stayed the same.



Until Miss Coke showed her pretty arse in town.



Heroin meant business, it was the needle piercing a hole to your veins, it was hardcore and pricy and something most people had the sense or fear to avoid on sight.



It took a real determined fool to stab himself for a high right off the bat.



But the eighties saw the arrival of Jane, the Miss, a much cheaper, friendlier sort of white powder you could shove up your nose to get a few moments of euphoria before it fades and you're going back for more.



Those on dope like Bubbles could pretend to be stable, they could do things and buy stuff that didn't necessarily fuel their habit...sometimes.

But coke was a horrible mistress, it demanded everything and then some, turned a man so mad even the dope fiends were disgusted...till they tried it, and mixed it up with their beloved heroine.



Coke brought women to the corners, made it possible for a fifteen years old to grab a vial and tell a friend that his mother would take it up the arse for this much, all the while being completely truthful.



It made the hard to maintain, limited connection essential to the heroin trade nearly obsolete, any fool could go to Gotham and buy a package then deal it back in his home town making a thousand bucks and paying six hundred to the suppliers.



That meant anyone and everyone could deal.



That meant chaos.



The professionals became a minority in the game they pioneered, now twenty something young guns were giving package to seventeen years old and making hundreds of thousands of pure benefits every year.



The prison were crammed full of people, so much that arresting someone for street level distribution became utter madness, the best the cops could do was rough them up and send them to a judge who'll dish out probations and pre-trial time served to young men who were effectively shitting gold bars.



The streets were full of dealers, the prisons were full of dealers, and no matter how many new cages were built in the city, the county or the entire state, there would always be ten times as many dealers working the corners for every last dollar they could provide.

Ladies and gentlemen, that's the war on drugs.



In every war, information was key, and everyday John Harker was getting more and more educated on the subject.



"—Here's your share, fifteen hundred!" Bubbles said with big smile, trying to hide his nervousness, but John already knew it was the correct sum.



Giving a couple hundred dollars to the employee at the scrapyards was enough to ask a couple favour, like noting the exact amount they paid Bubbles every week.



"We've made 3200 bucks, right?" John said as he counted the bills, not bothering to look up to see the older man's surprised face, he already saw it enough times already, "That's alright, keep up the good work."



He knew Bubbles probably shorted him off a few dollars, but it didn't matter much, what mattered was letting him know that his actions weren't as discreet as he might think.



At least, until his first human asset is ready for further development.



His freshly bought phone buzzed, breaking the silence. He glanced at the screen and saw Max's name, who happened to be the only person with his contact information. Answering the call, he noticed an unusual silence on her end.

"Max, everything alright?" he asked, his voice smooth and reassuring, already suspecting what was about to happen.

"We need to talk," she replied, her tone subdued.

There they were, the dreadful words.

Lesser men would panic and scramble hearing them, with good reasons too.

John held back a chuckle, something like this was bound to happen sooner or later, "Sure thing. Where are you?"

"Outside the diner. Can you come?"

"I'll be there soon," he promised.

As he ended the call, Bubbles shot him a concerned look. "You in trouble, boss?"



'Boss? Now that's new.' John thought, evaluating the situation, 'Is he trying to compensate for a possible dishonesty?'



"Nah, nothing unexpected."



-----------------------

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

I don't know why this chapter turned into a study of the drug trade in the East Coast during the nineties, but it did and I can't say I regret it.

Our boy Bubbles has been working hard hauling scrap metal all day long, it should alright to let him have a few extra bucks for his trouble, right? As long as he knows that John knew, they don't don't know that we know though...or do they?

Anyway, thank you all for reading, please do leave a comment and drop some likes to encourage me to write more. As always, criticism is welcome and suggestions even more so.

Pet your dog, kiss your mom, hug somebody who needs it.

And have a nice day.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Blood Doll -


Author Note: Yo! It's Hamtaro! Just wanted to tell you that there'll be a little vote at the bottom of the chapter, and that we will soon grow out of this 'foundation' phase with little DC characters and plot lines.



Enjoy the chapter!



----------------



Vampire Rule N°9: A blood doll is a human who freely lets a vampire drink from them, blood dolls seek a perverse thrill from the vampire's Kiss or might entertain an emotional connections. Do not waste such a valuable resource.



. . . . . . . . . . .



"Thanks for dropping me off, Bubs," John leaned against the pick-up window, and gave some parting word to the nervous wreck inside, "We'll have to continue our discussion later, there is still much we have to work through, so stay out of trouble."



"No promises," Bubbles joked, but there was hiding the worry in his eyes, "Good luck with your lady friend."



"Won't need it."



Just like that, he was gone with the rumble of the motor and the manly smell of engine fumes, leaving John Harker alone in Grand Avenue, a couple streets down from Pauli's Diner and his 'girl trouble' as some would put it.



It all seemed to futile, when he knew the kind of issues he'll eventually run into in this messed up world, or just the demands of the vampire system that played on his greed and lusts for power to make him undertake greater and greater tasks.

[Task: Recruit Retainer]



[Task: Expand your Domain]



[Task: Drink the Blood of a Metahuman.]



All of them so much more complicated than dealing with a civilian girl's doubts and insecurities, more subtle than the manipulations needed to absolve someone of their guilty conscience.



However, he was the one who choose to make her his blood doll, bulldozing his way into her life, so it was his duty to make it as smooth and pleasant as it could ever be.



He walked leisurely, appreciating the city in a less depressing setting than the misery of the East End with it's desperate fiends, ten dollar hookers and children playing gangster with real guns and real dope.



There he found her standing below the flickering neon lights of Pauli's Diner, for the first with casual clothes instead of the horrible but somewhat kinky yellow waitress uniform.



He liked her better like this; wearing blue jeans and a red flannel shirt under a vintage leather jacket but somehow along with tasteless, cheap jewellery but somehow making it work in her favour.



He'd like her even without the cigarette in her lips though.



It might have a certain aesthetic, an attractive restless woman leaning against the wall, trying to conceal her doubts and worries and bracing herself for a painful talk.



But that wasn't what he wanted for her.

'A happy life,' John thought, putting words on what he did want for her, 'I owe her that much.'



She eventually saw him, but by that time it was already too late, the vampire was upon her.



There was nothing a frail human woman like her could do to stop him, nothing to save her from the public embarrassment of being picked up and twirled like a little girl.



She yelped, her cigarette falling down in the process, after which he merciless crushed the poison and that horrible fire that made him feel weak and vulnerable and all sorts of things a creature of the night should never be.



"People are looking!" Max hissed to no avail.



"Let them look," He answered calmly.



Lucky for her, he was no Dumbledore.



He put her down to appease her half-hearted protests and pleas, she already learned that punches and threats would only make him double down, but he still didn't allow her to leave his arms.



"Hi there." He whispered, his chin resting on the crown of her hair, knowing full-well how much she enjoyed being pampered like this, though she'll never admit it.



"Hi," She answered in a subdued voice, conflicted between the desire to just give in and let him hold her some more, enjoy his protection from the harsh world out there, or doing the reasonable thing.



Reason won in the end, and she stepped out of the embrace before he could decide to slide his fangs into her neck and turn her serious talk into a much more enjoyable one.



She stayed there in silence, her plans and rehearsed speech and all the arguments she played in her hands crumbling now he stood in front of her.



"You alright?" He asked, cupping her cheek as if she was made of glass, and she know that to him it might as well be the case.



John Harker was strong, that was a fact Max understood intimately.



Maybe that was why he never showed any concern about his person, any fear, she saw no chink in his armour in all the night they spent together talking and laughing and doing things that would make her mother puke and wonder what she did wrong to raise such a corny mess of a daughter.



Her boyfriend on her other hand, was all chink and no armour.



That might be one she agreed to go out with him, he was such a nice guy.



That's what made it all worse.



She spent the last week being held and caressed and cajoled by another man, she went on dates and shared secrets and fears and hopes that no one else knew, not Earl and not the new rich girl gone broke and certainly not the guy who was supposed to know all this.



Things that left her mouth before she could even notice.



And if the man in front of her had wanted to, she knew she'd go even further.



That was bad.



"No," she answered truthfully, John deserved the truth, "I'm not, I...I told you I had a boyfriend, but we did—we did what we did, and it's not right."



He stayed silent, lips thin, looking at her with those bright blue eyes of his.



Those eyes that told her he planned many great things, endured things she couldn't even imagine, that promised her that he could handle all her problems if she just let everything go and become his.



"We need to stop?" She wanted to affirm it, but it came out more like a question, a whimper.



"No, we don't." John said with a smile, perfectly relaxed, wiping off tears on her face that she didn't even notice, his grin widening when she couldn't help but lean into his touch.



"I'm really sorry sweetheart, I would have taken care of our little problem earlier if I knew it would bother you so much," He lied through his teeth, acting earlier would be rushed and might've not ended in his favour.



Their relationship had to grow beyond a simple emotional affair, she needed to feel the guilt of betraying not only her soon to be ex-boyfriend but also her principles.



The principles she held dearest, the ones built on spite and disgust at her mother's foolish actions, that she wouldn't betray her partner and hurt them like the many man Mrs Black had played and hurt.



She had to compromise everything to be with John, and she had to do so willingly, to consider all her options and decide that he was worth more than anything else she might possess.



Only then would he swoop in and absolve of her crimes, by showing her that this 'boyfriend' of hers was so much worse, a disgusting and wretched thing.



So that she might push all the blame on him, and be freed from the emotional burden.



Everyone wins at the end, except that poor sod.



It might be callous, but what did you expect from someone who drinks blood to survive? At least he had the decency to properly seduce and then take care of his blood dolls instead just taking what he wanted, bleeding them dry then throwing them away when they inevitably broke.



"Why don't you call him? We'll do things properly this time," John closed the distance and leaned down to kiss her temple, "I don't want to lose what we have."



Yes, he will make sure to give her long, happy life.



----------------------------

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

Got a new chapter for you guys! Hope you have a wonderful day!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Subverted Expectations -

. . .

Vampire Rule N°10: Ghouls are your blood-bound servants, nearly as frail as humans yet unflinchingly loyal and capable of doing your bidding during the day.



. . . . . . . . . .



'Everyone is a slave.' John thought, sitting at his usual spot in the diner under the curious gaze of the few customers and the blonde waitress who took over Max's shift.



It might sound cynical, but it was the truth.



A man was nothing but a slave who gets to choose his masters.



Some grow up to become the slaves of money, waking up everyday and going to sleep every night thinking about it, sacrificing their time and energy and whatever morals they value in the name of the dollar.



They would laugh and pity those who counted and hoarded each dime instead of using their wealth, not knowing they worshipped the same master.



Others were slaves to their desires, they lusted until their eyes went red and their brain rotted, until they could only see skin and flesh and filth.



Poor Bubbles was slave to the needle, he chased that high with religious fervour and treated the corner as his prophet, following it's teachings to letter.



Even John was a slave, despite shedding his humanity when he drank that first drop of blood bursting out of his would-be killer's mangled throat.



He was the slave of his blood thirst, the slave of that drive for control and power that shaped every facet of vampiric life from the violent to the most intimate, he might even the slave of that system and it's lures.



The sticks and carrots built to make his life as interesting as possible.



So what is it so bad that he treated others as property?



Bubbles arms wouldn't so bloated and covered in abscesses and dead veins if he had been his servant.



He would have status and health and a measure of wealth a prosperity, one week following his orders and he already had a car and more than a thousand dollars...soon, even his addiction will be a thing of the past.



Max wouldn't need to humiliate herself serving mediocre food to irritating customers.



She would live a life of leisure and safety. No more would she worry about money and rent and how to put food on her table, she would be cared for and valued, given all the tender affection and wild passion she desired, the time to pursue her hobbies and dreams.



They would have more freedom under his grasp than this greater 'free' world ever allowed them.



In that case wouldn't it be a favour to acquire them? Wouldn't it be an act of kindness and justice?



So what if he needed to break someone's bones to make things right for Bubbles? So what if he needed to push Max's boyfriend on a path of self-destruction?



The brunette sat beside him, having long since finished her cake and didn't think twice about stealing bits and pieces of his own chocolate pie.



She was still so full of doubt and guilt and that adorable confusion of a lost lamb.



But even then her hand was still firmly holding his, as if she feared that he might run off and abandon her like everyone else in her life did.



'Adorable,' He smiled warmly, burning some blood to unleash his presence and give her that feeling of safety and wholesomeness she needed.



The ends did justify the means.

And if the means gave him the twisted satisfaction of taking someone's else cake, so much the better.



The door opened with a ding, alerting the waitress that another client needed serving, but the young lady had a good enough relationship with Max to know that he wasn't here for a midnight meal so she didn't bother approaching.



John smelled him before he could see him, that irritating scent that he worked so hard to remove from his own body, the one that followed Bubbles everywhere he goes, the scent of the hood at it's lowest.



The young man smelled like urine and weed and the days old vomit that stuck to his baggy clothes like Drake to a middle school.



He turned around to see the almost familiar bush of unkempt dirty blond hair and that unkempt, uneven stubble. The kid was tall and barely had any meat on his bones, his neck was slightly hunched and his shoulders slopped forward giving him the almost zombie-like appearance shared by his fellow jobless, shower-hating music enthusiasts who tried to look like Kurt Cobain.


"Here he comes, the man of the hour!" John's smile only grew, waving to the poor thing who looked like he just crawled out of a grave, "Come here, Billy!"



Max seemed transfixed, it had been less than week since she last saw him, but then he was a lively and excitable guy, sure he never was too big on hygiene and he could do with a better diet and easing down on the weed.



But this...Max Black was no fool, she knew what a dope fiend looked like.



"William…" She muttered, none of this made sense.



The woman held onto John's hand for comfort, and soon felt his arm warp around her protectively, this didn't make sense either, but at least it was pleasant, it was safe.



William Weeks staggered into the diner, his eyes darting around nervously. The few patrons that were present gave him a wide berth, their expressions a mix of pity and disdain. He looked like a man on the edge, every step a struggle.



John watched him with a detached interest, his smile never wavering. He took a sip of his coffee, letting the silence stretch until William finally made his way over to their table.



There was something uniquely exciting about cuddling a man's girlfriend before his very eyes, and knowing he could not and would not do anything about it.



Conan really knew his stuff, it might be the best in life.



Vile, yes, but the best nonetheless.



Then again, he was a vampire, this was just their modus operandi.



Unfortunately for Billy, there was no Van Hellsing to even the odds.



"John," William croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced at Max, his eyes full of shame and desperation with none of the fury a proper man would muster, "I... I did what you asked, I came as soon as I could."



Max's grip on John's hand tightened. She looked between the two men, her eyes wide with confusion. How on earth did the two know each other? She was the one who called him.



John's smile grew softer when he kissed her head, whispering sweet nothing and reassurances in her ears. But then he turned to the young man and his eyes hardened once more, "William here has something he needs to confess. Don't you, Billy?"



'It must be hell,' John thought, 'Being the third wheel in your own couple, though he'd probably let me take her right in front of him if I promised a vial.'



William's hands shook as he wrung them together. "Max, I'm so sorry. I... I've been using. Heroin, cocaine... I couldn't stop. I spent all my money, lost my job, and... and last week I got caught...Bubbles saw me in Park Row." His voice broke, tears streaming down his face as rambled on and on, "I'm sorry, it was just too much, the band had trouble and we blew a contract to play in a club, I had too take the edge off somehow but weed wasn't doing it."



"Just say it," John said, frowning at the poor guy who almost had a heart attack.



That's what happens when you throw your presence around for the sole purpose of intimidation.



But it did the trick, William took a deep breath and prepared himself to tell the single most hilarious thing John and nearly everyone in the dinner heard in a good while.



"I got caught giving head to a dealer named Tyrone for a vial." He said in one go.



It took all of John's will not cackle right then and there, some of the more noisy patrons and the waitress weren't as respectful though.



Max did not gasp or rage or even vomit as John had imagined in the most comical renditions of the conversation, her face sayed blank and she asked the shameful man,"What?"



"He sucked off Tyrone for a vial! Pay attention Max!" The voice of a man of slavic descent rang out from the kitchen.



William all but fell to his knees, looking at her with pleading eyes. "I didn't want to, Max. I swear. But I couldn't stop. Bubbles said he knew someone who could help, that his boss always found a way to get people the help they need...that's how I met John, but he said he—he said he liked you and told me to come clean. He said he'd help me if I told you everything."



He didn't mention that Bubbles was given three hundred dollars to follow him that day, but that wasn't something he knew in the first place.



Max turned to John, her eyes filled with confusion.



John's smile turned colder. "William needed to face the consequences of his actions. And now he has."



William reached out, trying to grab onto John's shoulders but promptly retreated when the younger man glared at him. "Please, John. You promised. You said you'd help me."



He did do that, it wasn't hard convincing a man who lost everything.



John looked down at him with a mixture of pity and disdain. "I said I'd help you if you told Max the truth. And you did. But I never promised you drugs or money, William. Your addiction is your own to deal with."



William's face crumpled, and he let out a choked sob. "Please... I have nothing left. I'll do anything."



John's gaze flickered with a brief spark of amusement. "I can't give you money, Billy, but I can give you a job, a chance to get clean."



Max watched the exchange, her emotions a whirlwind of anger, sadness, and confusion. She couldn't believe what was happening. She had known William was struggling, but she had no idea it was this bad. And John...John had already planned all of this.



From the day they met, when he promised he would take care of her, something she dismissed as mere sweet talk when the night ended and she returned to her dull, exhausting life.



'It wasn't,' She thought almost fondly 'He wasn't lying.'



Bubbles worked for John, she knew he hauled around scrap for him so he rode around the city all day long, but there was no way he just stumbled onto William.



John put him up to it, he put a tail on her junkie of a boyfriend.

On one hand, she wouldn't have known otherwise.



On the other, it all felt so cold, so calculated.



She didn't know how to feel about it.



"Everything will be alright, William" John said.



That meant William should probably run and never look back, but junkies weren't known for their good judgment.



William slowly got to his feet, swaying slightly. "What do I do now?"



John's smile returned, a predatory glint in his eyes. "That's up to you. You've hit rock bottom, William. You can either stay there or claw your way back up. Bubbles will drop you off to Brideshead, meet me there in three hours, or I'll just assume you're no longer interested."



William nodded, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned to Max, his eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry, Max. I never meant to hurt you, but I think it's best if we stop seeing each other."



Max looked at him, but there was no heartbreak. They were done, just like that.



William stumbled out of the diner, heading for Bubbles' shit-brown pickup, the snake inside whispering ways he could get ten dollars and buy a vial while waiting for his new boss.



And just like that, he was gone from her life.



Max turned to John, there were hundreds of questions in her mind but only a single one mattered.



"Why?"



John reached out to take her hand, his expression softening. "I knew you'd feel guilty leaving him, and I just couldn't stand letting you suffer like this."



She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong and those eyes of his showed too much care, soon all she could think about was him and his touch and the lengths he would go to make sure she was alright.



Their lips joined for a moment, and then another, and another until that voice that told her they in public and shouldn't act this way was gone, replaced by another stating that she was now single and free to do as she pleases.





She was gasping for air by the time they parted, her face flushed and lips puffed, but John didn't seem constrained by the same limits, he just went kissing his way from cheeks to her chin until he reached her neck.



Max felt him kissing and sucking, the slight pain of the hickey drowned by the ecstasy that followed, it wasn't supposed to feel this good.



What little sense was lift in her wondered what it would feel like to go all the way, if a mere kiss was enough to make give her euphoria.



She barely remembered him stopping, and holding her close, the envious or appalled looks from the few customers look, nor did she remember getting into a cab and holding onto John as if he was a body pillow.



But she did, and soon her key was opening the door of her small apartment.



This day started with her stifling tears when she decided that stopping this was the right thing to do, and there was welcoming him into her home.



Yes, John Harker was determined to subvert all her expectations.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- 28 Days -

. . .

Yo! It's Hamtaro!



Is there a lore reason why I didn't post yesterday? Am I stupid?



More seriously though, I had to rework a bunch of stuff including but not limited to Johnny Boy's personality, morals and goal.



Amma be honest, I didn't expect this level of engagement with my first real fic out there, we're almost 2K reading my ramblings on a daily basis (across all platforms) and that's bloody awesome.



It also means I have to put more thought and work into the fic to live up to your expectations.



Chapter is 2K words long.



Anyway, enjoy the chapter and don't forget to leave yer reviews!



--------------------------------



Vampire Rule N°11: A vampire is only as good as his retainers, nurture and refine them into proper tools, for every stain and mistake of theirs might result in your final death.



… … … … … … …





John Harker was no fool.



He might not be nearly as much of a stone cold, heartless monster as he'd like to be, but he was still far from the kind of naive buffoon who could ignore reality even as it flipped them the middle finger.



Working with a Junkie was not sustainable.



No matter how good a job Bubbles was doing, no matter how street-savvy and well-versed an informant he was, no matter his relative honesty and loyalty to him.



He was still an addict.



Worse than that, he was an addict who happened to be intimately familiar with most of John's ventures, one who was too bright not to have at least some insight into his immediate goals after so much time spent working under him.



That made him a weakness, the most obvious vulnerability in John Harker's otherwise ironclad armour.



The kind of weakness one must purge mercilessly.



That what the vampire told himself as he entered Bubbles shit-brown truck, it had barely been two weeks since he got him that car and it was already halfway through paying for itself.



Yes, Bubbles was an efficient worker.



"Hi there Boss-man!" The older man said with a mock salute, a cheeky smile on his face.



John took a second to study his appearance, he still had the gaunt cheeks and bloodshot eyes of a bona fide drug addict, but his clothes were clean and he got something for the scars and abscesses that used to cover his skin.



Convincing him to see a doctor was a hard task, but a necessary one, John couldn't let some miserable-looking wretch represent him in the street now could he?



"Evening bubs," His greeting was more tame, but he reckoned that anything warmer would be in bad taste given his plans for the night.



As for Bubbles, he quickly caught on to the solemn mood, he didn't like it though. He didn't know how to deal with it, the streets were all fake-cheer and bravado, with the occasional bout of horror, he was in foreign waters.



"Where we going? Off to see your lady friend?" He tried to lighten the mood.



"Nah, we're gonna meet someone at Widows Avenue, two streets down from the old Solomon Wayne Courthouse..." John said, and for a moment Bubbles relaxed.



This was business, so it was a good thing, he could deal with John when he was in business mode.



"...Then we'll have that talk." He continued, and the poor man's heart dropped.



'Having a talk' was never a good thing.



He remembered vividly the 'discussions' John had with that foolish, thieving dopefiend making his life more difficult than it already was, as if he needed more trouble.



Or his little chat with Gary, who tried to threaten his way into a share in the scrap hustle they've got going.



Bubbles gulped, Gary had never been the same since that day.



"Solomon Wayne...that's in Park Row, you ain't planning to do me in Crime Alley, are you?" Bubbles laughed, half-joking but mostly making sure he would survive the night...yet only got a strange look.



"No, of course not." John said with his usual smile, the one that said that everything was going to be fine...for him, at least.



Yeah, Bubbles wasn't feeling to good about this Park Row Business.



Part of him wanted to just open the door and run away as fast as he can, but he knew this wasn't an option, the last two weeks working for John Harker were the easiest, smoothest ones he's had in a long time.



He can't give that up.



Also, he was fairly certain that John would catch him and break his legs if he did, so there was that.



"Alright," He turned the key and heard the engine roar, it's rumbling was the only sound in the car for the entire ride.



…



Driving through Park Row was like peeking at the gates of hell.



There was no fire and brimstone, but the damned were present, the despair everywhere.



To John's enhanced sense, it was even more true.



Brideshead was the hood, it was the housing projects and rundown buildings and vacant houses turned into drug stashes to feed the heroin business.



It was born of desire and greed, two very understandable things.



But the Park Row District, or Crime Alley as literally everyone also calls it...it was different.



It was just evil.



Every minute, a child screams in terror, a man is beaten to death and a woman is assaulted just because someone could.



No greed, no drug money, no one pretending there was a game being played or the illusion of rules and fairness.



Only violence, the people who revelled in it and those caught in the quagmire.



That was Crime Alley, senseless murder.



For Bubbles it was much more simple, as long as John didn't tell him to stop the car and get out, he was a happy man.



Things got better when they approached the old Courthouse.



By the time they reached Widows Avenue, the 'kill me' atmosphere had subsided.



"Turn left." John guided him to their destination, still unwilling to just tell him where he wanted, "That's the place, let's go."



"Wait, am coming too?" Bubbles asked, and had half a mind to just press on the pedal and drive away, but the younger man was already outside and opened his door, grabbing his shoulder with that iron grip of his.



"Of course you are." John said calmly.



They arrived at the building, a place that looked rundown but functional. Bubbles followed John inside, his eyes darting around, trying to make sense of their destination. When he saw the sign for the Gotham Narcotics Anonymous, his confusion deepened.



'This sure ain't the best place to put down a nigga' He thought, looking at the crowd of addicts seeking help.



Some of them came willingly, some had to come here to avoid jail time, others were brought by friends and family.



He even recognized some faces from Brideshead.



John led him to a seat, and they sat down, listening to people's stories.



A young girl who went from one vial with her friends to taking multiple men at once to pay for her habbit.



An old man, a regular addict who spend decades on the needle yet survived to tell the tale, just because he got lucky.



A tattooed biker guy, with all the bulging muscles and glorious beard and leather clothes one could expect, scary as hell till he started talking.



Then folks realized he was the most wholesome fella in the whole building.



As Bubbles absorbed the testimonies, he began to understand what John wanted from him. The tales of redemption and change were moving, but Bubbles couldn't see himself in them. He didn't think he had the strength or the will to follow that path.



He loved getting high.



'Are you sure?' A small voice whispered in his brain, and he did his best not to think about all the thing he's done to get that blast, all the bridges he's burned.



The meeting wrapped up and Bubbles stood up more than ready to leave. But John was right behind him, a look of disappointment etched on his face.



"It's time for you to make a choice, Bubbles," John said, his voice low and commanding. "You can continue living like a rat in the streets, or you can become something bigger, something you can be proud of."

John's presence washed over Bubbles, a powerful, almost tangible force. It wasn't just Bubbles who felt it; the entire room seemed to be under John's spell, their eyes fixed on him with a mixture of awe and reverence.



Such was the power of the blood.



"I... I'll try," Bubbles stammered, feeling the weight of the vampire's gaze.



John's expression hardened.



"There's no 'try,' Bubbles. You either do it, or you don't. Make a decision."



Bubbles felt a surge of conflicting emotions. The fear of losing his current life battled with the hope of becoming something better. John's presence intensified, and Bubbles felt an overwhelming urge to please him, to live up to the expectations that had been placed upon him.



But it wasn't enough, until his dopefiend mind remembered.



Until he remembered all the beatings he took, all the money he blew, all the people's hurt.



How his only living relatives, his sister and his niece, were now strangers to him because he couldn't resist, because he was a slave to that needle.



All the time he tried to quit, only to fail and return to his old way.



But now he wasn't alone.



So maybe, just maybe, it could all work it.



"I'll do it," Bubbles finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.



John's expression softened, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Good. There's a 28-day program here. You'll start tomorrow."



The next morning, Bubbles walked into the program, still riding the high of the previous night's events. The journey to recovery was just beginning, and despite his doubts, he was determined to see it through. For John, for himself, and for the future he dared to dream of.



The days in the program were a blur of therapy sessions, group meetings, and solitary reflections. Bubbles struggled at first, the cravings for his old life gnawing at him. But John's words echoed in his mind, and the memory of John's presence gave him strength.



Each day, he felt a little stronger, a little more in control. He started to see glimpses of the future John had painted for him—a future where he wasn't just surviving, but thriving.



By the end of the 28 days, Bubbles emerged from the program a changed man. He was still the same in many ways, but he was no longer a slave to his addiction. He had a purpose, a direction, and the unwavering support of John Harker.



As he walked out of the building, he saw John waiting for him, leaning against the hood of his baby, the shit-brown ugly arse pickup truck that changed his life. Bubbles approached, a mixture of gratitude and determination in his eyes.



"Thank you, John," he said, his voice steady. "I couldn't have done it without you."



John nodded, a proud smile on his face. "You did well, Bubbles. Now, let's get to work. We've got a lot to do."



Bubbles felt a renewed sense of purpose as he climbed into the car. He wasn't just an addict anymore. He was a man with a future, a man who had taken control of his destiny.



"No," He shook his head, "Name's Reginald."



And he knew that, with John by his side, there was nothing he couldn't achieve.



As for John, his mind was preoccupied with other matters.



After all, he has been very, very busy in Bubbles...in Reginald's absence.





[Task Completed: First Retainer Obtained]



[Reward: 10 Exp, Ability: Ghoul Familiar.]





--------------------------



Hello! It's Hamtaro!



This is the end of Bubbles Arc and the start of the end of John's Crackhouse lifestyle.



I tried to be less 'preachy' without going full nutjob, worked the plot forward and introduced that Ghoul Making Ability. (Again, heavily based on Vampire the Masquerade.)

 

[TheHamtaro]

- A Stick-up to Rule Them All -
Vampire Rule N°12: The Best among the Vampires are those who are thanked and applauded by the very people they consume.

… … … … … …





John Harker leaned against the brick wall of a dilapidated building, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his leather jacket. He could hear the faint mumbles of business transactions, the quick exchange of cash for baggies, and the occasional nervous laughter that punctuated the night.

Every minute, someone got high, someone got scammed, someone got done.

This was an open-air drug market, one of many poisoning the blood that might otherwise sustain him, and tonight, he was on a mission.



John had a clear objective in mind. He needed to know how deep the rot went, how many corners these parasites had infected, and just how much muscle they could muster when threatened. If he was to cleanse Brideshead, he needed to understand the scale of the infestation first.



Bubbles had given him a solid idea, but it was still only from the dopefiend's point of view, the front of the operations so to speak.



It was all good if he wanted to raid some corner stash-houses; easy business, breaking a few bones and going him with a couple grands and some bags of dope he had no use for.



Standard stick-up activities, the kind of problems drug dealers expect, accept and endure easily as a cost of doing business. They might put out a bounty if they knew who did the hit, which was useless in his case since he didn't bother selling the drugs. The smarter ones started rotating the drugs and money more often while getting muscle in the houses.



That means that it was as effective in culling the drug trade as the GCPD's occasional operation.



It didn't mean shit.



If he wanted to actually do something about it, then he had to aim much higher.



Why though? Why go out of his way to damage the drug trade? Wouldn't it be better to let them operate freely then come back to mow the grass and make a few thousand bucks every once in a while?



The answer was fairly simple.

From the very moment John woke up in East End and decided to hang around, the prosperity and peace of mind of the drug dealers was doomed.



It was a natural conclusion.



A vampire feeds on blood and craves power.



Drug dealers hoard power and spoil the blood.



How could the two ever coexist?



One of them had to flee or be crushed, and John had no intention of cowering and seeking greener pastures because a bunch of fools on a drug-fuelled power trip were too much for him to handle.



'Not to mention of lucrative it would be to take over the assets of so many groups, without needed to worry about the costs of making business.' He thought, his mind already giving him ideas to launder and invest the money.



He moved silently, slipping from one vantage point to another. His senses, enhanced by his vampiric nature, picked up every whispered conversation, every furtive exchange of money for poison. The dealers operated with an arrogant confidence, as if they believed themselves untouchable.



And in a sense, they were right.



The police couldn't do anything, the bat was too focused on the big players and freaks to try and clean up the corners. Not to mention the fact that he never beat on children the way he battered the adults playing the same game.



Capes always made a point of avoiding the ugly reality of the streets, it was so much easier to break a grown man's bones after all.



Without an obvious predator, the dealers were free to grow as big and fat as they wished, only keeping an eye out for the crooked or incompetent cops or the rival gangs.



John couldn't help but smirk at their ignorance. They had no idea that they were being watched, studied by something far more dangerous than the police or rival gangs.



Each corner had its own crew, a motley assortment of lowlifes who thought themselves kings of the block. The vampire counted them, noting the way they interacted, the pecking order among them. The ground stashes were the easiest to spot—small amounts of drugs hidden in the most convenient of places, ready to be ditched at the first sign of trouble.



He didn't care much for them, stealing ground stashes was a capper, a drugfiend's game.



The corner stashes were better protected, but even there, John saw the holes in their defences. He had raided a good dozen in his short stay here, saw them go from a couple idiots playing guard to half a dozen fools with small guns and lots of bravado.



Raiding one was taking away a few days worth of money and drugs, a week at best, nothing they couldn't make up in a few days.



It was the main stashes that really interested him, though.



The places where the real money was kept, where the big players hung out, and where the drugs were cut and packaged. These were the fortresses, hidden behind the facades of legitimate businesses—a strip club here, a gentleman's bar there.



John knew that these places were more than just drug dens; they were the command centers, the heart of the operation.



He spent hours moving from one location to another, cataloguing every detail, every weakness. The more he saw, the more confident he became.



These dealers were complacent, lazy even. They had grown fat and slow, believing themselves safe in their little empire. But John knew better. He knew that in a city like Gotham, safety was an illusion, and empires could crumble overnight.

As the night wore on, the bloodsucker returned to the center of Brideshead, his mind racing with possibilities. He had seen enough to know that the local drug crews were vulnerable, ripe for the picking.



But he also knew that he couldn't rush this. He needed to be methodical, precise. A blitzkrieg was only effective if it was overwhelming, and for that, he needed more power.



The Vampire System has been a great tool, reliable, and gave him the opportunity to grow with each achievement, each bite in the neck of a worthy prey.



Maintaining a proper feeding habit, completing the Tasks and diligent exploitation of what he had availed him some solid growth.





[ Level: 4



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 270/400



- Exp: 17/80]



Still, it wasn't enough.



His mind drifted to the hunger gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. It was always there, a constant reminder of what he was and what he needed to survive. The blood thirst. The power it promised. He would feed tonight, but not just on any blood. He had standards, after all. Virgins, healthy, competent women, and those who intrigued him—those were the ones he favoured. The blood of addicts, drunks, and sluts was tainted, polluted. He wouldn't lower himself to that level.



But first, he needed to finish his reconnaissance. There were still a few more places he wanted to check out before the night was over. He slipped into the shadows once more, his eyes scanning the streets for anything he might have missed.



Or a the presence of a nosy bat, something he has avoided so far.



The more he observed, the more certain he became that this was the right move. These gangs, these so-called soldiers, were nothing more than parasites feeding off the misery of the people.



That was something only he had the right to do.



John's lips curled into a cold smile as he thought about what was to come.



He had seen enough. Now, it was time to feed.



He needed more power if he was going to take on the drug dealers and their so-called soldiers. They had numbers, weapons, and territory. John had himself. But that was enough, or it would be, once he'd fed.



His first stop was Max's apartment. Max Black, the feisty waitress who'd caught his eye, was someone special. Max had stopped smoking, partly because he'd made her, but also because she wanted to please him, even if she wouldn't admit it.



She would also stop working and spend more time taking care of herself if he had it his way, but that would come later.



He slipped into her apartment like a shadow, silent and unseen.



If he did the same thing while being ugly, it would be a horror show, but pretty privilege was a thing and there was no doubt that many a girl out there fantasized about being his glorified sandwich.



Max was asleep, her dark hair splayed out on the pillow, her breathing soft and steady. Johnny moved closer, even without unleashing his presence he could still affect her, stirring something deep within her even in sleep. She shifted, a soft sigh escaping her lips as he leaned over her, his eyes locked on the pulse beating in her neck.



He could hear her heart beating, her warm blood flowing...he could even smell it.



John didn't rush. He took his time, savouring the moment. His hand brushed against her skin, and she stirred again, her eyes fluttering open. There was no fear in her gaze, only a sleepy confusion that quickly turned to something else as she recognized him.



"Johnny…" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.



"Shh," he whispered, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic. "Just relax, Max."



She did, her body going limp at his command. Even without presence, or supernatural domination, she obeyed blindly and earnestly.



The perfect blood doll.



John bent down, his lips brushing against her neck, just above the artery. The hunger flared inside him, but he held it back, controlling it with iron will.



When he bit down, it wasn't a savage act. It was gentle, almost tender, his fangs sliding into her skin. Max gasped, her hands gripping the sheets as the pleasure hit her. John fed slowly, drawing out the experience for both of them. Her blood was rich, vibrant, filling him with a warmth that spread through his entire body.



[Blood Points: 330/400]

[+3 Exp Points]



He could feel the power surging within him, his senses sharpening, his muscles tightening. But it wasn't just physical strength he gained. There was something more, something deeper. It was like drinking in her essence, her life force, and it made him stronger, more complete with every gulp.



When he finally pulled away, Max was breathless, her eyes half-closed, a blissful smile on her lips. John licked the last traces of blood from his lips, savoring the taste.



"You did good, Max," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Get some rest."

She mumbled something incoherent, already drifting back to sleep as he slipped out of the apartment, leaving her with only the memory of the pleasure and the rapidly fading marks on her neck.



His saliva could close the wounds his fangs caused and helped prevent an infection.



It was rather fortunate, or hunting would be much more complicated.



One feeding wasn't enough. John needed more, much more, if he was going to take on the drug dealers and cleanse Brideshead. He moved through the night, hunting with a purpose. He knew where to find his prey—his usual hunting spots, the places where he could find the kind of blood he needed.



He avoided the addicts, the drunks, the ones whose blood was tainted by their vices. John had no interest in feeding on filth.



Instead, he sought out those who were pure, or as close to pure as one could find in Gotham.



Virgins, healthy women, those who had something to offer beyond just their blood. They were harder to find, but that only made the hunt more satisfying.

His next target was a young woman he'd been watching for a while.



She worked at a small boutique in the Gotham Heights, a place untouched by the worst of the city's corruption.



She was pretty, in a quiet way, with a shy smile and a reserved demeanour. John had seen her around, noticed the way she carried herself, the way she interacted with others.



She was intelligent, cautious, the kind of woman who didn't take risks.



But tonight, she had taken a risk. She had stayed late at the boutique, working after hours, alone. John had been waiting for this opportunity, and now it was here.



He approached her as she was locking up, stepping out of the shadows with a disarming smile. She startled at first, but his presence, his aura, put her at ease.



They talked for a few minutes, the vampire charming her with practiced ease, he almost felt bad for her.



When he made his move, it was quick, almost too quick for her to notice. One moment they were talking, and the next, she was in his arms, her head tilted to the side as he sank his fangs into her neck. The shock of it made her tense, but the pleasure that followed melted her resistance away.



John fed deeply, his hunger driving him, but he was careful not to take too much. He didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to leave her weak or drained. He took just enough to sate the hunger, to feel the power surge through him, then he pulled away, leaving her dazed and disoriented.



"Thank you," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead before disappearing into the night.



He continued like this, moving from one target to the next, each feeding bringing him closer to the power he needed. By the time he was done, the night was almost over, and John was filled with a power unlike anything he'd felt before.



[ Level: 4



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 400/400



- Exp: 88/80 (Level Up?)]



With a single thought, he felt his insides turn and his veins burn as if someone had poured molten steel within them. Something unlike his previous level ups, something greater.



In a few seconds the pain left, leaving behind nothing but a feeling of increased physical power.



He had reached a new milestone in his life as a humanoid mosquito.



[ Level: 5



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 400/800



- Exp: 0/200]



He was ready, ready to take on the dealers, to cleanse Brideshead, and to claim his territory.



The next phase of his plan was about to begin.



---------------------------

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

Bubbles is in rehab, but John has been pretty busy, huh? He also finally reached that level 5 milestone, it's about time.

In case you were wondering, he got his first major physical boost (without bloodbuff) getting him from peak human with bullshit physics to slightly superhuman with bullshit physics.

He ain't no Spiderman, to be honest he ain't no Deathstroke either, but it's the start of a very twisted journey till he becomes some eldritch abomination.

His blood reserves doubled, and the Exp Required to level up also went up a lot.

Guess he'll need to eat someone a bit more important next if he wants to get strong.

Anyway, the whole Drugs Arc is about to end, so don't be stingy with your suggestions, advice and criticism!

Hope you'll have a nice day!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- A Stick-up to Rule Them All part-2 -
. . .


"Well, you can still be destroyed but... Forget the books and the movies. Garlic? It's worthless. A cross? Pfft! Shove it right up their ass! Hahahaha! A stake? Only if it catches you in the heart, and then it just paralyzes you. Runnin' water? Ah, that's no problem. I bathe... eh... occasionally. Now, a shotgun blast to the head? Oh, that's trouble, boy. Fire? That's real trouble. Sunlight? Well, you catch a sunrise and it's all over, kiddo. Get it?"



- Wisdom from a Jolly Blood Sucker.



… … … … … …



John knew the streets of Brideshead like the back of his hand. He'd spent weeks scoping out every corner, every alley, every damn crack in the pavement where the scum of the city hid their dirty business. He wasn't just some bloodsucker out for a midnight snack—he was a hunter, and these streets were his hunting grounds.



After feeding and levelling up, the thirst was sated, but the hunger for more power still gnawed at him. He was ready to tear through the filth that had taken root in his neighbourhood. The dealers, the thugs, the so-called soldiers—they thought they owned Brideshead, poisoned it's people, they maimed and slayed his cattle. Tonight, John was going to show them just how wrong they were.



It started with a tip-off—an exchange set to go down at a corner stash just past midnight. One of Hungry's guys, a lieutenant in charge of this particular crew was one of the more cautious types, the kind who didn't let his boys get too comfortable. He rotated locations, kept the deals short and quick, and always made sure to be on the move.



But no one could stay off John's radar for long.



He perched on a rooftop, hidden in the shadows, watching the street below like a hawk. The stash was hidden in plain sight, a viable alternative to the usual vacant house. A busted-up phone booth with a false bottom, a garbage can with a hollowed-out interior—it didn't matter. The real action was what happened around it, the comings and goings of the corner boys, the muscle lurking nearby, and the lieutenant who orchestrated it all.

Sure enough, he spotted the man in charge, a wiry fella with a slick, greasy look about him. He moved with the nervous energy of someone who knew he was in a dangerous business but wasn't quite sure how to get out. The guy had half a dozen men with him, each one armed, though they tried to keep it subtle. A couple of Glocks tucked into waistbands, a shotgun hidden under a ratty jacket….now that's troublesome.



Unless you were some Superman-kinda guy, a shotgun blast to the face will always be a bad experience.



Fortunately for him, the man on the other side of the barrel was big, green and squishy.



John couldn't help but smirk. They had no idea what was coming.



The exchange was quick. The lieutenant handed off a small duffel bag—probably stuffed with cash—while his guy passed over a package wrapped in brown paper. It was a smooth transaction, efficient even, but John didn't care about the deal itself. He was after the bigger fish.



'This kind of transfer is routine, give the corner boy's a new package and take your share of the profits back home,' The vampire thought, getting himself ready.



He put on his game face, he was dressed in all black with a hood large enough to cast a shadow over his face to protect his identity, though he knew that a bit of presence and showing off his burning red eyes would be enough to craft a separate image from the charming, playful John Harker.



As the crew started to disperse, the lieutenant gave a nod to his men, signalling them to take the stash back to their corner. It was then that John made his move.



He dropped down from the rooftop, landing silently in the alley. The lieutenant was already heading back to his car, a beat-up sedan that looked like it had seen better days. John slipped through the shadows, his footsteps soundless on the pavement, until he was right behind the man.



The lieutenant never saw him coming. John's hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him against the car with enough force to dent the door. The man's eyes bulged in shock, his hands scrabbling at John's grip, but it was like trying to move steel.



"Where do you think you're going?" John hissed, his voice low and cold.

The lieutenant gurgled something incomprehensible, his eyes wide with fear. John loosened his grip just enough to let him speak.



"W-what the hell… who the f*ck are you?" the man stammered, his voice shaky.



"Doesn't matter. What matters is you're going to take me to your boss." His red eyes shone even brighter under his hood.



The man's eyes darted around, looking for the crew, but they were too far away, already heading down the block. John could see the panic setting in, the realization that he was utterly alone with a predator he couldn't hope to fight off.



"You've got two choices," John continued, his voice as calm as ever. "Take me to your boss, or I start tearing apart your little operation piece by piece until there's nothing left but blood and dust."



The lieutenant hesitated, and for a moment, John thought he might try to fight back. But then the man's shoulders slumped in defeat, and he nodded weakly.



"All right, all right, I'll take you… just don't kill me, man."



John smiled—a cold, predatory grin that showed just a hint of fang. "Good choice. Now, drive."



The ride to the main stash was tense. The lieutenant kept glancing at John in the rearview mirror, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. John didn't say a word, just stared out the window, already planning his next move.



Of course, his nine-millimetre was pressed against the driver seat, business end pointed right at his new friend's spine, just in case his balls got bigger and overthrew his brain's rule.



"I'm out, I'll take my money and go back to Texas, game got too fierce nowadays…" He heard the relatively old man, at least in his profession, mumble under his breath.



"Yes, that would be a smart idea." He answered honestly, but his driver didn't think much of his advice.



Or maybe he did? John couldn't tell, the poor guy just flinched and kept driving in complete silence this time.



'That's pretty rude.' He thought, shaking his head in disapproval.



The main stash was exactly what he expected—a rundown strip club on the edge of Brideshead. The kind of place that looked as shady as all hell, seedy in more than one way, but still pulled in a decent crowd thanks to the cheap booze and cheaper thrills. It was the perfect front for a drug operation. The bouncers at the door gave the lieutenant a nod as they passed, not even bothering to search him or his "guest." It was a sign of just how secure they felt in their little kingdom.



But their arrogance would be their downfall.



Once inside, John could feel the tension in the air. The place was packed with muscle; dozens of guys, all armed to the teeth, lounging around as if they owned the world. The lieutenant led him through the club, past the bar, and into the back room where the real action was.



'Seven pistols, three assault rifles, four shotguns and a bunch of baseball bats, knives and knuckle dusters.' The vampire counted in less than a second, choosing the most fitting among the many plans of attack he had prepared.



Hungry was there too, surrounded by his best soldiers. He was a large man, built like a tank, with a bald head and a thick gold chain around his neck. The kind of guy who looked like he could break bones with his bare hands—and probably had on more than one occasion.



He favoured the melee judging by his scarred knuckles, though he still had a large revolver within arm's reach.



"Franky, who the hell is this?" The boss growled as John and the lieutenant entered.



"Uh, boss… this is the guy who's been causing trouble," the lieutenant stammered, trying to keep his voice steady. "He—"



Before he could finish, John moved. It was like a blur of motion—a speed that no human could match. He grabbed the nearest thug with a shotgun, twisting his arm behind his back with a sickening crack, then used him as a meat-shield as the others scrambled to draw their weapons.



The room exploded into chaos. The thugs fired off shots, but John was already on the move, darting between them with supernatural agility. He could feel the power coursing through him, the strength that came from his recent feeding, from levelling up. His fists were like hammers, breaking bones and crushing jaws with every strike.



"F*ck this, I'm getting outa here," His driver said, running away without looking back amidst the confusion.



"Bye Franky!" He called while neutralising the last of the shotgun-men with a brutal kick right on the liver, he grabbed the metal weapon and threw at a shooter who was a bit too accurate for his taste.



*Crunch*



"Argh!" His target whimpered on the floor after his skull had a nice meeting with the heavy gun.



The handgun fire that might have torn a normal man to shreds barely slowed him down, and he was much too fast for the riflemen to spray him without butchering their own friends and brothers.



The few wounds he sustained where healed almost instantly, and he still had more than enough blood in his reserves to unleash dreadful presence upon his helpless enemies.



He used the fear to his advantage, letting the terror spread through the room like wildfire. The men started to panic, shooting wildly, hitting more of their own than they did him.



The vampire was unwilling to personally kill anyone just yet, getting caught by this or that vigilante was still a risk, so he'd rather keep the 'I am Justice' card just in case.



However, it didn't mean he had to save them from themselves.



John focused on their boss, the big man who had once seemed so imposing. Now, he was just another target. Hungry swung at him, a meaty fist aimed at John's head, but John ducked under it with ease, then drove his elbow into the man's ribs with enough force to crack them.



However, he wasn't a boss for nothing, the enraged criminal all but shrugged it off, instead aiming his large revolver right at John's hooded head ready to take the shot.



A weapon of this caliber would take a pound of flesh, and he was a bit too close to evade all six shots without taking chances, so John burned some blood to activate his bloodbuff for the very first time in battle.



The explosive increase in speed was all it took to close the distance between them before he could even press the trigger, John punched him right in the stomach with so much force both he and the gun were sent flying on different directions.



In his Earth, the gangster would be a peak athlete with the strenght, speed and durability he displayed. But here, he was just a common brute.



Hungry staggered, gasping for breath, but John didn't give him a chance to recover. He grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him off his feet as if he weighed nothing, then slammed him into the wall. The boss's eyes were wide with fear, the bravado gone in an instant.



"Please… please don't kill me," the boss wheezed, his voice trembling.





John leaned in close, his eyes glowing with a cold, predatory light. "I'm not here to kill you," he said, his voice dripping with menace. "Not yet. First, I'm going to take everything you've got. Then I'll let you live long enough to see your empire crumble."



He dropped the battered and bruised boss to the floor, leaving him gasping for air until a foot on his face sent him to land of dreams. The rest of the thugs were either unconscious, wounded, or too terrified to fight back.



John walked through the room, picking up the duffel bags filled with cash and drugs, grabbing a few guns for good measure, and stuffing them into his coat.



He scattered the rest of the drugs; crack, dope and coke around the home, making it unfit for consumption.



He checked for cameras, but even thugs had the sense not to record a criminal conspiracy.



As he left the strip club, he felt a grim satisfaction. The first step in his plan was complete. He had taken down one of the biggest players in Brideshead, and he'd done it without breaking a sweat, the sound of sirens coming to the worst neighbourhood in all of Gotham was the cherry on top.



But he wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.



John returned to his apartment, the spoils of his raid hidden beneath his coat. His place still wasn't much to look at, a relatively clean crackhouse was a crackhouse nonetheless, but it served its purpose.



He didn't need luxury for the moment; he needed privacy, a place where he could lay low and plan his next move.



He stashed the cash and weapons in the bathroom, making sure everything was secure. The duffel bag felt heavier than before, not because of the money or the guns, but because of the significance of what he'd just done. He'd made a statement—a loud, violent statement—that Brideshead was no longer under the control of petty thugs and dealers. It was his territory now.



But John wasn't naive. He knew that taking down one gang wouldn't be enough. The others would see what had happened and either come after him, or go into hiding. Either way, he needed to act fast before they had a chance to regroup.



He wasn't too worried about being targeted, he was essentially a ghost for all intents and purposes.



He didn't sell dope, didn't flaunt wealth and didn't hang out with any crowd save for a dopefiend and people just ignored those folks.



John didn't get out in the day either, when most of spying and gossiping...I mean, 'intel-gathering', took place.



So he was safe from the wrath of those he robbed.



He stepped back out into the night, his mind already working on the next target. He needed to track down the remaining gangs, find their main stashes, and hit them where it hurt. It wouldn't be easy, each gang had its own network of hideouts, muscle, and connections, but John had something they didn't. He had the element of surprise, and he had the power that came from feeding, he was a vampire.



They never stood a chance.

......

Don't forget to drop yer reviews me lads! I appreciate the support!

Criticism, suggestions and advice are always welcome! So don't be a stranger!

Writing action scenes is pretty new, any idea on how I might improve them? Readers or writers, I'll take anyone's advice if he's giving it away.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- A Stick-Up to Rule Them All -

. . .

Vampire Rule N°13: Only eat people when it's on your terms, a stranger asking to be bitten is as much a trap as Astolfo.

… … … … … … …



A few days ago he was walking around the streets with Bubbles, being told tall tales about Hungry's crew and how they won their corners with lead and violence.



Now he stood in his crackhouse surrounded by their ill-gotten money, Hungry's crew bleeding and most likely getting arrested after the single worst night of their gangster careers.



But tonight wasn't over. He had more work to do.



John locked up his spoils and left the apartment, disappearing into the night like the monster he truly was, and not a constipated discoball looking for his soul mate.



The first gang had been a challenge, but he wasn't one to back down. If anything, the success of his first raid had only fueled his hunger for more. He moved swiftly, his senses heightened as he made his way to the next target.



The possibility of encountering the bat was still keeping him on edge, but it might be a good thing, it kept him on his toes and honed his perception.



The second gang John had in mind was holed up in a gentleman on the south side, a place that was known for its flashy lights and thumping bass. But beneath the surface, it was just as dirty as the rest of Brideshead. The gang used the place as their base of operations, with a stash hidden somewhere in the back.



John slipped into the alley behind the bar, listening to the muffled music and the occasional shout from a bouncer. He could hear the voices of a few gangbangers near the back door, talking and laughing, completely unaware that they were being watched.



"Man, I tell ya, the boss is paranoid as hell," one of them said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "He's been jumpy all night, like he's expecting someone to come bustin' through the door."



"Can you blame him?" another replied. "Heard some freak took out Hungry's crew earlier. We're talkin' the whole stash, gone, just like that."



"No way, man. That's just some bullsh*t to scare us. Ain't nobody crazy enough to hit us here. This place is locked down tight."



"Yeah, you're probably right. I mean, who'd be stupid enough to mess with us?"



John couldn't help but smirk as he listened to their banter. The irony was too good. He crept closer, staying out of sight as he moved along the wall. The door was just ahead, slightly ajar, and the two thugs were standing right next to it. He picked up a small pebble from the ground and tossed it down the alley, causing it to clatter against a dumpster.



The sound was enough to make the thugs jump. They both turned in the direction of the noise, their hands moving toward their weapons.



"What the hell was that?"



"Probably just a rat or somethin'. This place is full of 'em."



"Well, go check it out. I'm not takin' any chances."



The first thug reluctantly moved toward the sound, his gun at the ready. John waited until the man was a few steps away from the door before he made his move. He darted forward, silent and quick, grabbing the second thug from behind and clamping a hand over his mouth. The man struggled, but John's grip was ironclad. He dragged him into the shadows, knocking him out with a precise blow to the back of the head.

The first thug turned around just in time to see his buddy disappear into the darkness. His eyes went wide, and he fumbled for his gun, but John was on him before he could shoot, scream or make a fuss. A quick punch to the gut left the thug gasping for air, and John followed up with a swift kick to the knee, sending the man crashing to the ground.



"Who's there?" the thug wheezed, trying to scramble back to his feet.

John leaned in close, his voice a low growl. "Just a ghost. And you're about to have a very bad night."



The thug's eyes widened in terror as John delivered a final blow, knocking him out cold. John stood up, dusting off his hands, and stepped over the unconscious bodies. He pushed open the door and slipped into the club.



The interior was a chaotic mix of flashing lights, pounding music, and dancing bodies. The gang had chosen the perfect cover—no one would notice a few extra men hanging around, and the noise would drown out any suspicious sounds. But John was a master of slipping through unnoticed. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, heading toward the back of the club where the gang's stash was hidden.



As he approached, he could hear the voices of more thugs, laughing and joking as they counted money and sorted through packages.

"This is the life, man," one of them said. "Money, drugs, and all the girls you could want. Ain't nothin' better."



"You got that right," another replied. "And the best part? We got this place locked down. Nobody's gettin' past us."



John smiled to himself. It was almost too easy.



He waited until one of them moved away from the stash, heading toward the bar for a drink. Then, he struck. He moved with lightning speed, taking out the nearest thug with a quick blow to the head. The man crumpled to the ground, unnoticed by his companions. John continued, taking out the second thug with a well-placed punch to the throat.



By the time the last thug realized something was wrong, it was too late. John was on him, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall.



"Where's the stash?" John demanded, his voice low and dangerous.



The thug struggled, his eyes wide with fear. "B-back there, behind the wall! Please, don't hurt me!"



John nodded, satisfied, and knocked the thug out with a quick jab. He moved to the wall, finding the hidden panel that concealed the stash. Inside were stacks of cash, bags of drugs, and a few more weapons. He grabbed what he could carry, stuffing the cash into a duffel bag, and left the rest. The drugs he destroyed, just like before.



As he left the club, he could already hear the commotion inside as the gang realized they'd been hit. But by then, John was long gone, disappearing into the night.



It might've not been as violent as his 'meeting' with Hungry, but the damage wasn't that much smaller, especially if someone called on a phone booth to report screams and gunshots in a certain gentleman's bar.



Who said a vampire couldn't be a good citizen?



The third gang was based in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Brideshead. This one was going to be more challenging—the place was a fortress, with high walls and a small army of heavily armed thugs, all they needed was a few watch towers and they could go to war.



But John wasn't about to back down. If anything, the challenge only made him more determined.



He approached the factory cautiously, sticking to the darkness as he scouted the perimeter. There were thugs playing guard posted at every entrance, and he could see the outlines of more men patrolling the upper levels. They were prepared for a siege, but not for someone like him.



John waited until one of the guards wandered too close to the edge of the fence before he made his move. He scaled the wall quickly, grabbing the guard and pulling him over the edge. The man hit the ground with a dull thud, unconscious before he could even react.



The vampire slipped inside the factory, moving silently through the maze of machinery and rusting equipment between tables where the dope was cut and package. The place was massive, with multiple levels and plenty of places to hide. But he had a mission, and he wasn't about to get distracted.



He could hear the gang members talking as he moved closer to the center of the factory, where the main stash was most likely to be hidden.



"I'm tellin' you, man, the boss is freakin' out. He's got everyone on high alert."



"Can you blame him? First Hungry's crew, then the nightclub… who's next?"

"Whoever it is, they're gonna get a bullet in the head if they try anything here."



John smirked. These guys were so confident, so sure that they were untouchable. He was about to show them just how wrong they were.



That, or there was some sort of virus making people stupidly brave in Gotham City.



He crept closer, his eyes scanning the area for any weaknesses in their defenses. The main stash was heavily guarded, with at least a dozen men stationed around it. They were armed with shotguns, assault rifles, and a few handguns—enough firepower to take down a small army.



'Where are the canons?' He thoughts, looking everywhere but finding none, 'That's strange...bitches love canons.'



But John wasn't a small army. He was something much more dangerous, a tween's dream fantasy.



He waited for the right moment, then struck. He moved quickly, using the darkness and the cluttered layout of the factory to his advantage. The first two thugs went down silently, their weapons clattering to the ground as they fell. The third managed to get off a shot, but it went wide, missing John by inches.



"Who the hell is out there?!" one of the thugs shouted, panic in his voice.

"Spread out! Don't let him get away!" One of them shouted, giving out the worst possible command.



The gang members fanned out, searching for their invisible attacker. But John was already on the move, picking them off one by one. He used the factory's machinery as cover, slipping between the shadows and striking when they least expected it. The thugs tried to fight back, but how were they supposed to overcome a vampire of all things? Not that they knew…



"Man, this guy's like a freakin' ghost!" one of them shouted, his voice trembling with fear.



"Shut up and keep looking! We gotta find him!"



It was all in vain. John was everywhere and nowhere at once, always one step ahead of them. He took down another thug, then another, until only a few were left standing. By then, the panic had set in, and they were firing wildly into the darkness, desperate to hit something—anything.



John took advantage of their panic, closing in on the last few thugs. He disarmed one, elbowing him in the liver before knocking him out with a punch...yeah, that man wasn't gonna drink booze for a long time.

The last two tried to run, but John was faster. He caught them before they could reach the exit, taking them down with a few well-placed strikes.



When it was over, John stood in the middle of the factory, surrounded by unconscious bodies. He took a moment to catch his breath, then moved to the stash. Just like before, he took the cash and destroyed the drugs.



It was time for him to come back home with the booty, the night would be over soon and he wasn't eager to sleep in the sewers for the whole day.



The next day, the streets would talk of a monster in Brideshead hunting down drug dealers with a vengence.



Some said that it was the ghost of a man they killed during a shout-out, back from the underworld to give them a taste of their own medicine.



Others called it bullsh*t, and said there was no way a single man could do all this, it had to be another gang trying to get one over their competition.



In less than a day, there was a dozen different version of the events, and even those who experienced John's own version of 'the fist of love' disagreed about what trully happened.



The vampire who caused this mess was oblivious, having gone to sleep thinking about how he could exploit the opportunity to make some actual progress in ridding the streets of the drugs that made the blood so disgusting.



He might've broken the bones of the dealers, but the users were still out there looking to get high, eventually someone would come to satisfy their needs for a few bucks no matter how many gangbanger he beat up or how much money he stol—righfully plundered.



If he wanted to hurt the drug market, he had to ged rid of the fiends keeping it alive.



One thing was certain though, things were about to change.



. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And we're done, already.

I tried to channel my inner Arkham-Games Goon to write the dialogue, hope it went well.

If you've got any suggestions, don't be a stranger.

Leave a comment, drop yer likes and have a mighty fine day!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Damage Control -

. . .



Yo! It's Hamtaro!

I know, I know, it's been waaaay too long since the last update, but what can I say? Things got hectic over here.

I didn't stop writing though, we've officially got that 10 chapters headstart, a safety net against your mighty cheeked author burning out and dropping! Isn't it awesome?

I've also made that discord so you can actively know what's going on with the story, give suggestions and give me your opinions more easily. I'll make an announcement there before each update, and you'll usually know when I'm posting ahead of time.

Discord here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2

I hope you'll come

Again, since I took some time to update, this chapter is much longer than usual.

A cozy 3300 words long, not including the Author Note obviously.

Big, huh, like my...heart.

Make a comment, a review and drop a couple likes if you wanna support this author, my praise-kink demands no less!

I hope you'll enjoy, have a wonderful day and drink plenty of water.

---------------------

Vampire Rule N°14: If you're tempted to sparkle, stake your own heart. Seriously, you're better than that.



… … … … … … …



The basement of the old community center was barely lit, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead providing a low, constant buzz. It was a relic from another era, a place that had once been a beacon of hope, but now bore the weight of neglect.



The result of years spent cutting costs, trying and failing to stay afloat.



The walls, yellowed with age, held memories of a time when the center had been alive with activity, back when Thomas and Martha Wayne had funded it as part of their vision for a better Gotham.



That was decades ago, though, and without stable donors or anyone to champion its cause, the building had fallen into disrepair.



'A darn shame.' The vampire thought, looking at an old bronze plate hanged in their honor.



John stepped inside, his shoes echoing faintly on the cracked linoleum floor. He took a moment to survey the room. There were the usual faces, people who had become fixtures at these meetings, each of them carrying a different burden, yet all bound by the same desperate need for escape.



He saw the folks he lured in, counted them and gave them a nod acknowledging their presence and promising to fulfil his part of their little arrangement.



Some kindness and lots of presence could a whole lot of good.



Though John had a nagging feeling that the powers that be wouldn't appreciate his ways, either because they desire it or find in immoral.



It did, however, work much better than anything they came up with to fight this war on drugs.



He moved toward the circle of folding chairs, nodding in greeting to the few who noticed him. Carl was already there, his gaunt frame slumped in a chair near the back, hands trembling slightly as he fiddled with a crumpled pack of gum. Next to him was Deb, a middle-aged woman who had once been vibrant and full of life, but now seemed like a shadow of her former self. Her hair, once fiery red, was now streaked with gray, a testament to the years she'd lost to her addiction.

It was crazy how the needle would age people, a few years of injections and they would all look twenty years older than they really were.



"Evening, folks," John said, settling into a chair with an easy smile. His voice was smooth, disarming, the kind that made people want to trust him. It was a skill he had honed over the years, and it served him well.



A few muttered responses greeted him. Most of these people were too deep in their own thoughts to offer more than a nod or a grunt, but that was okay. John wasn't here to draw attention to himself—not too much, anyway. He was here to listen, to offer support, and to slowly, subtly, position himself as someone they could rely on.



They knew him as the guy who brought in Bubbles and got him to leave the streets for a bed in a rehab center, then just continued showing up with food and clothes to be donated.



A bit of presence here and there taught them how to appreciate his diligence instead of questioning it.



"Good to see you again, Johnny," Carl said quietly, offering a shaky smile. The man was a wreck, his life having spiralled out of control years ago after a back injury introduced him to painkillers. Now, he was just another casualty of the opioid crisis, hanging on by a thread.

The man was once on ace in construction and home renovation, able to turn some concrete and bricks into a dream house, or so he said after a few drinks.



Then he got hurt, and went to see a doctor who smiled and gave him the prescription that ended it all.



John returned the smile, giving Carl a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Good to see you too, Carl. How're you holding up?"



"Some days are better than others, y'know? I'm trying, but it's hard." Carl shrugged, the motion almost imperceptible.



"I know it is," John replied, his tone sympathetic. "But you're here, and that counts for a lot."



The room slowly filled with more people, each one carrying their own story of pain, of battles fought and lost. Mike, the ex-marine, entered with his usual heavy steps, taking a seat on the edge of the circle. The man was a hulking figure, his face hard and lined with the memories of a past he rarely spoke about. John had heard snippets, though—whispers of things Mike had done during his tours in Latin America, things that haunted him even now.



John caught Mike's eye and offered a nod. Mike returned it, his expression grim.



The group leader, an older woman named Helen, cleared her throat, signalling the start of the meeting. She wasn't much for speeches, preferring to keep things informal. There were no grand introductions, no prayers or rituals—just people talking, sharing their struggles in the hope that someone else might understand and maybe, just maybe help them get better.



"So, who wants to start?" Helen asked, her voice raspy from years of smoking.



Deb was the first to speak up, her voice wavering as she recounted the past week. "I've been clean for three weeks now," she said, her eyes flicking nervously around the room. "But it's been hell. Every day, it's like this… this weight pressing down on me. I miss my kids so much, and I know it's my fault they're gone. Sometimes, I just want to give up."



'Oh, cry me a river, I once had to dig up a bullet out of my own asscheeks with a butter knife.' Was what John wanted to say, and he could continue trauma-dumping for a good while, the costs of moving up in the world...worlds in this case.



But he didn't, this was work after all.



John leaned forward, his gaze steady on her. "Three weeks is no small feat, Deb. You're doing something a lot of people couldn't. But you can't beat yourself up for what's happened. You've got to keep looking forward, keep pushing through. Your kids need you to be strong."



"I know, I know… it's just hard." Deb nodded, though her eyes were still wet with unshed tears.



"It always is," John agreed, his voice low and comforting. "But you're not alone. You've got all of us here, and we're going to help you through it."



There were murmurs of agreement around the circle, a quiet solidarity forming among them. John noticed the way people looked at him, the trust they were beginning to place in him. It was exactly what he wanted.



Taking over Brideshead, one junkie's heart at a time.



He turned his attention to Mike next, sensing the tension radiating off the man. "How about you, Mike? How've you been?"



Mike shifted in his seat, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Been better," he muttered. "Been worse, too. Sometimes… sometimes I think about the things I did, and I wonder if I'm ever gonna be free of it."



John didn't offer platitudes or patriotic nonsense. He wasn't interested in pretending that Mike's service had been some noble endeavor. He knew better than that.



Lots folks were still riding the juice from the cold war, and that meant telling a man than butchering civilians in the name of relative democracy and free market was rather common.



Even when they were propping up dictators.



The meeting continued with more stories, more confessions.



There was Lydia, a young woman who had lost her scholarship and dropped out of college after her cocaine habit took over her life, the poor girl had just stopped tricking to get her vials and was now worried about catching the bug.



There was Greg, an ageing musician who'd seen his bandmates die one by one from overdoses, and now struggled to stay clean long enough to finish a song.



John listened to each of them, offering words of encouragement, never pushing too hard. He knew how to walk the line, how to make people feel like he was on their side without giving too much of himself away.



When the meeting finally wrapped up, people lingered, talking in small groups or offering each other quiet support. John stayed behind, moving from person to person, making sure they knew he was there for them.



'I should really hire someone to do this for me,' He thought while patting Mike on the back, brand marketing wasn't really that fun, 'Oh well, the woes of a small business owner.'



He approached Helen as she gathered the coffee cups, her hands shaking slightly from arthritis.



"You're doing good work here," he said, his voice warm. "But I can see the place could use some help."



Helen sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Yeah, it's been tough. We used to get some funding, but that dried up years ago. Now we're just scraping by."



"I've come into some money recently. Maybe I could help out, make a donation to keep things going." John nodded thoughtfully.



Helen looked up at him, surprise and gratitude in her eyes. "You'd do that? That would mean the world to us, Johnny."



He smiled, the gesture sincere...he just remembered the video of man trying to shower in the beach while some sneaky prankster kept putting more and more shampoo over his head.



"Of course. I'll talk to some people, see what I can do. This place is important. People need it." He said.



Helen patted his arm, her eyes misting over. "Thank you. Really, thank you."



John just nodded, watching as she walked away. He knew what he was doing. By positioning himself as a benefactor, he was solidifying his influence here, making sure these people saw him as their lifeline. It was all part of the plan, but he couldn't deny that it felt a tiny little bit good to be helping, even if his reasons weren't entirely pure.



Someone somewhere was likely cursing him for disliking drugs and doing something about it, even if it was good for him, the benefits it brought to the greater world around him might be too great for some people's tastes.



He should only maim, kill, steal and otherwise slaughter everyone and everything with no regard for his own quality of life, personal tastes and opinions.



People would then flock around him and serve him based on his good looks, winning smile and Je-ne-sais-quoi of lustful stupidity that drive most people with a system.



Unfortunately, neither life nor unlife worked like this.



As he left the center, John couldn't help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction. He was playing a long game, one that required patience and careful manoeuvring. But he was getting what he wanted—a foothold in Brideshead, and the loyalty of people who one day would do anything for him.



And if, along the way, he made their lives a little better… well, that was just the icing on the cake.



The meeting might've ended, but the night was still young and he was still very busy.



People were more likely to follow someone who offered them something tangible, even if it came with a hidden price tag. His plan to clean up the streets was twofold: eliminate the troublesome fellows and bring the addicts under his control. It was a delicate balance between appearing as a savior and remaining the secretive force that lurked in the shadows, reappearing to break the bones of dealers who got a bit too brave.



It's been some time since his biggest stick-up, but he was satisfied with the progress.



He started with something simple, but powerful...a small daily bribe for those who showed a desire to get clean, or at least the appearance of it.



Every addict who came to him for clean needles and went to the local Narcotics Anonymous meetings would get ten dollars, no strings attached. It wasn't much, but in a place like Brideshead, the price of a vial was the price of loyalty.



John walked through the alleyways, his dark coat flaring slightly with each step. His presence was commanding, even without the supernatural influence he could wield. He preferred to save that for special occasions, letting his natural charisma do the work. As he approached a small gathering of addicts huddled near a burned-out building, he could hear the soft murmurs of desperation and hope—a toxic mix that he knew how to exploit.



"Hey, Johnny!" A lanky man with sunken eyes and a twitch in his neck called out. His voice was shaky, but there was a glimmer of something akin to respect in his eyes…that or he was high, maybe both, "You got any more of those clean needles?"



John nodded, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small bag filled with fresh syringes. He handed them over to the man, who took them with trembling hands.



"Thanks, man. You don't know how much this helps," the addict said, his voice almost reverent.



The bug was everywhere these days, and needles were becoming a rare commodity forcing the lowliest of fiends to share their stuff with people they'd rather not.



"I know exactly how much it helps," John replied with a small, almost predatory smile. "And you know what to do to keep it coming, right?"



It was a comical sight, he stood there all threatening while trying to help the man turn his life around.



The man nodded eagerly. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be at the meeting tonight. Promise."



"Good," John said, handing him a ten-dollar bill. "Remember, I'm not doing this for free. You keep going to those meetings, and I'll keep helping you out."



As the addict shuffled off, John turned his attention to a small group of women nearby.



They were younger, with the same desperate look in their eyes but still clinging to some semblance of dignity. He approached them, his voice softening as he spoke.



"Evening, ladies," he greeted them with a nod. "How're you holding up?"



One of them, a woman in her mid-twenties with frayed hair and a weary expression, looked up at him. "We're getting by," she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. "But it ain't easy."



John reached into his pocket again, pulling out another bag of clean needles and some more cash. "Here, this might help. And if you need more, you know where to find me."



The women took the supplies gratefully, exchanging quick glances with each other before one of them spoke up. "Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"



John chuckled, the sound low and almost comforting. "Let's just say I like seeing people turn their lives around. Besides, it's good to have friends in low places."



He could see the scepticism in their eyes, but they didn't push further. Instead, they accepted the help, tucking the money into their pockets and murmuring their thanks. As they walked away, John watched them with a calculating gaze. Every person he helped was another thread in the web he was weaving—a web that would eventually ensnare them all.



For the Greater Good.



His greater good, to be precise.



As John continued his rounds, he noticed a car pull up to one of the still-active drug corners. The car was a bit too nice for this part of town, standing out like a sore thumb. He paused, observing with mild curiosity as a young woman stepped out, her friends lingering in the vehicle. She had a sharp look about her—smart, but desperate. He recognized the signs all too well.



The corner dealer, a wiry man with greasy hair, sauntered over to her, a sly grin on his face. John could hear their conversation from where he stood, his enhanced senses picking up every word.



"You're lookin' for something special tonight?" the dealer asked, his tone oozing with false charm.



The woman handed him a wad of cash, her expression cold and focused. "Just the usual. No extras."



The dealer chuckled, leaning in a little too close. "Come on, sweetheart. How about a little something for me, and I'll throw in a bonus?"



She recoiled slightly, her eyes narrowing. "I said no extras. Just give me the stuff."



The dealer's grin faltered, but he handed over the small baggie, muttering under his breath. The woman took it and quickly turned on her heel, heading back to the car without another word. As she drove away, John couldn't help but smirk. She had fire, but he knew it wouldn't last. In a few weeks, maybe less, she'd be back, and her resolve would have crumbled.



That was a shame, she would have been a mighty fine meal if she wasn't so intent on wasting her life, money and blood lusting after that blast.



Still, the corner boy had been a bit too pushy for his tastes...



"Got a tough one there," John remarked as he approached the dealer, who flinched at the unexpected presence.



"Johnny," the dealer greeted nervously, his earlier bravado gone. "Didn't see you there. Just, uh, taking care of business, you know?"



When someone went around helping out the fiends, he was bound to piss off a couple hoppers, what followed was a right beating that taught people that sweet Johnny Blue Eyes wasn't all that sweet after all.



John nodded, his expression unreadable. "I see that. Be careful with that one. She might not break as easily as the others."



The dealer swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. John clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture both reassuring and ominous. "Just a friendly warning. You don't want to push too hard, too fast."



"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the dealer stammered. "I'll be careful."



John gave him a final nod before turning away, continuing his rounds with a satisfied air. He had no real concern for the woman or the dealer, but it amused him to see the dynamics at play. The delicate dance of power, desperation, and control was something he excelled at, and he enjoyed watching it unfold.



As the night wore on, John found himself reflecting on the strange satisfaction he felt from helping these people. It was a twisted kind of pleasure, knowing that he was doing good deeds for all the wrong reasons. But he didn't let himself dwell on it for too long.



He had a plan to execute, and sentimentality had no place in it.



Each addict he helped, each connection he made, brought him closer to his goal...and that's all that matters when all is said and gone.



He was just playing damage control, trying to remove the demand for drugs instead of just beating up the offer.



Still, helping people instead of just eating them did feel pretty good.



And if a certain dealer got beaten to an inch of his life then lightened from the burden of his ill-gotten money, no one would complain.



..........

Author Note:

Hello! Hamtaro's Back! Back Again!

The chapter was a bit slow, since it's a consolidation of the whole dope arc and about what John's doing outside of bashing folks heads and taking all their money.

I've also tried to give a rational for his distaste of the drug trade in particular, since the whole thing started because I learned too much stuff while figuring out how folks like Rupert Thorn, Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone and other old school mobs made their money, how it was different from The Penguin and Blackmask or the Great White Shark, and where the smaller gangs played into this.

I ended up consuming a lot of drug--drug content! content about drugs! And this whole Arc was born.

It was also a convenient target for John when he takes a walk, and something I could use to escalate stuff and bring some interesting plotlines around.

For those asking about DC character, we've already gotten to two minor ones in my reserve chapters, and things will only get faster and bigger from there.

I hope you had a good time, and will join me in discord right here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2

Leave a comment, drop yer likes and have a pleasent day!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Crackhouse Resident No More -




Vampire Rule #15: If you're technically perpetually underage due to an untimely demise, just remember—age is nothing but a number. Unfortunately, so is a prison sentence.

… … … … … … … … …



John Harker leaned back in the creaky wooden chair of his crackhouse domicile, the faint sound of dripping water and distant sirens filtering through the boarded-up windows, just to remind that he was in Gotham and that it sucked heavily.



No matter how many times he tried to clean it, the place still stank of mold, stale cigarettes, and the lingering despair of the previous inhabitants.



A perfume everyone in Brideshead learned to ignore, but was becoming increasingly inconvenient.



He was growing tired of the cracked floor, the peeling wallpaper, and, more importantly, the inability to bring his snacks home.



There was something darkly amusing about the fact that, in the eyes of the law, his meals were pedophiles. The irony wasn't lost on him, and he often chuckled at the thought, but he knew he needed to get out of this place.

Sooner rather than later.



The problem was his age—or at least, what his ID said about it. Being technically underage meant he couldn't just walk into a rental office and sign a lease on a nice apartment in a better part of Gotham. No, he'd have to do things the hard way, the legal way; get emancipated, make himself a legal adult, and then find a place that wasn't crawling with junkies.



That's how John found himself in the dingy office of Vinny DeLuca, a sleazy lawyer recommended by one of the guys from the Narcotics Anonymous meetings he'd been frequenting. Vinny was the kind of guy who wore cheap suits that were always a size too small, with hair slicked back so far it looked like an oil spill. He had a reputation for getting things done, no questions asked, as long as the price was right.



He also had a reputation for being a loyal customer in the local burlesque bars, but that was neither he nor there.



"Alright, kid, here's the deal," Vinny said, sliding a stack of papers across his cluttered desk. "You sign here, here, and here, and we'll get you emancipated. You'll be your own man, free to do whatever the hell you want."



John picked up the pen, giving it a casual twirl between his fingers before scrawling his name across the dotted lines. "That's it? I thought there'd be more to it."



Vinny smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Well, we do need your parents' signatures too. Y'know, just a formality."



John raised an eyebrow.



"Parents, huh? That might be tricky, seeing as how they're... unavailable."



Well, his mother is unavailable, his father is too busy not knowing he exists to help sign him off.



"No problem, no problem. You just sign their names too. No one's gonna check. Besides, you've got that honest face. Who's gonna doubt you?" Vinny said, waving a hand dismissively.



"Honest face," John repeated with a smirk. "Yeah, sure. Hand it over."



He quickly forged the signatures, which was probably a crime now that he thought about it, fortunately batman didn't burst from the window to break his neck in the name of justice however.

It was almost too easy. Vinny, clearly pleased with the incoming paycheck, grinned as he took the papers back.



"Great! My brother's a notary. He'll stamp these and get everything squared away. Expedited, of course, for a little extra…" The man said with a wink, and that ladies and gentlemen, was why Gotham's bureaucracy was an utter mess.



Partly at least.



"Of course," John said, already planning his next move.



Within a few days, John had the emancipation papers in hand, officially recognized as an adult by the state of New Jersey. It was almost laughable how simple it had been...just a few strokes of a pen and a greasy handshake, and he was free to make bigger moves.



The next step was finding a new place to live. He wasn't going to settle for anything less than perfect, so he set up an appointment with a local realtor. The woman, in her early thirties, with a blonde bob and an overenthusiastic smile, met him outside a swanky apartment building in the better part of town.



Yes, swanky is a real word.



"Mr. Harker, I'm Susan Monroe, but just call me Susan. It's such a pleasure to meet you! I've got a few properties lined up that I think you're going to love," she chirped, her heels clicking on the pavement as they approached the entrance.



I'm sure you've picked out the best for me, Susan. Lead the way." John flashed her a charming smile, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of prying eyes.



'I'm feeling a bit peckish' He thought, and the vampire system agreed with him.



[Blood Points: 680/800]



As they toured the apartments, John was careful to choose his words, asking about things like natural light and room sizes, but what he was really interested in was the isolation of the master bedrooms.



He needed a place where he could sleep during the day without worrying about a stray beam sneaking in through a poorly positioned window.



Sunlight is the enemy.

"This one's a real gem," Susan said as they entered the final apartment. "Top floor, no neighbours on either side, and the master bedroom is tucked away in the back—nice and private."



"Private, huh?" John mused, stepping into the master bedroom. It was perfect—no windows facing the east, thick curtains already installed, and plenty of space. "I think this might be the one."



Susan smiled, clearly pleased with herself. "I knew you'd like it! Shall we head back to the office to go over the paperwork?"



John turned to face her, his smile widening as he let a bit of his natural charm, enhanced by his vampiric presence, seep into his voice.



"Actually, Susan, I was thinking we could take a moment right here to celebrate finding the perfect place. You've been such a big help." He said, looking forward to the next part.



"Well, I suppose we could... I mean, it's been a long day, and we could use a break." Susan hesitated for just a second, her professional demeanour wavering under the intensity of his gaze.



"Exactly," John said smoothly, stepping closer. "Why don't we take a seat? You've worked hard for this commission, and you deserve a little reward."

She blushed slightly, flattered by his attention and unable to resist the pull of his presence. They sat down on the bed, the atmosphere shifting from businesslike to something more intimate.



John kept the conversation light, charming her with his wit and only using his power to go the extra mile, mind control just for a pleasant snack wasn't a good look after all.



Susan found herself laughing more than she expected, her usual caution slipping away. It wasn't long before she was leaning closer to him, her hand brushing against his.



John took that as his cue, gently tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. "You've really outdone yourself, Susan. I can't thank you enough for finding this place."



The words were soft, but the meaning behind them was clear. Susan felt her heart race as she looked into his eyes, feeling a connection that she couldn't quite explain.



In other words, she was overcome by the horni, and needed an urgent boink lest she does something foolish.



"You're welcome, John," she whispered, barely aware of her own voice.

He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her lips, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. But she didn't. She leaned into the kiss, her fingers curling into his shirt as she let herself get lost in the moment.



Yes, something foolish indeed.



As the kiss deepened, John's fangs gently grazed her lip, just enough to draw a tiny drop of blood. She gasped, but he soothed her with a soft murmur, his voice like velvet. "Just relax, Susan. I'll take care of you."



Even this much was enough to bring great pleasure the one bitten, perhaps greater than vampire's own satisfaction, yet another reason not to bite a man unless he could find a new way to absorb their blood.



Some kind of blood manipulation...



Susan nodded, completely under his spell as he moved to her neck, kissing her skin before sinking his fangs in, carefully and gently. The bite was painless, almost euphoric, and Susan melted into his embrace as he fed, taking only what he needed.



When he pulled back, Susan was left dazed but blissful, the bite already healing. John smiled at her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"You've been amazing, Susan. Thank you." He said sincerely.



Anything for you, John. I... I'm glad you're happy." She blinked up at him, her mind foggy but content.



"I am," he assured her, helping her to her feet. "Now, let's get that paperwork sorted."



Susan, still in a bit of a daze but feeling incredibly pleased with herself, led him back to the office where they finalized the deal. John made sure everything was in order, and by the end of the day, he had the keys to his new apartment—an isolated, sun-proof haven where he could finally rest easy.



[Title Lost: Crackouse Resident.]

[New Title Gained: Started From the Bottom.]



At last, John did indeed turn from a level 1 Crackhouse Resident to a level 5 Crook.

 

[Billbo baggins]

Please add system tag.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Time Doesn't Stop -


Vampire Rule #17: Money may not buy happiness, but it does buy silence, secrecy, and a nice coffin.



… … … … … … … … …



John Harker leaned back in the plush leather seats of the newly acquired black Lincoln Town Car, the engine purring softly as he took in the sights of the city.



It was a far cry from the crackhouse he used to call home, a place that had been as much a reminder of his precarious situation as it was a shelter...well, shelter might be a big word for that place, four walls and tons of problems is more fitting.



'But that was all in the past, I gotta think about the future,' John thought.



Now, with half a million dollars of dirty money tucked away, the fledgling vampire was ready to take the next step in his journey. The world didn't stop turning just because he'd clawed his way out of the gutter, and there were still plenty of challenges on the horizon.



He'd been making moves, slowly but surely turning his ill-gotten gains into legitimate enterprises. The metal waste collection and repurposing gig with Bubbles had been his first foray into the world of above-board business.



It had started small—just a couple of trucks, some reliable drivers, and a knack for finding value in the city's discarded scraps. Old car parts, rusted metal, and abandoned vehicles all found their way into John's growing empire of junk. It wasn't glamorous, but it was steady, and more importantly, it was legal.



In a city like Gotham where cars are stolen, crashed, burned then abondoned every single day, this field was pretty lucrative for people with the means and manpower.



Bubbles, his only real employee, had been a complete mess when John found him, just another junkie with a knack for scrounging when he wasn't playing games on the few people naive enough to trust a junkie.



In Gotham, that was a very small part of the population.



But now, after rehab and some serious training, he was shaping up to be a solid lieutenant. John had plans for him. Big plans. The Lincoln was part of that—a gift to mark Bubbles' transition from street rat to ghoul, and soon, he'd be managing the operations that John couldn't oversee himself.



But John's ambitions didn't stop at scrap collection. He'd been holding meetings with people who had potential, folks who owed him and who could use a financial backer to get their own businesses off the ground.



Carl, for example, had a knack for construction and an eye for detail. A home development company with him at the helm could be a goldmine, especially in a city as volatile as Gotham, where the demand for housing was always high, and someone was always willing to pay for discretion.



Then there was Don, a guy with a gift for flipping cars. He could take a wreck and turn it into a ride worth tens of thousands. The car flipping business would be a lucrative venture, and with John's backing, they could expand their operations far beyond the local chop shops.



Max Black, John's first blood doll, was also part of the plan. She'd always had a dream of running her own cafe or bakery. It wasn't just about the money for her; it was about making something of herself, and John was more than willing to help her do that. A cafe with her at the helm would be a perfect way to further launder some extra cash.



And with how profitable and entertaining his nightly bouts of vigilantism were getting, John was pretty sure he'd need all the laundering he could get.



'Now that I think about it, a laundromat is a pretty good front.' He thought, and added to the list.



Finally, there was the hostel. It was something John had been thinking about for a while now, a place for the homeless, the down-and-out, the ones who'd been kicked to the curb by society.

But it wouldn't just be a charity case.



Those who stayed would work, contributing to the upkeep of the place and, in turn, gaining some semblance of dignity. And in return, John would gain their loyalty, their trust, and, in some cases, their blood put in nice, compact bags if they were clean and healthy enough.



It was a long-term investment, one that could pay off in ways most people wouldn't even think of.



The Lincoln rolled through the streets of Gotham, John couldn't help but feel a certain satisfaction. He was making progress, turning the chaos of his life into something that resembled order.

He might have been a monster in the eyes of many, including himself, but he was a monster with a plan, and that counted for something.



The car came to a stop outside a nondescript building in Brideshead, one of the many places he now had business in. The city didn't know it yet, but John Harker was here to stay.



The old power structures in Gotham had no idea what was coming. Some must've heard of the Monster of Brideshead, the one who'd driven the biggest drug dealers into hiding, right there in the Dope Capital of Gotham City, but they didn't know who or what he was.



And that was just how John liked it.



He stepped out of the car, straightening his jacket as he surveyed the building. It was time to see what the next step would be, to figure out how to grow his influence even further. The night was young, and there was plenty of work to be done.

…



They were finished.



That was the general sentiment amongst those who made their fortune off the insanely profitable drugtrade in Brideshead.

Everything was going so smoothly, the bat had been busy dealing with problems bigger than folks getting high and other folks gladly helping, they were rolling in dough making so much money even the usual sitck-ups and bribes barely put a dent on their inflated profit margins.



Then everything came crashing down.



That monster woke up and decided to ruin everything for shit and giggles, taking their money and their dope then burning the whole thing for all they knew, the street loved speaking and nobody said a word about someone selling drugs or showing off his gold.



It made no sense.



That's why they all came here, to make sense of it all and try not to get devoured by the vultures playing the same game they did, the bastards taking their market shares, selling to their fiends and even nibbling small parts of their territory.



They didn't know what kind of beast waited for them.



The backroom of the rundown warehouse in Park Row might look rough on the outside, but the inside was as well furnished as it could be, all it needed was a couple scantily clad ladies and it would have everything a gangster loved.



Booze, food and the smell of money was everywhere.



Alas, the people inside couldn't possibly enjoy it.



The thick stench of cigarettes and stale sweat hung thick in the air, mingling with the tension that crackled between the men seated around the battered wooden table. This was a gathering of Gotham's most ruthless retail drug dealers: men who were used to being in control, barely forced into cooperation by their shared fear of losing money.



At the head of the table, or rather, where the head of the table should have been, there was an empty chair. No one dared sit there, not after what had happened to the last man who tried to assert himself as the leader of this troubled alliance.



Instead, the seat of relative power had shifted slightly to the right, where Hungry sat.



Or rather, slumped.



The man who had once been a force of nature in Brideshead, feared and respected, was now a shadow of his former self. Bruises still marked his face, remnants of the brutal beating he'd received from the Monster during the raids that had shaken their small, violent world.



His defeat had cost him not just his reputation, but also a small fortune in bribes and legal fees to keep himself and his men out of jail.



Across from him was Blue, a wiry, sharp-eyed man who had taken advantage of Hungry's fall from grace to expand his own operations.



His icy blue eyes scanned the room, assessing, calculating. He was a man who thrived in the shadows, known for his ability to vanish and reappear when least expected. Tonight, he was particularly watchful, aware that Hungry's recent humiliation made him unpredictable.

The other men around the table were a mix of old heads and ambitious up-and-comers. Among them was Slim Tony, flashy in his tailored suit, a symbol of his connections to the East Coast mafia. He leaned forward, his fingers drumming nervously on the table. "We're all getting squeezed here," he said, breaking the uneasy silence. "That Monster's making it impossible to move product in Brideshead. We can't keep this up—we need to take him out before he does more damage."



Hungry grunted, wincing slightly as he shifted in his chair.



"Easier said than done," He muttered, his voice hoarse from a combination of exhaustion and the residual pain from his beating. "I've faced tough bastards before, but this one… he's something else. Hit us where it hurt, left us scrambling. My men… we barely got out, and it cost me more than any of you will ever know."



"Looks like you lost more than just your pride, Hungry. But you're right. Rushing in won't solve anything. We need to be smart about this—strategic." Blue's lip curled into a slight smirk.



Blue went to communty college, so he was practically a scholar within these walls, with the appropriate stick shoved up his arse and a dictionary down his mouth.



One of the older dealers, Old Man Dario, his face lined with years of experience and bad choices, nodded in agreement. "We need someone who can deal with this without drawing too much heat. We bring in a big name, and we risk more than just our business. The Bat could get involved, and none of us want that."



"What about Deadshot? Or Deathstroke? I know people who could get them on the line. They don't come cheap, but they get results." Slim Tony leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips.



The suggestion was met with a murmur of approval, but Hungry scoffed, shaking his head.



"Deadshot's gonna bleed us dry just for showing up. And Deathstroke? That man's got an ego bigger than this city. We can't afford either of them—not after what we've already lost." He said with derision, this was a kid talks.



Lucky Lou, a middle-aged dealer known for his sharp suits and sharper tongue, chimed in. "How about setting a trap? Make it look like a juicy target, then ambush him. We've got the numbers, we know the streets better than anyone. He's just one guy."



Blue exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.



"You think he'll fall for that? The Monster's no fool. But… it could work if we play it right. We just need to make sure the bait is irresistible." He said, shaking his head.



"We could always pay off some cops. Let them do the dirty work for us. We keep our hands clean, and if something goes south, it's on them, not us." Greasy Pete, a portly man whose sweat-soaked shirt clung to his rotund frame, leaned forward, his voice low and conspiratorial.



"Nah kid, bad idea," Old Man Dario shook his head slowly. "Cops are a gamble. They take our money, sure, but there's no guarantee they won't double-cross us. And if the Bat gets wind of it, we're all finished. No, this has to be handled in-house."



Slim Tony shifted in his seat, leaning closer to the table. "What about calling in a favor from the cartels? They've got the muscle, the firepower. We could make a deal—let them move some product through Brideshead in exchange for taking care of our Monster problem. It's not ideal, but desperate times, right?"



Blue frowned, clearly not thrilled with the idea.



"Bringing in the cartels? That's a whole new level of risk. Once they get a foothold in our territory, good luck getting them out. They'll bleed us dry and leave us fighting over scraps. And you really think they'll send their best to deal with some local problem in Gotham? They've got bigger fish to fry." He argued.



Hungry, despite his weakened state, straightened up slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered the suggestion. "The cartels could be useful, but only if we play it right. We can't afford an all-out war, not in Gotham. But… if we push them into a corner, make it seem like we've got no other choice, they might be willing to take the risk. Or at least send someone who knows how to deal with problems like this."



Old Man Dario, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up. "A war is the last thing we need. But we don't have to fight this Monster ourselves. There's someone out there who's fallen on hard times, someone who's still got the skills but is desperate enough to take a risky job for cheap. No need for the cartels, no need for an all-out war. Just a simple transaction, no questions asked."



The room fell silent, the dealers exchanging glances as they tried to figure out who Dario was talking about. But he offered no more details, just a sly smile that hinted at a plan already in motion.



Blue tilted his head, curious. "Who you got in mind, old man?"



Dario's lips curled into a sly smile, his eyes glinting with the light of dangerous secrets. "Someone who knows this city well. Someone who's been off the grid for a while but hasn't forgotten how to handle a job like this. Let's just say… she's got a venomous touch."



The others around the table tensed, realizing Dario was talking about someone serious, the kind who could be both a solution and a problem.



"We do this, we do it right. No mistakes, no loose ends. The Monster's going down, and anyone who gets in our way…" Hungry spoke up, trying and failing to keep his bruised ego from showing.



He didn't need to finish the sentence though. The room knew what was at stake.



Old Man Dario nodded, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous resolve. "Then it's settled. We'll make the arrangements. And if all goes well… we'll be rid of this Monster for good, and we might not even need to pay all that much."



The dealers exchanged wary glances, knowing they were treading dangerous waters. But with their backs against the wall, they were ready to take the risk.



The Monster of Brideshead was about to face his deadliest challenge yet—one that would either end his reign of terror or plunge the city into even deeper chaos.



Or so they thought...



. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

Chapter is 2600 words long, not including the author note, so you guys leave a comment, drink some water and hug your moms.

Again, I appreciate the support, I kinda stumbled my way into this story and expected a whole lot of roasting like only fanfic readers can dish them out. (I do like a good roast though.)

However, you guys have been insanely supportive, so I wanna thank you for that.

I hope you all have an awesome day!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Interview with a Vampire -


Vampire Rule N°17: When flirting with mortals, remember: a little charm goes a long way, but never, ever reveal your fangs unless you're ready for some seriously awkward small talk about dental work. Nothing says 'unintentional comedy' like a bloodsucker caught in a conversation about braces.

… … … … … … … … … …





Vicky Vale sat in the editor's office, her frustration barely contained as she watched the scene unfold. Across from her, Gus, the old, weathered editor who'd seen more of Gotham's dirt than most people knew existed, was in the middle of a heated discussion with another staff member.



Vicky might be the subject of the conversation, but she might as well have been invisible.



"Look, Gus, I know you think she's got potential," said Frank, a greasy, self-satisfied man who'd wormed his way up the ranks by playing all the right cards with all the wrong people. "But we need someone who can bring in the big stories, the ones that make headlines and get clicks. Not chick chasing after phantom vigilantes or pissing off our generous friends out there."



"Vicky's got more integrity in her little finger than half the reporters in this building, Frank. Just because she doesn't make them blue bloods happy doesn't mean she can't do the job." Gus grunted, his patience clearly running thin.



Making the blue bloods happy, that was just a nice way of saying she didn't want to spread her legs for rich old coots or STD ridden trust fund kids.



"Maybe so, but integrity doesn't pay the bills. We need stories that sell, Gus. Stories that get people talking, and Vicky—no offense—isn't exactly delivering that." Frank leaned back in his chair, smirking.



Vicky's grip tightened on the arms of her chair, her nails digging into the worn leather. She knew this was how it went. The Gazette had once been a beacon of truth in Gotham, a place where real journalism thrived.



But times had changed.



The city had changed. Now, it was all about sensationalism, and if you weren't willing to sell your soul for a byline, you were left fighting for scraps.



Gus sighed, rubbing his temples. He looked at Vicky, his expression softening. "Vicky, you've been doing good work. But we need something big, something that'll shake things up."

"I'm trying, Gus," Vicky said, her voice firm. "But every time I pitch a story, it gets sidelined. I'm not asking for special treatment, just a fair shot."



"Fair shot? You want a fair shot, Vale? Fine. We've got a project no one else wants to touch. Down in Brideshead." Frank snorted, his belly giggling when he moved.



"Brideshead? That's a death sentence." Vicky raised an eyebrow.



Frank shrugged, as if the last crew they sent there didn't get mugged, the journalist beaten up by a drug addict with the cameraman getting stabbed for his trouble.



"Maybe. But it's also a chance to prove yourself. Gus here seems to think you can handle it. So, how about it? You willing to risk it?"



Gus shot Frank a glare before turning back to Vicky.



"It's not an easy assignment, Vicky. But I think you can do something with it. Show people what's really going on in Gotham's underbelly." He said, but they both knew he just wanted to get some peace.



There was nothing she could do about it, though.



Vicky hesitated. Brideshead was infamous, even among Gotham's many dark corners. It was the kind of place where people went to disappear, where the law didn't reach, and where life was cheap as a 10$ vial.



But it was also a place where stories were born, where the truth was buried under layers of grime and bad choices, a tragedy at every turn.



Vicky never went there, her parents did well enough that they never had to see the bad side of town.



"I'll do it. But I need a decent crew, and I need time to do it right," She nodded slowly.



"You can have the crew, but don't expect top-of-the-line. We've got an old truck and some second-hand gear. Take it or leave it." Frank smirked, and she really wished she could just punch him and be done with it.



"She'll take it," Gus interjected before Vicky could argue. He gave her a small nod. "You've got this, kid."



Vicky left the office with a mix of trepidation and determination. Gus was right; this was her chance to prove herself. And she wasn't about to let it slip through her fingers.



A few days later, Vicky found herself in the back of a beat-up van with her cameraman, Richie, and sound guy, Dave. The equipment rattled as they bumped over the pothole-riddled roads leading into Brideshead.



The closer they got, the more rundown the buildings became, the more desolate the streets. It was like stepping into another world, one Gotham's upper crust preferred to forget existed.



"Bloody hell" Richie muttered, peering out the window. "Didn't think it could get worse than Park Row."



"Welcome to Brideshead," Vicky said dryly, "Home of the forgotten."



Dave, a stoic guy who rarely spoke unless absolutely necessary, just grunted in agreement.



The van rolled to a stop outside what had once been a storefront. The windows were boarded up, and the sign had long since faded into obscurity. Vicky took a deep breath, checking her notes one last time before stepping out onto the cracked pavement.



"Alright," she said, turning to Richie and Dave. "Let's try to find some locals willing to talk. We're looking for personal stories—people struggling to survive, how they're coping, what they need."



"Got it," Richie said, slinging the camera over his shoulder. "But don't expect anyone to be too friendly."



Vicky nodded, already bracing herself for the cold reception she knew they were likely to get, in her pocket some pepper spray her mother had all but demanded she carries when she heard about her daughter going to the East End.



She didn't tell them it was Brideshead, or her father would have followed her around carrying a shotgun, not a great look when you're trying to interview people.



The first few attempts were rough. Most people just ignored them, ducking into alleys or slamming doors in their faces. The few who did stop to talk quickly turned hostile when they realized what Vicky and her crew were after. One man even lunged at Richie, shouting obscenities and accusing them of being vultures.



It wasn't until they reached a small, makeshift market that things began to shift. Vicky spotted a group of young men loitering near a fruit stand, eyeing the camera crew with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. One of them, a tall guy with a shaved head and tattoos snaking up his neck, made a beeline for them.



Something told her he wasn't coming to say hi.



"Yo, what's this?" he demanded, his tone aggressive.



"Just trying to get some stories. We're not here to cause trouble." Vicky held up her hands in a placating gesture.



"Stories? You think anyone here gives a damn about your stories?" The guy scoffed.



Richie shifted nervously, but Vicky stood her ground.



"I'm trying to show Gotham what life is like down here. People need to see what's really going on." She said, doing her best to sound diplomatic and understanding.



"Like they care," the guy sneered, and his friends started making comments trying to provoke the young man.



Before things could escalate further, a voice cut through the tension. "Hey, Javi, leave 'em be."



The guy, Javi, turned to see a tall, well-dressed man approaching. He was younger than most of the people milling around, but there was something about him. An air of authority that made Javi step back, grumbling under his breath.



"Fine. But don't think this means you're welcome here," Javi spat before slinking off.



Vicky turned to the newcomer, her eyes widening slightly as she took in his appearance. He was striking, with piercing blue eyes and an easy confidence that made it clear he wasn't afraid of much.



"Hot darn." Richie whistled, quickly correcting himself when Dave gave him a judgmental look, "No homo."



"Thanks for that," Vicky said, offering a small smile.



"Don't sweat it," the man replied, his voice smooth. "Javi's harmless. Just has a a bit of a temper."



"Seems like everyone around here has a temper," Richie muttered.



"Richie!" She chided, even though she agreed deep down.



The man chuckled, shaking his head. "Can't blame them. Life's hard down here."



"You seem to know your way around." Vicky nodded, studying him more closely.



The man shrugged, his expression unreadable.



"I get by. Name's John, by the way." He said with an easy smile.



Easy, the man—John, she corrected herself, did make it all easy.



Easy talking to him.



Easy to get comfortable.



Easy on the eyes, part of her said, and she quickly killed that troublesome voice that kept looking at his broad shoulders and beautful blue eyes and those strong long arms and wondering how it would feel being held down by them and—



"Miss, you arlight?" He asked his face full of concerned, and it took all of her willpower to keep her poker face.



Oh, who was she kidding, her face got red as it could be.

At least he was kind enough to pretend he didn't see it.



"Vicky," she replied, trying to regain a sliver of dignity through her professionalism, "We're trying to get some footage for a documentary, show the rest of Gotham what's happening here. Think you could spare a few minutes?"



Then her mind returned to the gutter, and she started wondering whether she seemed too desperate to talk to him and only using her work as an excuse...wait, was she using her work as an excuse? Dang it, she was! Did he notice? Would he like the attention or hate it? Does he think she's a pick me girl who's scared of dying alone with a bunch of cats?



Such were the questions plaguing her overthinking blonde head.



John looked at her with an amused smile, and she was pretty sure somebody could cook an omelette on her head right now.



"Sure, you've got five minutes. What do you want to know?" He said, almost kindly but not quite.



Vicky signaled to Richie and Dave to start recording, took a deep breath and got back in the zone.



"We're trying to understand what life is like here, what people are going through. Can you tell us a bit about that?" She asked with her game face and game voice on, speaking clearly but not obnoxiously loud.



John leaned casually against a nearby fruit stand, picking up an apple and taking a bite. He seemed completely at ease, his demeanor calm and confident.



"It's on the house, boss." The old man working there said with a smile.



Boss? She wanted to ask, but quickly got sucked into Hurricane Harker.



"Life is tough," John began, his voice steady and deep, easily capturing their attention, "People are struggling just to get by. You've got poverty, crime, and a general sense of hopelessness. It's a place where people do what they can to survive, often at the expense of their own well-being...no need to talk about other people's, empathy is a luxury around these parts."





'That sounds about right,' She thought, this place really was miserable.





"And you?" Vicky asked, her curiosity piqued. "How do you fit into all of this?"



John's expression shifted slightly, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.



"I try to help where I can. It's not much, but it's something." He said calmly and deliberatly.



Vicky frowned, sensing there was more to his story.



"You seem pretty involved. Why?" She asked, but knew better than to expect a straight answer.



"Someone's got to do it. This place needs all the help it can get." John took another bite of his apple, chewing thoughtfully.



Richie adjusted the camera, capturing the exchange as Vicky continued to probe. "Do you think things will ever get better around here? Is there hope for the people living in Brideshead?"



"Hope is a tricky thing. Sometimes it's there, sometimes it's not. But if people stop trying, if they give up, then there's no chance for anything to change. As long as there's someone willing to fight for a better future, there's hope." John's gaze was distant, as if he were looking beyond the grim reality of the streets.



The interview went on for a while, with Vicky asking questions and John providing thoughtful, if somewhat guarded, answers. Despite his enigmatic responses, there was a sense of sincerity in his words.



He spoke like he knew what life was like on these streets, not some flimsy feel-good priest-talk about giving the other cheek and whatnot, but like he really knew and understood it.



His presence seemed to command a certain level of respect from the people around him.



Vicky studied him, sensing there was more to the story than he was letting on. But before she could press further, a loud crash echoed from across the street, drawing everyone's attention.



Javi had returned, clearly spoiling for a fight. He was shoving another man, shouting something unintelligible. John sighed, handing the half-eaten apple back to the vendor before stepping forward.



"Javi!" he called out, his voice firm. "What'd I tell you?"

Javi froze, looking sheepish as he realized John was watching. "He started it," he muttered, but his aggression had already dissipated.



"Doesn't matter. Go buy your mom something nice for her birthday instead of wasting time here," John said, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and handing it to Javi.



"She won't care for it, it's just a waste of money." The kid shook his head, his face stuck in that little grimace of someone who forgot about their own momma's birthday.



"She carried you for nine months." John said looking at him with disaproval.



Javi hesitated, glancing at the money before nodding reluctantly. "Yeah, alright."



As Javi walked away, he turned around to see that the camera had caught everything, it would be very lucky if he was trying to build up his reputation as some do-gooder in these parts, an accident showing his 'real' character.



"Sorry about that," John said, glancing at his watch, "You ran out of time, I've got to go."



"Thank you, John." Vicky nodded, shaking away a certain feeling she got watching him leave.



Just like that, he was gone, at least they got some nice footage.



Not enough, sadly, so back to hunting interviews they were.



As Vicky and her crew packed up, Richie looked over at her.



"So, what do you think? Was that guy for real?" He asked.



"I don't know," Vicky said thoughtfully. "But he definitely knows more about this place than most people. We need to dig deeper."



"And hopefully find out what's really going on with him. There's more to his story, I can feel it." Dave, ever the pragmatist, added,



With that, they finished their preparations and headed back to the van, ready to sift through the footage and start piecing together their documentary. As they drove away from Brideshead, Vicki couldn't shake the feeling that this assignment was about to lead her into something much bigger than she had anticipated.



-------------------------

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

As promised, a noice little chappy with a cozy 2500 word count, as promised...now please release my dog, he's a good boy and I miss him very much.

We got our first minor DC character, and it ain't Vicki Vale just because I relly wanted to make an Interview with a Vampire joke.

Anyway, I hope you guys had fun, see ya in two days!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- The Birth of a Ghoul -
. . .



Vampire Rule N°18: A Priest is only dangerous if you're an eight-year-old boy.

… … … … … … … … … …



Reginald Cousins, better known as Bubbles on the streets, had been through a lot in his life.



He's seen the ups and downs, made all the wrong choices and lived to regret them. The self-destruction and the struggle to survive had shaped him into the man he was today. But nothing had prepared him for the whirlwind of change that had come his way since he met John Harker.



Fresh out of rehab, his mind clear for the first time in years, Bubbles was looking at the small empire John had been quietly building.



What had started as a humble scrap metal scavenging gig had grown into a legitimate business, putting bread on the table not just for him, but for a growing number of men and women who had been down on their luck.



People who just needed a little bit of help, just a bit of breathing room and support to get their lives back.



John had given them all a chance—drivers, mechanics, shopkeepers, people who had been living on the edge just like Bubbles had been. Now, they had steady jobs, a purpose, and a sense of belonging that had been missing from their lives for too long.



And it was all because of John.



Bubbles had heard the whispers. The guys around the garage, the drivers on the scrap collection routes, even the folks setting up the cafe and bakery for that Maxine girl—everyone spoke about John with a mixture of awe and gratitude. He was young, younger than any of them expected, but there was something about him, something that made you want to follow him, trust him, and, in Bubbles' case, even idolize him.



Now, John wanted to meet him in his brand new apartment in Gotham Heights, now that's something.



Gotham Heights was a world apart from Brideshead or even the East End. It was cleaner, quieter, and had a kind of peace that Bubbles had never known.



He almost had a heart attack when he passed by a bona fide beat cop walking around the neighbourhood, and nobody screaming 'Five O' or 'Shop Closed' and running away.



Nah, people just went about their days, or nights in this case.



'Boss should really try to fix his sleep schedule.' He thought, the man was strong and quick like the best of them, but he was still young and needed proper rest.



Reginald made his way through the streets, he couldn't help but wonder if he too would one day leave behind the grime and danger of his old neighborhood. Maybe, if he stuck with John, he could. But parts of him were curious, yearning to know more about the man who had turned his life around.



By the time he reached the apartment building, Bubbles felt a mix of nervousness and anticipation. He knew John was special, but there was something more, something deeper that he hadn't quite grasped yet.



Today, he felt, would change everything.



John's apartment was on the top floor, accessible by an elevator that was worlds apart from the creaking, graffiti-covered ones he was used to.

When the doors opened, Bubbles stepped into a hallway that was immaculate, with plush carpets and soft lighting that made the place feel warm and inviting. He walked up to the door John had told him about and knocked.



"Come in!" John's voice called out from inside.



Bubbles opened the door and stepped into the apartment. It was classy but had a warmth to it, a far cry from the sterile, lifeless spaces he imagined rich folks lived in. The living room was spacious, with large windows letting in the afternoon light, and a comfortable couch facing a low table with a cup of coffee resting on it.



Bubbles let out a whistle of admiration and just a bit of envy, his place was a dump in comparison, but he quickly reminded himself that John was the only reason he could afford the place instead of squatting or sleeping in a literall dump.



Sleeping with the rats and bugs wasn't a pleasant experience, but it beat getting stabbed, shot then raped in Park Row because he couldn't find a shelter.



Yes, in that order.



Think he's exaggerating? Ask Fatty Boo, he won't answer though, his chubby arse is dead.



John was sitting cross-legged on the couch, a small smile on his face as he looked up at Bubbles. He looked relaxed, almost at peace, a stark contrast to the sharp, driven energy he usually exuded when they talked business.



"Hey, Bubbles," John said, his voice casual but warm. "Glad you could make it. Have a seat."



Bubbles nodded, feeling a little out of his depth but comforted by John's easygoing demeanor. He walked over and sat down on the other end of the couch.



'Dag,' He cursed, marvelling at how utterly soft and comfortable it felt, 'A man's behind shouldn't feel that good, that's gay as all hell.'



"Want a cup?" John asked, motioning to the coffee.



"Uh, sure," Bubbles replied, still a bit hesitant.



"Stay calm," John said, his tone gentle but firm.



Bubbles was about to ask what he meant when John suddenly disappeared in a blur. One moment he was sitting on the couch, and the next, he was across the room, filling a cup with coffee from a pot on the counter.



Before Bubbles could fully register what had happened, another blur of motion brought John right back in front of him, handing him the cup.



Bubbles stared at John, mouth wide open, trying to make sense of what he had just seen. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his mind raced with questions, but all he could manage was a dumbfounded, "What the fuck…?"



John chuckled, the sound light and almost musical.



"Yeah, I get that reaction a lot, but they usually don't last enough to actually think about it. Drink up, we've got a lot to talk about." He said, his voice full of mirth.



Bubbles took the cup with trembling hands, his mind still reeling from the shock. He took a sip, the warmth of the coffee grounding him a little as he tried to find his voice.



"What… What was that?" he finally managed to ask.



John set his own cup down and leaned back on the couch, his expression serious now. "That, Bubbles, is a little glimpse into what I am. I'm not technically human—at least, not in the way you think. I'm something closer to what the superstitious would call a vampire."



Bubbles blinked, the words not quite registering at first.



"A… vampire? You mean, like, fangs and drinking blood and all that?" He stammered, trying to make sense of all this foolishness he was seeing.



"Pretty much," John said, his tone still calm and matter-of-fact. "But it's more complicated than that. I have powers, yes, but I also have responsibilities—duties to protect this world, to protect mankind from threats that most people don't even know exist, monsters whose strenght would put the Superman to shame, empires whose firepower makes Hydrogen Bombs look like firecrackers...and worse."



"Worse?"Bubbles blurted, what in the flying flip could be worse than that? He stared at John, trying to wrap his head around what he was hearing. "And… you're telling me this because…?"



"Because, Bubbles, I've chosen you to be the first of my retainers. My own faithful ghoul. You'll be gifted with enhanced strength, regeneration, and freedom from the chains of time, as long as you stay loyal and reaffirm your oaths." John leaned forward, his gaze intense but not unkind.

Bubbles' heart skipped a beat.



This was… this was insane. But as he looked into John's eyes, saw the sincerity and power there, something in him shifted. This wasn't a joke. This wasn't some kind of elaborate prank. John was serious, dead serious.



"What do you mean, a ghoul?" Bubbles asked, his voice a little shaky.



"It means you'll be something more than human," John explained. "You'll have a longer life, better health, and strength beyond what you've ever known. But it also means you'll be bound to me. My blood will give you these gifts, but it will also tie you to me. You'll need to renew your oath for three nights in a row to become a true ghoul, and after that, maybe once every month or so."



Bubbles felt a mix of fear and excitement welling up inside him.



This was an opportunity like nothing he'd ever imagined. A chance to become something more, to leave his old life behind for good.



But it was also terrifying. The idea of being tied to someone, of having to rely on John's blood to survive…

But then again, John had already saved him, had already given him more than he could ever repay. And if John was offering him this, then it meant he trusted Bubbles, believed in him.



John Harker believed in him.



"I… I don't know what to say," Bubbles finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.



"Say yes," John replied with a small smile. "Say yes, and drink from this."



John reached into a drawer by the couch and pulled out a small, ornate chalice. He held it up, and Bubbles could see a few drops of dark, rich liquid inside.



"This is my blood," John said softly. "Drink it, and you'll feel the power growing inside you. Your loyalty to me will become stronger, and you'll start to change. It's not an easy road, Bubbles, but it's one I believe you're ready for."



Bubbles stared at the chalice, his heart pounding in his chest. This was it. This was the moment that would change everything. He could feel it in his bones.



With a deep breath, Bubbles took the chalice from John's hand. His fingers trembled slightly as he raised it to his lips. He hesitated for just a second, then tipped the chalice back and let the liquid slide down his throat.



It was like nothing he had ever tasted before—rich, warm, and filled with an almost electric energy. As the blood entered his system, Bubbles felt a surge of power, a warmth that spread through his body, making his muscles tingle and his mind sharpen. He gasped as the sensation grew stronger, overwhelming his senses for a moment before it settled into a steady, powerful pulse.



Pains that followed him for years, if not decades disapeared. Concept he previously couldn't even think about without getting a headache suddenly became clear, basic even.



John watched him with an unreadable expression, then smiled as Bubbles lowered the chalice, his eyes wide with awe.



"How do you feel?" John asked, his tone gentle.



Bubbles opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn't come at first.



He could feel the change, feel the strength coursing through him, the clarity in his mind. It was like the fog of his old life had been lifted, and he could see everything so much clearer now.

"I feel… amazing," Bubbles finally said, his voice filled with wonder. "This is… this is incredible."



"Good," John nodded, pleased, "Remember, though, this is just the beginning. You'll need to renew your oath for three nights in a row to become a true ghoul. After that, we'll slow it down to once a month or so. But this power, this gift, it's yours now. Use it wisely, and stay loyal."



"Thank you, John. I'll never forget this. I'll never betray you." Bubbles looked at John, a deep sense of gratitude and loyalty welling up inside him.



The mere thought sounded sacrilegious, like stabbing your mama or sucking a dick.



"I know you won't," John said with a small smile. "You're stronger than you think, Bubbles. And together, we're going to make sure that strength grows."



The two sat in silence for a moment, the weight of what had just happened settling between them.



Bubbles felt a deep sense of calm, a certainty that he had made the right choice. He didn't fully understand what he was now, but he knew one thing for sure; he was ready to follow John, wherever this new path might lead.

Even in the depths of hell.



As they finished their coffee and the sun began to set outside the apartment, John and Bubbles talked about the future. The plans for the waste management business, the car flipping garage, the grocery store, and the bakery.



But now, there was something more, something deeper that tied them together. Bubbles felt it in his bones, in his blood. He was no longer just Reginald Cousins, the man who had clawed his way out of the darkness.



He was something more. He was a ghoul, John Harker's first and most loyal retainer. And he would do whatever it took to help his benefactor, to grow alongside him, and to protect the world they were building together.



For his master's glory.



By the time Bubbles left John's apartment that evening, the moon was high in the sky, casting a pale glow over Gotham Heights. He walked through the quiet streets, his mind buzzing with the possibilities of what lay ahead.



There was still so much to learn, so much to understand. But one thing was clear—his life had changed forever. And for the first time in a long time, Bubbles felt like he was finally on the right path.



As he made his way back to the East End, back to Brideshead, Bubbles couldn't help but smile. He had a new purpose now, a new life.



Reginald made the right choice, with John Harker by his side, there was nothing he couldn't achieve.



. . . . . .

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

Here's yet another little chapter, with a very nice 2200 word count, Author Note not included obviously.

If you wanna support the author leave a comment and do give your opinion, whether positive or negative, doesn't need to be constructive either, as long as it's honest.

You can join us on Discord right here, why? To be able to hound me for chapters with more efficiency of course!

Link right here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2

 

[TheHamtaro]

- A Matter of Perspective -

Double Chapter! Or is triple in QQ? No idea!

Join us on discord if you're happy about it, no rick roll this time.

Link here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2

It's a bit shorter than usual, but make sure to make a comment if you wanna support the author.

Hope you have a nice day.

This chapter was brought to you by Hellsing Abridged

. . .



Vampire Rule N°19: A master is only as good as his servant.



… … … … … … … … …



- Gotham Heights, John Harker's Appartment



If someone was to venture within the home of Gotham's most powerful vampire, who also happens to be the only one, and for some unknown reason managed not to get noticed and promptly eliminated by the ever so thirsty blood sucker, they would hear nothing but the sounds of debauchery.



Whimpers, giggles, moans and deep laughs.



Sweet nothings and pleas for more pain, more pleasure.



'Am I a bad person?' John thought, not for the first time, while sinking his teeth back onto Sindy's thigh, or was it Wendy? He couldn't remember.



*Moan*



"John~"



Nor could he name the girl mindlessly moaning beneath him, lost between the fire in her loins and the ecstasy of every kiss he laid upon her neck.



Or the blonde woman who had already lost herself, looking so innocent as she slept on the king sized bed, despite the wild hedonism all around her.



And yet he could name their blood types, give an exact description of their diets and workout plans, by now he could even start identifying their ancestry from the taste of their blood.



'German Irish.' He guessed while she attempted to crush his head with her legs, but he continued to drink until she devolved into a shaking and moaning mess a few seconds away from fainting.



It might be exhaustion, it might be pleasure, or even blood loss, but who cares?



In a matter of seconds, she was gone and so were the others, all of them resting in his bed after yet another night spent trying and failing to make their respective relationships something deeper and more fulfilling.



It was pretty cute.



People would probably call him a scumbag, those same people would also commit greater sins if they only had a fraction of his power.





He reached for a blanket and covered their naked bodies, shielding them from the cold while he stepped out of the room and onto his shower.



The warm water on his skin was a luxury he had sorely missed during his stay in the crackhouse, which he kept renting to use it as a hideout in case he ever got stuck in the East End during a sunrise.



He washed away the fluids and enjoyed the comfort, trying to ignore that ugly feeling of guilt that showed up every once in a while.

Leaving without making them breakfast just didn't sit well with him, that's just rude, alas he was really not a morning person these days.



Was he a bad person though?





"I guess it's a matter of perspective." He concluded, leaving and making himself presentable for another busy night.



He closed the door, leaving the girls behind with nothing but some flowers and a note that was as fake as it was romantic.



Going down a building that didn't reek of tobbaco, liquors and various bodily fluids, stairs that weren't littered with rusty needles and broken vials. He opened a door that had yet to be stolen by a dopefiend, and came face to face with the one and only Reginald Cousins.



"Evening, bossman," The dark skinned man was the first to greet him, opening the door of his black Lincoln.



The man loved that car, this gift might've done more to secure his loyalty than the blood bond ever could.



"Hello, Reginald." He answered, sliding inside the passenger seat, he looked at his first servant's form.



It had only been a few days since the blood bond was complete and he officially became his ghoul, but the changes both physical and mental were obvious.



Gone was the gaunt, fragile and scarred body of a man who had abused his flesh for decades.



Gone were the yellowed, bloodshot eyes looking everywhere and nowhere at the same time, stuck between fear and lust for petty crime, a way to make his ten dollars and earn his blast at the expanse of everyone else.



Reginald stood taller, more confident, the power of the blood had roused his appetite and shaped his body into that of a worthy servant, with strong muscles and sturdy bones so that he might do his master's bidding unopposed.



His wardrobe had seen some changes, the incendiary kind, and was justly replaced with some new and proper clothes for a proper man.



Suits, coats and some casual clothes that didn't smell worse than Snoop Dog's pet rat.



His wild, poorly maintained afro had been abondoned in favour of a practical and more mature buzzcut.



It played a great part in improving his mental, along with the pride of a man who had achieved freedom from the tyranny of old age through loyalty alone.



Where the old him would have scoffed and laughed at anyone who'd ever suggest he did something as inconceivable as going back to school or learning a trade, it was Reginald who decided that he needed more knowledge to serve him properly and managed to get himself a place in community college despite not even finishing high school.



It was Reginald who started hounding his lawyer and accountant looking to understand the nightmare of paperwork.



It was Reginlad who started working out, took self-defense classes and started getting some practise in the local shooting range.



'We in America, home of school shootings, so better make the most of it.' He had said, earning himself more than a few strange looks from a passing grandma.



It wouldn't be a stretch to say that the man Bubbles once was had died so that Reginald Cousins might be born.



The Renfield to his Dracula.



"You're looking good," John said, pleased with the effort the man had put into his appearance.



"Thank you, sir." Reginald answered with a reserved smile while turning the key, "But that's some gay ass shit you just said."



Yeah, some things never change.



"Piss off." John grinned, not bothering to hide his sharp fangs from someone who was already aware of the dark gift.



Of course, he didn't tell him everything, that would be foolish.



What kind of reckless idiot would infrom anyone about things like the priceless immaterial tool that gave them so much power and leverage over everyone else?



No, the Vampire System was, is and will be a secret.



The same thing went for his true origins, telling someone that their world was nothing but entertainment for the masses was a sure way of either making them go insane, or think that you went insane.



In both cases, it was bad for business.



And what a dreadful business it was, growing in power as a vampire, drinking galleons upon galleons of blood, completing the often cruel tasks the system gave him for some experience, all to reach the next level of potency.



Hoping that he'll achieve some real power before the countless shits polluting this world decide to hit the fan and make everyone's life miserable.



Then again, he does the same thing.



Even those who only met him for a day, for a few moments, those whose interests went against his, or those who had the misfortune of being at the wrong place, at the wrong time.



'At least, Max is happier with me in her life.' He thought.



The same couldn't be said of poor Vicki Vale, who was so unlucky that she attracted both his and the system's attraction.



That's what happens when you're a canon character.





[Task: "First Taste of the Spotlight"



Objective:

Feed from Vicky Vale, the first prominent figure you have encountered in this world. She is both ambitious and driven, making her a valuable source of power. Successfully feed from her without causing suspicion or harm, and ensure that your actions leave her unaware of your true nature. Use charm, subtlety, and your abilities to draw her closer.

Rewards:

+100 EXP

New Ability Unlocked: Dominate (Enhances your control over the minds of your targets, allowing you to implant suggestions and alter their memories temporarily.)



Bonus Objectives (Optional):

Seduction: Gain her trust and affection. (+50 EXP)



Failure Penalty:

Loss of Vicky's trust, resulting in a potential enemy and negative reputation impact in Gotham's social circles.]



It was tempting, too tempting to be ignored.



So once more John Harker would set out to hunt.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- To Hunt a Reporter -

Discord here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2

Chapter is 3000 words long.

Leave a comment, drop some stones, drink some water and hug your moms.

I hope you all have a great time

. . . . . . . . . . . .



Vampire Rule N°20: Blood is Lives

… … … … … … … … … … …



The Gotham Gazette was a far cry from its former glory. Once a beacon of journalistic integrity, the newsroom now felt more like a corporate battlefield, with reporters jockeying for the best stories and editors more concerned with clicks than quality. The constant hum of phones ringing and the clatter of keyboards filled the air, but there was a palpable sense of frustration among those who still cared about real journalism.



Among those dreadfully boring, stale-blooded meatbags, as a certain vampire would call them, was a certain pretty blonde with a quick mind and big dreams.



Dreams her job was shattering with every passing day.



Vicky Vale was still at her desk, buried under a pile of notes, her once neat and tidy workspace now a chaotic mess of papers, coffee cups, and half-eaten sandwiches.



Not the best diet, but the only one that accommodated her work schedule.



She sighed, running a hand through her hair, wondering how her career had come to this. She'd worked her ass off, tried to prove herself time and again, but it seemed the higher-ups were intent on keeping her down. The kind of stories she wanted to tell—the ones that mattered—were being sidelined in favor of fluff pieces and corporate-friendly content.



Vicky had always dreamed of breaking big stories, exposing corruption, and making a real difference in Gotham City. Instead, she was stuck writing about socialites and fashion trends, while the real stories were handed off to the more "cooperative" reporters.



If they could even be called 'real' at this point



She glanced around the room, watching as her colleagues hurriedly typed away. Across the aisle, Steve Dawson, a slick reporter known for his close ties with certain powerful individuals in Gotham, was deep in conversation with their editor-in-chief and old man Gus' own boss, Roger Warren.



Vicky couldn't hear what they were saying, but she didn't need to. It was the same old story: Steve would get the front-page story, and Vicky would be relegated to the lifestyle section.



Vicky let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. Just as she was about to start on her article, she heard a familiar voice behind her.



"Morning, Vale. You look like you could use a vacation." A sickly sweet, chihuahua-in-a-bag voice violated her ears in a way only that hot piece in Brideshead should.



'Bloody hell, Vicki.' She was horrified by herself at this point, but utter shame and penance could come later, she had other bitches to deal with.



Vicky turned to see Lisa Connors, one of the senior reporters, standing behind her desk with a smirk on her face. Lisa was the kind of woman who had clawed her way to the top, and she wasn't shy about reminding everyone how she got there.



"Morning, Lisa," Vicky replied, trying to keep her tone neutral. "Just trying to get this article done."



"Another gala piece?" Lisa asked, glancing at Vicky's screen. "Yikes. Guess you didn't get the memo about playing the game."



"I'm not interested in playing games, Lisa. I just want to do my job." Vicky resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Whatever," Lisa chuckled and shook her head. "That's your problem, Vicky. You're too idealistic. This isn't about journalism anymore; it's about survival. You want the big stories? You've got to make nice with the right people. Otherwise, you'll be stuck writing about galas for the rest of your career."



The woman reached her hand, with long painted nails that made her look more like an escort than a reporter, and lifted a strand of Vicky's long blond hair.



"You could go really far Vicky, if only you knew how to use all the weapons at your disposal.'



"Thanks for the advice, Lisa." Vicky clenched her jaw, refusing to rise to the bait.



"Anytime," Lisa replied, flashing a fake smile before sauntering off to her desk.



Vicky stared at her screen, the words blurring as her frustration boiled over. She knew Lisa was right—at least partially. The Gazette had changed, and not for the better. But Vicky wasn't willing to compromise her integrity just to get ahead. She wanted to earn her success, not pillow-talk her way into it like some of her colleagues.



As she tried to refocus on her work, Vicky caught a glimpse of the janitor, Marcus, sweeping the floor nearby. Marcus was new, he'd only been working at the Gazette for a few weeks, but he had a friendly demeanor that made him easy to talk to.



That wholesome, salt of the earth grandpa charisma.



He'd struck up a conversation with Vicky a few times while she was staying late, and she found his down-to-earth attitude refreshing compared to the cutthroat environment of the newsroom.



"Hey, Marcus," Vicky called out, more out of a need for a distraction than anything else.



Marcus looked up from his sweeping and gave her a nod. "Morning, Miss Vale. How's it going?"



"Same old, same old. Trying to get this article done, but it's hard to stay motivated when you know no one cares." Vicky shrugged.



"I care. I mean, I don't know much about writing, but I always like reading your stuff. Feels more… real, you know?" Marcus raised an eyebrow.



"Thanks, Marcus. That means a lot." Vicky couldn't help but smile.



"No problem," Marcus said, leaning on his broom for a moment. "But, uh, if you don't mind me saying, you look pretty stressed out. Something bothering you?"



Vicky hesitated. She didn't usually vent to people at work—especially not the janitor—but Marcus had a way of putting her at ease.



"It's just… this place," Vicky admitted. "It's not what it used to be. The stories that matter aren't getting told, and the people in charge don't seem to care. It's all about clicks and keeping certain people happy. I feel like I'm wasting my time here."



Marcus nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds rough. But you know, sometimes you've got to fight for what you believe in. Maybe it ain't easy, but if anyone can make a difference, it's you."



"Thanks, Marcus. I needed to hear that." Vicky gave him a grateful look.



It was just words though, and not the kind she could put on a paper to get ahead.



"Anytime, Miss Vale," Marcus said with a smile before getting back to his work.



As Marcus moved on, he made a mental note of everything Vicky had said. His true purpose at the Gazette wasn't to clean floors—it was to gather information. And what he'd just learned was exactly what his employer, John Harker, needed to know.

. . .



Later that evening, Marcus arrived at John Harker's apartment in Gotham Heights. The place was a culture shock for those who came from the grimy streets of Brideshead. It was tastefully furnished, with an air of understated elegance that spoke to John's growing wealth and influence.



The young man could be a millionaire if he didn't give so much money away.



Marcus, now back to his real name, Marlon, had been one of John's most loyal followers since the night John saved him from a brutal beating in an alley. He'd been an addict, a nobody, but John had seen something in him, something worth saving. Now, Marlon was clean, focused, and determined to repay the man who'd given him a second chance.



He knocked on the door and was promptly let in by Reginald, John's newly appointed retainer. Reginald, now wearing a tailored suit that made him look more like a businessman than the ex-junkie he once was, led Marlon into the living room where John was waiting.



John sat in an armchair, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as ever. He gestured for Marlon to sit.



"Marlon," John said with a slight smile. "What do you have for me?"



Marlon took a deep breath before he began. "It's like you thought, boss. The Gazette is a mess. Most of the reporters are just in it for the numbers, and the higher-ups are keeping the real stories under wraps. Vicki Vale… she's different, though. She's frustrated, angry even. She wants to make a difference, but they're holding her back. One of the other reporters, Lisa Connors, basically told her that if she doesn't put out, she'll be stuck writing fluff pieces forever."



"Oh," John's smile widened, but there was none of the warmth and charm, it was an ugly, angry smile if Marlon had ever seen one, "And what did she say to that?"



"She didn't like it, not one bit," Marlon replied quickly, "But here's the kicker. One of the editors, Roger Warren, also implied that if she was more 'affectionate' with the right people, she might get better assignments. She wasn't having any of it, but you could tell it got under her skin."



"Did you happen to catch how she reacted to that?" With every word he spoke, John was getting more pissed.



"She was disgusted," Marlon said. "But also… I don't know, maybe a little desperate? Like she's trying to figure out what to do next."



"Good work, Marlon. This could be just the opportunity we need." John leaned back in his chair, thinking.



Reginald, who had been standing quietly by the door, stepped forward.



"Shall I prepare the next steps, boss?" He asked.



"Please do." John confirmed, "And see what you can find about this Roger Warren and Lisa Connors."



Vampires don't like it when people try to fuck their sandwiches.



…



The next few days at the Gazette were a blur of frustration for Vicki. Just as John had planned, she was assigned one meaningless story after another. A profile on a local bakery, a piece about a charity auction—nothing that even came close to real journalism. Each time she pitched a story with substance, it was shot down without explanation.



The final straw came on Friday afternoon. Vicki had spent hours researching a potential corruption scandal involving a third-rate Gotham politician.



She had the sources, the documents, everything she needed to break the story wide open. But when she presented it to Roger Warren, he didn't even bother to look at her notes.



"Vicky, we're not running with this," Roger said dismissively.



"What?" Vicki stared at him in disbelief. "Why not? This is a huge story, Roger. It could blow the lid off corruption in Gotham!"



"No need to go hysterical," Roger leaned back in his chair, completely unfazed. "It's not the right fit for us. Besides, we've got more important things to cover. The mayor's office is hosting a charity gala next week—I want you on that."



Hysterical? She'll show him hysterical if he continues running his fat-ass mouth.

Now if her mother heard her thought, she would spent the next hour with soap in her mouth, but she was too angry to care at this point.



"Another gala? Roger, this is insane! We're supposed to be a newspaper, not a PR firm for the city's elite!" She bit out, trying to repress the anger and frustration.



She wasn't too good at it, unfortunately.



Roger's expression hardened. "You're out of line, Vicki. This is the kind of attitude that's holding you back. Now, unless you want to spend the rest of your career writing obituaries, I suggest you drop this and do your fucking job."



Vicki's hands clenched into fists.



She wanted to scream, to throw something, but she knew it wouldn't do any good. With a final glare at Roger, she stormed out of his office and headed straight for the elevator. She needed to get out of there before she said something she'd regret.



Or worse, something she wouldn't regret.



As she reached the ground floor, Vicky stepped out of the elevator and nearly ran into Marlon, who was pushing a cart of cleaning supplies.



"Whoa, sorry, Miss Vale," Marlon said, stepping back.



"It's not your fault, Marcus. I just… I can't take it anymore. This place is driving me insane." Vicky shook her head, trying to calm down.



"That bad, huh? Want to talk about it?" Marlon frowned, concerned.



Vicky hesitated, but then sighed. "It's just… they don't care about the real stories, Marcus. They only care about what's easy, what's safe. I have a story that could actually make a difference, and they won't even consider it. I'm starting to wonder if I'm wasting my time here."



The janitor paused, looking thoughtful. "Seems like a waste of talent, if you ask me. I've read your stuff. Got a good eye for the truth."



Vicky chuckled dryly. "You're probably one of the few who think so. They've got me on stories that are as interesting as watching paint dry."



"Ever think about... finding other ways to get your stories out?" the janitor asked, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp.

Vicky raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"



"Just saying," he shrugged, "Gotham's a big city. Lots of people interested in the truth. Sometimes you gotta go outside the lines to get things done."



She studied him for a moment, something about the way he spoke was... different. But before she could ask more, he simply nodded and went back to his work, leaving her to ponder his words.



Later that night, as Vicky finally gathered her things to leave, she couldn't shake the conversation from her mind. She had no idea why, but something about it felt... significant.



When she stepped out of the building, she was surprised to see a familiar figure leaning against a sleek black car parked near the entrance. It was the same young man she'd met in Brideshead—the one with the striking blue eyes and an air of mystery about him.



The one that helped both rise and lower her stress-levels in the last few days, for better or worse.



"John?" she said, her voice tinged with surprise. "What are you doing here?"



"Just happened to be in the area. Thought I'd check in on you. Late night?" John smiled, his presence as calm and composed as ever.



It was the worst excuse in the history of excuses, but she didn't care, sue her?



Would any man complain if a tall, hot as heck chick that slightly scaroused him showed up right after you had a very bad day at work?



"You could say that. The Gazette isn't exactly the friendliest place for someone trying to make a difference." Vicky chuckled, playing it cool, and closing the door behind her.



No way in hell is she letting her coworkers see him, that butt had her name written on it.



"Mind if I walk with you for a bit?" He said, not quite shyly but not in his usual confident tone, just reserved enough to give her the urge to squeal.



"Sure, I could use the company." She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not it was socially acceptable to do a victory dance in public, then nodded.



It wasn't acceptable, unfortunately.



As they strolled down the well lit streets, Vicky couldn't help but notice how the shadows seemed to cling to him, making him blend into the night. There was something otherworldly about him, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.



"Is this about that piece you're working on in Brideshead?" he asked, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity.



Vicky sighed, work had to spoil everything, even a walk can't be had in peace.



"Sort of. It's hard to get anything done when your bosses are more interested in keeping their friends happy than letting you do real journalism. I've been thinking... maybe I need to start looking for outside resources, you know? Get the stories out there some other way." She said, one sentence turning into two until she could put feelings into words.



John's smile widened, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. "I might be able to help with that. I have... connections. People who might be interested in what you have to say. I could call in a few favors."

Vicky stopped, turning to face him.



"Why? What's your angle, John Harker?" She asked only half-teasing, this was Gotham after all, and she might not be some Brideshead or Park Row chick but she knew better than to take candy from a stranger.



No matter how attractive the stranger was.



"I want people to remember that places like Brideshead and Park Row exist. That they've been abandoned, left to rot while the rest of the city thrives. Maybe it's a bit idealistic, but I think you could shine a light on that. Remind Gotham of the people it's forgotten." He met her gaze, his expression sincere.



She studied him for a long moment, searching his face for any sign of deception. But all she saw was someone who, like her, wanted to make a difference. Or at least, that's what she told herself.



"Okay, I'll bite. But if this turns out to be some kind of trick…" Finally, she nodded.



"No tricks, I promise. Just... doing what I can." John laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to cut through the tension.

As they continued walking, the conversation shifted to lighter topics—her work, his business ventures, the absurdity of Gotham's nightlife. They bantered back and forth, the initial tension easing as they found a rhythm.



When they reached the corner where they'd have to part ways, Vicki hesitated. She wasn't sure what compelled her, but before she could overthink it, she blurted out, "You know, we should grab a coffee sometime."



John raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, she seemed to have that effect on him...was it a good or a bad thing. She honestly couldn't tell, didn't care either as long as he kept looking at her like this...



"Coffee? With you? I'd love that." He said with a grin, the kind of grin that implied he knew exactly what she was thinking and was very smug about it.



"Great. I'll, uh, see you around then." She smiled, relieved he hadn't made it awkward.



As he turned to leave, she was grateful he didn't see the faint blush on her cheeks. She watched him disappear into the night, wondering what she'd just gotten herself into. But for the first time in a while, she felt a spark of excitement.



The night had been more productive than John had anticipated. As he walked away from Vicki, a small smile played on his lips. Things were falling into place nicely. The next steps would require precision and patience, but he was confident in his ability to handle it.



He had to, the rewards were too good to pass up after all.



That, and spending some time around Vicki Vale wasn't that unpleasant.



For now, though, he could relish the thrill of the hunt.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Getting Ahead -

Vampire Rule N°21: Don't ever underestimate the power of a pointy stick, the basis of all human warfare.

… … … … … … … …





The Gotham Gazette's newsroom was abuzz with the usual clamor of journalists typing furiously, phones ringing, and the occasional shout over breaking news. Vicky Vale sat at her always cluttered desk, her mind still spinning from the whirlwind of recent events. The tip she received about the shady dealings of a wanna-be crime lord had made waves, but it wasn't without consequences. The newsroom's whispers were growing louder, and the atmosphere felt thick with tension.



Vicky leaned back in her chair, sipping her coffee as she reviewed the latest batch of intel. The phone rang, snapping her out of her thoughts. She answered, "Vale."



"Vicky, it's Gus," came the familiar voice of the editor. "Got a moment?"



"Sure, Gus. What's up?"



"I've got some news for you. Let's chat in my office."



When she walked into Gus's office, the elderly editor was leaning back in his chair, a half-smile playing on his lips. He motioned for her to sit.



"Listen," Gus said, crossing his arms, "I've been hearing some grumbling around here. People are saying you're using... let's say, unorthodox methods to get ahead. Now, I know you're a hard worker, and the stories you've been bringing in are top-notch. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried about the rumors."



"I've heard them too. I assure you, Gus, it's just that I've been getting solid tips. And you know I wouldn't jeopardize my integrity for a few stories." Vicky sighed, not quite understanding what all the fuss was about.



Keep your head low, and people hound about how you should get ahead, no matter what.



Get ahead without spreading your legs, and now people complain because you didn't do it their way, as if blowing Ferris Boyle to get an exclusive interview was more legitimate than getting tips from people in the thick of the action, right there in Gotham's worst parts.



"I believe you, Vicky. I've seen you work too hard to doubt you now. But this city is full of snakes. You got to be careful. Don't step on too many toes, or you might end up on the wrong side of a few." Gus's eyes softened, but his words were starting to put him on her wrong side.



'Don't step on too many toes,' that's just another way to say she shouldn't tell the truth if it's too inconvenient.



"Thanks for the heads-up," Vicky replied neutrally, standing. "I appreciate your support."



As she left Gus's office, she was met with the cold, critical stares of some of her colleagues. Scott, a journalist known for his cynical demeanor, was at the forefront. His gaze lingered on her with a mixture of disdain and envy.



"What's got them all riled up?" Vicky asked, trying to sound casual.



"Oh, nothing much. Just the usual jealousy from those who don't play ball the same way." Scott sneered.



"Is that what they're saying?" Vicky asked, eyebrow raised. "That I'm... playing ball?"



"More like playing dirty. But, hey, if it works for you, who am I to complain?" Scott's eyes narrowed.



Vicky decided to ignore Scott's bitter tone and focused on her work. The intel John had provided her was invaluable. He had been discreetly feeding her information on smaller-time crime lords and scandals.



These were nuggets of truth that, while not earth-shattering, were significant enough to get her noticed.





Vicky had made a habit of using these tips carefully. She had published a piece on a corrupt local businessman who had been skimming from his own charity—information she'd gotten from one of John's sources. It had been a hit, and it felt like the walls of her career were finally starting to crack open. But with success came scrutiny.



If she could just keep it up, just write a few more solid pieces, then she'll be able to get a proper camera crew and start reporting on the ground in places where she wouldn't get stabbed by a drunk hobo.



. . .



Meanwhile, John Harker sat in his new study, the room bathed in the soft glow of a single desk lamp. He'd just finished a meeting with Reginald, who had come to report on the relative success of their various ventures.



Reginald strolled into the room with his usual air of casual confidence. Dressed in a sharp suit that fit him well, he looked every bit the professional, though the street smarts and sass still lingered in his demeanor.



You could take the fiend out of Brideshead, but you couldn't take Brideshead out of the fiend.



John didn't say it though, or his ever-so-loyal retainer would find a way to frame it as gay and lecture him on the virtue of saying 'pause' and 'no homo'.



He dropped into a chair opposite John, a grin playing on his lips.



"Well, well, well..." Reginald said, crossing his legs. "Seems like the stars are aligning, Mr. Harker. For the first time, all your businesses are showing a profit without needing to launder a shit ton of dirty money. Impressive."



"We've come a long way since the days of dodging bullets and trash cans." John smirked, leaning back in his chair.



"Indeed," Reginald said, eyes twinkling despite his lack of mind-reading tendency or intense affection for little boys and lemon drops, "I must say, it's nice not having to cook the books as much. Cleaner money is so much more... elegant."



John chuckled, he could agree with that.



"We've built something solid here. The car flipping business, the scrap metal venture, the hostel and cafe. It's all falling into place." He said, quite satisfied with it.



"And you're really going to expand into buying up property around your businesses? That's quite the ambitious move." Reginald raised an eyebrow.



"Absolutely," John replied. "I want to create a buffer zone around our operations. A safe zone where drug dealing and violence are strictly off-limits. It will protect our investments and the people working for us."



Not to mention how his plan to clean up Brideshead would raise the property values on ground of it no longer being Crime Alley's drugged-up cousin.



Now housing in Gotham would always be cheap, but buying everything while it was worthless just made more business sense



"You're a real piece of work, you know that? Most people would just take their profits and run. But you're out here trying to clean up the whole neighborhood." Reginald shook his head with a grin.



"Just business," John said with a shrug. "And a bit of pragmatism. I don't want to see our ventures jeopardized by petty crime. Plus, it's good for the community. Gives us a more stable foothold."



Reginald looked at him with a look that said 'I see right through your bullshit' but he had enough sense to refrain from asking unpleasant questions.



"I appreciate that. And speaking of handling things, we need to start cracking down on anyone who thinks they can skirt the rules. I want citizen patrols, and stricter enforcement. No one gets to mess with our turf." John nodded, he still hadn't actually started buying out the property but planning ahead was always a good thing, just ask Batman, "Get us some idle hands and prep them for the job if necessary, prioritize men who lost people to this nonsense out there."



"Consider it done," Reginald said. "I'll have our people on it."



"Perfect. Keep up the good work, Reginald." John smiled at the ghoul who gave him a mock salute.



Now that would've been fine if he didn't do it the Roman way.



At least he didn't do this kind of stuff in public, it wouldn't be that good for his PR.



John laughed as Reginald closed the door behind him. He leaned back in his chair, contemplating the next steps. He had a plan in place for expanding his empire and cleaning up Gotham, but he needed to be careful.



Every move had to be calculated when you could still die from enough shotgun rounds in the head.



One day he would strong enough to just ignore everything and take a walk as he pleases, when he pleases, with whoever strikes his fancy.



One day, he too would be a bona fide fuckmothering vampire.


. . .

Discord Here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2

 

[TheHamtaro]

- A Taste of the Spotlight -




Join us on Discord right here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2



Vampire rule N°21: Don't stick your fangs in crazy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



It was a calm night, with only twelve gunshots and screams of utter terror being caught by the aspiring f*ckmothering vampire.



*Bang*



'Actually, make that thirteen.' He thought, morbidly amused, picking up on the screams of a man who just executed his dear wife for having an affair with his father...in law.



*Bang*



'I stand corrected, fourteen it is.'



Truly a Gotham Moment.



The police sirens were ringing by the time he reached his destination, one of those self-aggrandizing hubs for insomniacs who enjoy oddly specific beverages...and he ain't talking about vampires.



'Smells pretty nice.' John thought, taking a moment to enjoy the aroma of coffee beans as he stepped into the café.



A small and rustic hipster-magnet of a spot, with all the decorations and meaningful art one could expect from such a place.



Instead of the standard seating arrangement, it was filled with many small closed booths, an absolute treat for people with social anxiety or those longing for more intimate discussions.



Not his first choice, but he was the one getting asked out for a change, so it wasn't his problem.



Now that was a strange thought; the vampire being invited by the prey, pretty ironic.



He avoided the waiter, a lanky fellow with a well-groomed moustache and an oversized beanie, going directly for the plat-du-jour.



It didn't take long for John to spot a familiar blonde head extending from one of the booths.



A very distracted blonde head.



Now that's just asking for trouble.

The vampire walked soundlessly for such is his nature, he towered over the booth, his long arms reaching out for each side as if to block the poor woman's escape.



He cast a shadow over her, but she didn't seem to notice, a rookie mistake; shower-thoughts are to be left in the shower, everyone knows that.



"Hi there!" He said with a smile that only grew larger when she yelped, getting the attention of the staff and the few clients who gave any care to the outside world.



Now if he was an ordinary fellow, he might've gotten in trouble for stalking the lady and being a nuisance, his harmless prank would have summoned legions of Karens ready to strike him down with their fearsome nagging.



Fortunately though, John looked good, so all he got was a few chuckles.



"Now that was a cute sound." He said, taking a seat right in front of her.



"John!" the flustered woman admonished, lightly reaching out under the table to strike his leg.



Now if it was an anime, she would have punched him in the face and made him bleed despite his superior durability.



Unless it was a hentai, in that case, she would've struck his third leg.



"I regret nothing." He said with a chuckle, but Vicky was wise enough to ignore him and order something from Beanie Guy, he took the opportunity to check her out….ergh, study her current attire.



She had shed her coat, leaving it lying beside her, so he could clearly see her white-collared knee length black dress, her long stockings-covered legs and brown boots.



To this he could only say one thing.



'Stockings are justice.'



"You look incredible." He said, leaving out the light degeneracy, that kind of stuff should only be said after putting a ring on the woman's finger.



"Thank you," she smiled adorably, the kind of smile that disarmed more than one person before she stole and revealed their dirty little secrets, "You clean up nicely too."



'My skincare routine is bathing in the blood of virgins.' He wanted to say, but understood that all relationships required sacrifices.



A rather awkward silence was about to set in, but they were rescued by the one and only Beanie Guy.



"Here you go," He put two large cups on the table, "Two Triple Venti Half-Sweet Non-Fat Caramel Macchiato with Extra Whipped Cream, Two Pumps of Hazelnut, a Dash of Cinnamon, No Foam, Light Ice, and a Drizzle of Chocolate on Top."



Even as a world-hopping, aspirant fuckmothering vampire, John was confused.



"Thanks," Vicky, on the other hand, was not.



He sipped some of the suspicious beverage, let his transformed taste buds do their jobs then formed an educated opinion based purely on his subjective perception.



"I prefer black coffee."



"That's boring," Vicky said.



"No, it's inclusive." He said, then continued before she could process his words, "How's the job treating you? Heard some pricks were giving you a hard time."



There was a second question in that sentence, did she want his help dealing with them?



Their little arrangement was rather simple, he'd help her get information and proper equipment, use his connects to keep her superiors out of her case, and she'll raise in the ranks until such a time when she can actually cast a light on those responsible for the social and economic disaster known as Brideshead, and the whole East End to a lesser extent.



The why or how of John's involvement with her career were still a mystery for her, one she tried and failed to uncover, but there was no way it was simple altruism guiding his actions.



"Same old, the paperwork and office politics trying to kill your soul, folks mocking you for only getting fluff pieces then complaining when you got some solid stories without begging the higher ups like a good puppy..." She went on a small rant, holding the cup close to her mouth, and John let her unwind.



His only participation to the discussion were the occasional 'hm' and 'that's crazy.'



Just enough to show her he's listening, but not enough to end her momentum.



"—And then that bastard Scott had the gall to say that I only got so far because of my looks, he practically shouted it in front of everyone! Can you believe it?" She shook her head, an angry frown marring her beautiful features.



"Sounds like a gaping asshole." Said the man who drinks blood to survive.



"Pfft." Vicky nearly choked on her overly fancy coffee, and he quickly reached out to pat her back. "Hahaha, what the heck?"



"What?"



"Is that an actual insult?" She asked, her righteous anger changing into some type of mirth.



Talk about mood swings...



'Women.' John raised his cup of coffee.



Somewhere in the cursed world of social media, somebody's day was ruined because of a single word accompanied by the best of beverages barring blood.



"I don't know, but it fits him." He answered, smiling gently.



"It really does." She nodded with a small grin, looking at him as if she suddenly discovered new depths to his character, "You know, when I first met you, I thought you were one of those fake, self-absorbed douchebags who thinks the whole world should bow down to them because they're hot, but you're really a good listener, I feel much better already…"

'Should I just Presence-blitz her and be done with it?' He wondered, something he asked himself daily 'Nah, she's being cute, it would make feel bad.'



That would be the most pragmatic choice, he was wasting precious night hours drinking pretentious coffee in a hipster bar, hours he could spend feeding, finding people he could feed from, using the blood he got from feeding to beat down some drug-dealing punk.



Enjoying unlife.



However, he's scummy-action quota was already completed for the week, same thing for his abusing emotional-manipulation quota; if he was to ignore it and go overboard, he might just start getting bored.



To an ageless vampire, there was nothing worse than boredom.



Unaware of his dilemma, Vicky reached out to grab his hand, a sinful action he couldn't help but reciprocate.



'Lewd.' The most degenerated parts of his brain called out, a consequences of the horrifying ordeals he went through to gain his place in this world...or his use and abuse of the internet, it might also be both.



But that was neither here nor there.



The two of them shared a moment, something more intimate than the shallow seduction of his many single use human blood bags, something build on genuine appreciation.



Her appreciation for his character.



His appreciation for her blood quality.



Truly the most sincere of romance.



It wasn't long before they left the café after paying for their obviously overpriced drinks, but John supposed they were also paying for the 'experience'.



There was something slightly heart-warming about the way she linked their arms as they walked, subtly guiding him to her home, talking about things as inane as her funny coworkers or this and that spot in the neighbourhood and how it changed from her childhood.



At the end of the day, even a Gotham girl is still just a girl.



"That's me." She said, reluctantly freeing his arm as they stepped in front of fancy apartment building, the kind with an actual doorman. "I had a great time."



"Me too," John said, looking at her with those intense blue eyes of his, as if he was seeing right through her.



As if she was the only thing that mattered in the world.



'I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry…' He thought, her blood was all but asking to be drank.



He reached out and held her close, embracing her carefully as she yelped and froze before melting into him.



His hand slid through her hair, massaging her scalp in the right spot to both please her and make her move head to give him access to that beautiful, appetizing neck.



'Thanks for the meal,' He thought, his fangs expanding as he delivered a kiss, piercing through her flesh and giving her a taste of that higher pleasure.



*Moan*





Her blood was different from the rest he's drank, much sweeter, much stronger than anything he's drank so far.



'I'm sorry Max, but she has you beat.'



It took all of his will to stop feeding before he started actually damaging her, he licked the wound close and enjoyed the last few drops while she all but collapsed in his arms.



"That was…" She said, panting, looking at him with wide baby blue eyes that couldn't understand what just happened.



"Incredible." He finished, capturing her lips for a less enjoyable but just as fulfilling kiss.



[Task Completed: First Taste of the Spotlight



Rewards:

+100 EXP

New Ability Unlocked: Dominate (Enhances your control over the minds of your targets, allowing you to implant suggestions and alter their memories temporarily.)



Bonus Objectives (Optional):

Seduction: Gain her trust and affection. (+50 EXP) Completed]



[You've successfully fed on a noteworthy individual.

Vicky Vale has added unique qualities to your power, unlocking new potential. The essence of her influence and status amplifies your growth.

Experience Points Gained: 750 XP]



"Yes," John whispered, "It was simply incredible."



"Do—do you want to see my home?" Vicky asked, once more making the fatal mistake of inviting a vampire.



But if that's her wishes, who is he to deny her?

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Dominate -



Vampire Rule N°24: Drinking your ghoul's blood might be cannibalism, but that ship has already sailed.



. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



John Harker was sitting comfortably in a house he could only afford thanks to Gotham's insanely affordable real estate prices, might have something to do with the pyschotic murder clown regularly escaping from the Asylum.



In his hand was a cup of coffee, one that didn't cost an arm and a leg because it contained the soul of a lobster, or whatever excuse the barrista felt like using at any given moment.



Yes, he was still bitter about it, sue him.



'Haha, bitter, get it?' John thought, but the voices in his head still didn't answer, 'Bloody hell, I'm really lonely...bloody.'



At moments like this, he wished the system was sentient and conveniently had the voice of a very attractive girl who'd somehow fall for him despite his obvious lack of sanity, integrity and tegrity.



Then he'd start thinking, and realize it was a very bad idea.



[ Level: 5



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Started From The Bottom, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 600/800



- Exp: 900/200 (level up?) ]



When he looked at that red pannel blocking his field of vision, John saw more than a few numbers and completion bars, more than the blatant manipulation to try and make him focus on the grind.



He saw the culmination of years of efforts and suffering.



There was no truck-kun, no celestial lottery ready to give him the jackpot, nobody took pity on him and decided to yoink him out of Earth-Prime and give him suck-em powers for shit and giggles.



Nah, everything he has, he earned it.



Every single thing.



If he could jump over whole houses, it's because he almost had cut off his leg when he was a but a frail human.



If he could twist people's hearts, it's because he did in fact cut off his own leg at some point.



He wasn't some weak, gutless moron obssesed with seeing numbers going up.



However…



[Level 5]



[Blood Points: 600/800]



[EXP: 900/200]



'Haha, numbers go brrr.'



[Level 6]



[Blood Points: 600/1000]



[EXP: 700/400]



'Moar,' He tweaked.



[Level 7]



[Blood Points: 600/1200]



[EXP: 300/600]



"Now that's a lot of levels." He said to absolutely nobody.



Reginald was off with the extensive team of lawyers and accountants he hired to make sure he didn't start bleeding money instead of making it through his increasingly numerous and paper-work heavy ventures.



John did make sure to keep them loyal through a very liberal usage of presence and just enough love bites to keep them honest and looking for more balm for their souls and deep-rooted daddy issues.



But when half your dough came from the hands of drugfiends both current and recovering, getting someone with actual street smarts to ride with the pencil pusher seemed like a good idea.



Pity it left him alone and bored.





'Should I call Max?' He considered, he could think of two very good reasons to go bother his very first blood doll...



Her dark humor and sharp wits, you filthy degenerates.



'Nah, she's too tired trying to make that cupcake thing work, I can't just go around keeping her awake at night before a work day.' He reasoned.



Because vampires could indeed be reasonable, and do normal, considerate thing like letting a broke girl sleep instead of waking her up or watching her all night like some bloody stalker...and yes it was a pun.



Vicky was also too tired, and way too lost in the sauce of her first time getting eaten...in more than one way.



She needed time to recover.



The rest of his bitey-calls were much too boring to call up for anything but a meal and some debauchery, something he wasn't really up for.



It only left one thing.



"Time to go bully some drug dealers." He announced, getting up and cleaning his cup like a proper civilized person, before leaving his non-rat infested home and enjoying yet another trip in a hallway that lacked piss-puddles, used needles and the smashed hopes and dreams of those who lived there.



Now one of the cons of living in the better parts of town was how far the nearest drug corner really was...it sounds much worse than it truly is.



John had no intention of ever buying drugs, he was only going there to physically and psychologically abuse the dealers for their carrer choice in order to maybe possibily scare them straight, something he enjoyed immensely.





Brideshead's biggest drug enterprises and their not so friendly owners were currently trying to keep a low-profile, their own boys got too battered and way too scared to start dealing in the same streets that saw them getting beaten to a pulp and robbed blind by the local self-righteous freakshow.



But there was still many an independent too bold, or foolish, to take the hint and go on some vacations.



Failing that, he could also take a look in Park Row, that place was less 'open air drug market' and more 'absolute hell on earth' but he'd probably find a couple working corners.



'Yeah, let's go for Crime Alley this time.' He decided on a whim, then went on a walk.





Park Row, known as Crime Alley to most, was infamous for its degeneracy, a hub for every illicit trade imaginable. It was an area that had fallen so far from grace that even the police barely bothered anymore.

If Brideshead was the heroin capital of Gotham City, then Park Row was home of the violent crimes, a pipeline to fill up both Blackgate and Arkham Asylum.



Rapists, psychopaths and other serial killers walked side by side with the more financially inclined organ traffickers, kidnappers and producers of high quality torture porn.



There were of course some more ordinary criminals in the mix, drug dealers, thieves and muggers taking advantage of yet another land abondoned by the city and thus safe from the boys in blue and their batons of justice.



Or guns of justice if your skin was darker than average.



Now the only problem was the bat and his little batlings, but that guy was mighty considerate, very rarely inflicting irreversible damage and sometimes even saving the criminals from their fellow violent scumbags.



A price worth paying for those who choose a life of crime, and there were enough of them in this one place that they could sleep easy knowing that the stats were in their favour...if they were smart enough to understand stats.



All lived in harmony until a f*ckmothering vampire attacked.



He heard them before he saw them—two thugs standing on a street corner, dealing to a group of desperate-looking addicts. The addicts took their bags of poison and scurried off, leaving the dealers to count their ill-gotten gains.



John stayed hidden in the shadows, listening to their conversation.



"Man, this shit is gold," the first thug, a short and scrawny guy with a ratty mustache, said as he pocketed the cash. "These junkies'll pay anything for a taste."



His partner, a larger, dumber-looking brute with a shaved head, grunted in agreement. "Yeah, but keep it low, man. Last thing we need is someone catching wind. The Bat might be gone, but word is there's some freak around Brideshead messin' with our business."



The bat is gone, they loved saying that, hoping that this time it'll be for good.



John however, knew that his lack of action was either the result of some heavy wound or trouble outside Gotham.



"Yeah, yeah, I heard. Monster at Brideshead or something," the first thug scoffed. "I bet it's just some crazy bum. Besides, we ain't in Brideshead."



"Whatever, man. Just keep watch. Ain't nobody messin' with us tonight."



John smirked to himself, lowered his hood and put on his improvised face mask, then decided to make his move.



He stepped out from behind a pile of garbage bags, moving like a shadow. Before the thugs could react, John was upon them. He grabbed the larger one by the back of his neck and slammed his head into the wall, hard enough to leave a dent. The thug crumpled to the ground, unconscious, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead.



'He's probably alright,' John thought, unless the Arkham Games lied to him, the thugs could take at least this much damage.



The scrawny guy stared in shock, fumbling for the gun in his waistband. But John was too quick. With a flick of his wrist, John slapped the gun out of the thug's hand, sending it skittering across the pavement.



"Look what we have here," John said, his voice way too jolly for someone who might've inflicted some permanent brain damage on somebody, "A couple of enterprising gentlemen, making a living the old-fashioned way."



"Wh-who the hell are you?" the thug stammered, backing away, his eyes wide with fear.



John smiled, revealing a flash of fangs. "Just a concerned citizen, doing his part to clean up the neighbourhood."



The thug's eyes went even wider. "Oh shit, you're the Monster of Brideshead!"



John raised an eyebrow, slightly amused that his nickname had spread this far. "So you've heard of me? Good. That'll make this easier."



The thug turned to run, but John was on him in an instant, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him off the ground. He held him there, dangling, as the thug struggled and kicked.



"Let's have a little chat," John said calmly. "You're going to tell me who you work for, where the stash is, and why you're stupid enough to still be dealing in my city."



One minute and a puddle of piss later, the poor guy received the sweet mercy of John's fist of love right in the face, this time carefull enough not to accidentally kill the man..



*thud* He let him go casually, allowing him a nice nap in his own urine until he either woke up or got done in by some sickos.



Hopefully, the booty warrior won't pass by.



John then turned his attention back to the unconscious brute. He rifled through the guy's pockets, finding a few hundred dollars, a switchblade, and a couple of bags of dope. Pocketing the cash, John tossed the rest into the dumpster.



"One down, a few more to go," John muttered to himself as he melted back into the shadows.



As he moved deeper into Park Row, John encountered more small-time dealers and their runners. Each encounter was a variation of the same theme—he'd appear out of nowhere, incapacitate the muscle, and interrogate the lackey. Sometimes he'd test his Dominate ability, planting a single word in their minds and watching them follow it like obedient dogs.



"Run," he'd whisper, and they'd sprint off into the night, not stopping until they collapsed from exhaustion.

"Drop," and their weapons would clatter to the ground as they stood there, dumbfounded.



He found it amusing, but the power had its limits. He noticed that more complex commands, like "Tell me everything you know," required a heavier dose of Presence to make the thugs pliant enough. And even then, the stupider ones needed a bit of physical persuasion—an arm twisted behind their back or a knee to the gut—before they'd spill their secrets.



"I often fantasize about dropping the soap in prison," a two meters tall, tattooed hulk of a man blurted out when John asked what he was hiding.



"You know what, forget it, go to sleep." He told him, using dominate on the final word.





John's favorite part, though, was messing with them. He couldn't resist the opportunity to have a little fun at their expense.



Following on an unwillingly given tip guiding him to the oddly quet second floor of some dingy bar with way too little traffic to stay open, he came across a group of three thugs standing around a makeshift table, counting money and divvying up bags of heroin. He crept up behind them and, with a quick flick of his fingers, knocked over one of their stacks of cash.



"Whoops," John said, as the money scattered across the table.



The thugs jumped, their hands going to their guns. But before they could do anything, John had already grabbed one of them by the collar and yanked him back.

"Easy there, boys. I'm just here to help," John said with a grin, flipping the guy he was holding over the table. The thug landed with a grunt, knocking over more of their neatly piled cash.



"Fuck your help!"



The other two thugs pointed their guns at John, but he was quicker. With a flash of movement, he disarmed the first one, twisting the gun out of his hand and tossing it into the street. The second one, a twitchy guy with a face full of acne scars, tried to pull the trigger, but John was on him in an instant, slamming his head into the table and sending him crashing to the ground.



"Now that was a very mean thing to say." John said calmly.



The first thug, now gunless and panicking, took a wild swing at John, but John ducked easily and landed a punch to the thug's gut that knocked the wind out of him. The thug doubled over, wheezing.



"Listen," John said, picking up one of the bags of heroin and holding it up to the light. "This stuff is garbage. You're peddling poison in a place that's already rotting from the inside. Have you no shame?"



The thug on the ground groaned, trying to push himself up. "We're just trying to make a livin', man! We ain't got no other way!"



"You could always try getting a real, honest job, like a minecraft youtuber or cypto influencer. But I guess it's too late for that now, isn't it?" John shook his head, tossing the bag aside.



"What?" Was the man's simple answer.



With that, he grabbed the thug by the collar and slammed him against the wall, holding him there as he rifled through his pockets. More cash, more drugs. John pocketed the money and tossed the rest on the ground after breaking the vials.



"Tell your boss that Brideshead is off-limits. And if I catch you here again, well... let's just say it won't end well for you."



The thug nodded frantically, and John let him drop to the ground.



"Sleep." He ordered, and with the slighest drop in his blood reserves, the man was gone in the dreamland.



The vampire was nearly gone, when he remembered that his mother didn't teach him to waste good money.



She didn't teach him anything, but that was neither here nor there.



"You know what? On second thought..." John scooped up the cash, stuffing it into his coat pocket. "Consider this a donation to the 'Keep the Boss Entertained' fund."



He walked away, leaving the thugs groaning in the alley behind him.



By the time John reached the edge of Brideshead, the moon was starting its descent, and he could feel the first hints of dawn creeping closer. But he wasn't done yet. He still had one more stop to make.



He found the last group of the night huddled around a fire in a trash can, smoking and chatting like they didn't have a care in the world. Independent dealers, most of them still in school from the looks of it—small fry trying to carve out a piece of the pie while the bigger players were distracted by the chaos in the city.

John approached them silently, his presence masked by the darkness. He stepped into the light of the fire, his face illuminated by the flickering flames.

"Nice night, isn't it?" he said casually.

The dealers jumped, startled, and reached for their weapons, but John was already moving. He disarmed the first one with a swift kick, sending the gun skittering into the fire. The second one swung a crowbar at him, but John caught it mid-swing and yanked it out of the thug's hands, tossing it aside.

"Hey, hey, take it easy!" one of the thugs shouted, backing away with his hands up. "We don't want no trouble, man!"

John smiled, fangs concealed, "Too late for that. Now, why don't you boys tell me what you're doing in my neighborhood?"

"W-we didn't know it was your turf!" the thug stammered, his eyes wide with fear. "We're just trying to make a few bucks, that's all!"

"Is that so?" John said, stepping closer. The thugs flinched, backing away further. "Well, let me give you some advice. The next time you think about selling your junk in Brideshead, you might want to reconsider. Because if I catch you here again..."

He let the threat hang in the air, his red eyes burning bright in the night.



The tiniest bit of presence was enough to make sure they'll never forget.



The thugs nodded frantically, stumbling over each other as they tried to get away. "Yeah, yeah, we got it! We're gone!"



Well, he could've started beating on school children selling a package for pocket money, but that wasn't really his style.



Leave the children to the priests, his uncle would always say.



He was a clergyman.



John watched them scramble into the night, then turned his attention to the fire. He fished out the gun with a stick and tossed it into the dumpster, then kicked dirt over the fire, smothering the flames and silencing that voice that kept telling him to stop being stupid and get out of there.



"Well, that was fun," he muttered to himself, brushing off his hands. "Maybe I'll do this again tomorrow night."



What he didn't know was that his next night in Gotham would be much, much more interesting.



. . .

Discord Here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2

Hope you all have a wondeful day!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- The Great Enemy -
Vampire Rule N°25: Power is power; soft, personal, financial or otherwise. Be sure to cultivate lest your foes overtake you and drag you to your final death.



… … … … … … … … … … … …



'I kind of miss my nights as a humble Crackhouse Resident,' John Harker thought, his blue eyes glaring at the offending piece of paper sitting, menacingly, on his desk.



A paper surrounded by many others, so many of them that they formed a small pile; forms, daily reports, monthly reports, more forms, bills from suppliers, bills from the state, warnings from the Gotham City Council who need to justify their cursed existence somehow and decided that hounding a small East End business owner was the way to go.



"To think that we're razing the rainforests for this…" John growled, this was a shame, a bloody shame.



The paperwork was unending, perhaps due to the limited amount of time he has each night to complete it in between two bouts of blood drinking and time spent in the field maintaining that sweet reputation of his.



Or because of some curse put on those who achieved positions of power, forcing them to waste away as each available hour of their painful existence gets consumed by the wicked mountains of mind-numbing, soul-crushing, dick-limping paperwork.



He heard about it before when he had yet to file his first LLC, when the Bubbles Metal Collecting was nothing but a risky gig with a single hoodrat instead of the huge hustle of hoodrats working hard hours.



Whispers spoken by grey-bearded, slick-haired entrepreneurs and elderly accountants, tales of zero-sum bills and bullshit regulations that appeared on their desks on their own.



'Nah, that's just superstition,' said the literal vampire, shaking his head and signing away at yet another paper.



Slowly but surely, progress was being made and John's most powerful enemy until now was facing a seemingly inevitable defeat.



A demand to allocate funds to buy new equipment in that car-flipping business, allowed.



A warning against a driver who tried diverting funds from the metal scrapping business, issued.



A business-plan to open that long-awaited home development and renovation company with Carl from the NA meetings, studied and considered before being approved.



The man had a busted back, but he's spent his entire house fixing and flipping houses for another man's fortune, he had skills and contacts that even his years wasted on opioids couldn't destroy, at least this time he'd actually get a fair wage and a percentage of the money he's generating.



A better deal than anyone would offer a recovering addict with a criminal record, and he was the vampire.



The desk was soon all but emptied and John was already salivating at the thought of a future snack, Vicky had been hounding him for another date, and Max was enjoying a rare night of free time since they've opened that cafè/cupcake shop she always wanted.



So many possibilities, so little time. It was the kind of problem John enjoyed having, the kind that puts a smile on his face while he approves the fitting of new toilets in the hostel after Greg from accounting busted the old ones yet again.



'I should probably deduct it from his salary,' He thought, before remembering that man had recently made peace with his wife and was trying to get more involved with his kid's life, 'Nah, let's just send him a memo.'



With a stroke of masterful penmanship, the evil beast was subjugated and our pointy-toothed hero ushered in an age of peace and prosperity for all the dopefiends, crackheads and gin-breathed wrecks to enjoy.





Until the former junkie attacked.





"Evening boss!" Reginald said, pushing the door open with his hips, carrying something John couldn't see, "I've got something for you, your eyes only."



"Oh no…" John's eyes shook, looking at a yet another pile of documents being carried by his ghoul's enhanced arms.



"Oh yes—" The retainer answered with a shit-eating grin, "—and it's all due for tomorrow morning."



The retainer brought the cursed thing right up to his desk, before bringing it down with a resounding *thud*



Though it sounded more like a crack to John's ears, then again, it was hard to tell with the sound of his unbeating heart breaking.



"You was the one who wanted to go all entrepreneurial and shit." Reginald however, seemed to be having a lot of fun.



Too much fun.



"Remind me to give you a promotion," John said, and in his mind it sounded more intimidating than any speech he gave to a scared shitless drug dealer.



However, dopefiends had the tendency to be a bit hardier than those who fed their addiction, given that they're the ones poking their veins with shared needles and getting beat up every once in a while when somebody was having a bad day.



And quitting the junk did nothing to quell Reginald Cousin's indomitable crackhead spirit.



"Alright, whose shit do I have to eat next?" John said, playing with his pen, not quite daring to start reading that utter mess on his desk.



That was the gist of his life as a businessperson, sitting his fancy arse on a fancy desk and being served plate after plate of shit from various sources, shit he needed to deal with urgently, shit that demanded so much attention, money and energy that he started contemplating whether or not he should just go full blood-thirsty murder-hobo.



Reginald laughed, and it meant nothing good.



"Oh boss, today's a big bowl," The ghoul grinned, reading a carefully prepared overview he made during the day, "Helena, the grandma from the Thomas and Martha Wayne Rehab Center, got a problem from the bank blocking the donations for that third group you guys wanted to open by Park Row, a piece of shit idea if I might say, those folks are more about gouging someone's eyes out than caring about dope."



"Mind your language," John rolled his eyes, "But that's true, they have so many problems over there that drugs seem more like an afterthought, see if we can put it down in Heights instead, or at least keep it in Brideshead."



"What else?" John continued, leaning on his seat and looking at the ceiling, a much more pleasant sight than the pile of brain-poison on his desk.



"The Drug Users Counting Initiative is over, but the results are even more troublesome than we thought." He said, and went on to explain how they sent four men all around Brideshead to count heads of active users, recovering addicts and former addicts who still need help.



Said men were weaned off drugs and subjected to a healthy amount of presence-based therapy to ensure their reliability, but it didn't seem to work that well.



"Well, the good news is that you were completely right..." Reginald said, scratching his well-groomed beard.



"I usually am." John smirked.



"Yeah, the official stats are complete bogus, but that's to be expected from the government," He continued without paying any regard to his vampire liege's obvious narcissism, "The non-profits aren't much better, they all juke the stats so much it's not even funny."



That was the whole reason for their little operation, if John wanted a drug-free area, then it would not only require knowing who's selling drugs, but also who's buying it, how often, since when and for which reason.



It had nothing to do with the enticing prospect of getting more of that readily available, often skilled but always determined and appreciative labor force.



"So what's the problem?" He asked.



"Yeah, our guys did a great job going around the neighborhood making lists, but the problem is that they all got different numbers." Reginald explained, "And since pretty much everyone is known by a street name, getting them to give up their real one can be a pain, so we get about four dozen Big Ricks, eighty-six Fat Jims, and a whopping two hundred fiends called Baby."



"…"



"Also, there's a beat cop making one of the driver's life difficult, keeps stopping him and doing strip searches each time he sees his arse on the wheel." Reginald went, not leaving much time for the younger man to think.





"And if you want to use your bullshit Jedi Powers to get every fiend in the district clean before Bruce Wayne's illegitimate children start showing up, then you'll also have to find the time to move your white ass and go Anne Rice at least eighty people this very night."



John could do nothing but groan, and mumble something about going out to bust some kingpin's head like a watermelon for making this mess in the first place.



"Is there anything even remotely interesting in this mess?" He couldn't help but ask.



"Nope," Reginald answered without popping the p, because he's a thirty-something grown man and that would just be weird.



John groans again.



"This ain't very Dracula of you boss." Reginald shook his head.



"Vampires aren't known for their work ethics." John shot back.



Or any set of ethics for that matter, hard to keep with the whole sexual harassment/cannibalism thing they gotta pull to survive.



Reginald checks up his paper one last time, hoping to at least raise his liege's morale.



Failing that, he'll just order him some models.



"Wait, there is something!" Reginald said, and John perked up directly looking at him like one would a saviour.



Reginald Cousins, bane of the vampire's boredom.



"One of our guys in the street, Frankie the ex-convict, he started helping out with the needle exchange when he ain't busy working with the car repairs crew."



"Frankie who went to jail for fucking a goat?" John asked for clarification sake.



"Allegedly." Reginald counters.



"Twice." John insisted.



"You want to hear it or not?" Reginald raised a brow.



"Nah, I'll take the goat-fucker over the paperwork, thank you very much," John shook his head, "Please, do go on."



Reginald chuckled at his master's antics.



"Yeah, he's come back this morning and reported that word's on the street 'bout Hungry and other big names in these corners getting their shit back together and coming back with the greatest bomb to have graced these streets in years."



"Oh, do tell." John smiled, that was promising.



Hungry had been a great punching bag the last time they met.



"They've got a shipment of coke straight outa of some Latino hell hole, real blast, best of the best. Big shots in all of East End bought their package at wholesale price, and they're about to use it all to buy even more of that good shit, all the action is supposed to be somewhere in Red Hook." Reginald said with a mix of respect and distaste only a former fiend could muster.



Even when you no longer cared for the needle, good blast was praiseworthy.



"The one with all the warehouses?" John asked, raking his brain for that specific part of the city.



"Yep, the very same."



Red Hook Industrial Storage Zone, huh.



"That's a trap." John concluded.



"Obviously," Reginald nodded wisely, a knowing smile on his face, "But it also means that most if not all the manpower of Brideshead Organized Drug Enterprises will be focused on a single spot, and there's no way in hell you'd pass up so much fun."



John's smiled in return, his fangs showing.



"Oh, you know me too well, my friend."

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Snake -

I changed the formatting, does it look better? The previous chapters were taken directly from other platforms, and I just realized that it kinda looked like shit? I might need to go back and clean everything up.

Vampire Rule N°25: A dead body is immune to poison.

… … … … … … … … … … … …


What is a man to do when given powers beyond measure?

That's a pretty heavy question, something worthy of its own three-hour-long YouTube video essay.

But as he stood on the edge of a five-story building, the cold wind making a mess of his hair and his intrusive thoughts telling him to jump, John could confidently say that the answer was 'This.'

There was something undeniably cool about standing menacingly in a place where pretty much nobody could see you, which explains Batman, Spider-Man, and even Spawn's obsession with the whole thing.

It wasn't just some ego trip though, it served its purpose.

John's perch was on the very edge of the urban development nightmare known as the Red Hook Industrial Storage Zone, and high enough for his vampire eyes to see plenty of things.

Very interesting things.

He could also pick up on the noise of several people going at it, and pinpoint the areas with the highest blood flows in their body which appeared as red penile drawings on the periphery of his vision.

This was considerably less cool.

'Why is there always someone fapping to tentacle hentai?' Such were the thoughts of the modern-day nosferatu.

Not as glamorous as Dracula's misadventures impaling great amounts of more or less willing individuals, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

'At least, I have a working shower, don't see you beating that one Vlad.' John thought smugly.

He could also see one of the warehouses being surrounded by many small groups of young men, patrolling with all the subtlety of a bunch of geezers after Liverpool lost 3-0.

Fishy didn't begin to describe it.

That said warehouse was also packed full of meatbags was a pretty good indicator of some nefarious business going about in there.

Nefarious business that wasn't making him any money, now he couldn't have that, could he?

John counted a good fifty miserable piles of secrets up and ready for him to unravel in the most painful manner that did not involve a horse, lube, Diddy and a bunch of very successful Minecraft Youtubers.

"This is going to be fun," he muttered to himself, a smirk playing on his lips as he cracked his knuckles, put on his hood and mask. The Monster of Brideshead was ready to play.

He really needed a better name, but Crimson F*cker was sadly taken.

John took a deep breath, something he didn't need to do on account of him being a living corpse and all, but it was still rather pleasant and a good habit if nothing else.

Then he gave in to his intrusive thoughts, and let himself fall.

'Yup, this is the life...unlife.' He smiled, feeling his body flipping around as gravity did its work.

Before he could pick up too much speed though, he reached out with clawed hands and held onto the wall, slowly breaking his fall and doing a good amount of property damage he will never pay back.

He moved like a shadow, casually slipping through the badly surveyed perimeter without a sound. The thugs stationed around the area seemed to be substandard compared to those he brutalized during his previous raids.

Now be it Hungry's crew or anyone else, street soldiers were soldiers only in name, they might take orders and lives, shoot guns and bleed for the cause of a bunch of folks who care not for them, sacrifice everything to generate wealth for some corrupt prick and take years to realize that there was no honor, no code and no justice in their service.

But they were not soldiers.

They lacked equipment, proper skills, tactical knowledge and most of all, they had little to no discipline.

However, all thugs weren't made equal.

Compared to the morons patrolling outside, the gangbangers he took down in big stashes and prime territory seemed like exemplary warriors, stoic and well-trained as the best Roman Legionaries.

Yo Cesare! This is some good shit!

The penny-thugs in front of him though, must be the lowliest of the barbarian tribes, live meat ready for crucification.

'What a shame,' John shook his head, leaving his spot in the shadows, there was no point in stealth when the opponent was so pitiful, 'I hope it's part of their trap.'

As he approached one of the side alleys, a pair of low-life criminals—armed with rusty knives—spotted him.

"Hey, you! This is private property!" one of them yelled, trying to sound intimidating.

"Yeah? How about I make it public?" John's grin widened.

Before the thug could respond, John closed the distance in a heartbeat, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him off the ground. The other thug, shaking, tried to stab John in the side, but the rusty blade snapped as it made contact with his skin.

"Nice try," John said, before slamming the first thug into a wall, knocking him out cold. The second one, in a bout of lucidity, turned to run away, but John was already on him, delivering a swift kick to the back that sent him sprawling like Yamcha.

"Don't run, boys! The party's just getting started!" John called after them, laughing as he watched them crawl away before succumbing to their wounds.

More of them came to investigate, but they only joined the pile of moaning, broken bodies left on the sidewalk.

'Still better than paperwork,' He thought, wiping his hands on one of his victims...I mean opponent's durag.

With the perimeter 'guards' dealt with, John made his way to the warehouse, the supposed heart of the operation. The place was old and decrepit, a perfect setting for the trap he knew was waiting. As he pushed open the heavy doors, a wave of tension hit him—the anticipation of a hunter entering the lair of his prey, the excitement of a no-life player about to trash some noobs.

The interior was just as he expected: dark, cluttered with crates and old rusted-up machinery, and utterly reeking of ambush. John took a deep breath, savoring the atmosphere. He could sense the presence of several thugs hidden around the warehouse, their fear barely contained.

Why they gave so much loyalty to their boss was beyond John's comprehension.

It was almost admirable, the way they were facing their doom, or retarded.

Probably both.

"All right, boys," John called out, his voice echoing through the space and laced with just enough presence to make things interesting, just enough artificial fear to get their bladders working overtime, "Let's get this over with!"

The thugs didn't need any more encouragement. With the courage of a cornered beast and all the reckless bravery of a student who knows nothing about the coming exam, they sprang out from their hiding spots, brandishing bats, crowbars, and knives, rushing toward him with a mix of bravado and desperation.

"Get him! Take him down!" one of them shouted, swinging a bat aimed at John's head.

"Screw it, I'm not getting paid enough for this shit!" Another thug with an actual working brain dropped his butcher knife and ran away.

'Smart guy,' The vampire thought while breaking a wooden baseball bat on some unfortunate fellow's skull, 'Might see about getting him a new job.'

John ducked under a crowbar swing, delivering a quick punch to the thug's gut that sent him flying backward. Another thug lunged at him with a spiked baseball bat, but John sidestepped the attack, grabbing the man by the arm and flipping him over onto the cold concrete floor.

*Crunch*

That's what happens when you use an anti-zombie weapon on a freaking vampire, rookie mistake.

"Come on, is that all you've got?" John taunted as he effortlessly dispatched thug after thug.

It might be a bit too cocky, but the beast within reveled in the display of superiority, always eager to remind the cattle of their proper place in the bloody food chain.

His movements were fluid, his strikes precise, even with little to no fighting skills, sheer brute force, resilience and speed couldn't be denied.

He was holding back just enough to enjoy himself.

As he dealt with the last of the initial wave, a sudden movement caught his eye—a blur of motion that darted through the shadows, he would have missed it if not for the scent of blood more potent than anything he's ever had thus far.

John barely had time to react before something—or someone—lashed out at him with lightning speed. He felt a sharp pain in his side as two metal claws raked across his ribs.

"Well, well, who do we have here?" John staggered back, more surprised than hurt.

It slipped back into the shadows, and only then did he realize how bad of an idea it was to just throw unconscious foes around, he had no way of differentiating between them and this new opponent.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, until a small move gave away his clawed enemy's position. John turned around and charged in the direction only to come face to face with a bruised bald man crawling on all fours, heading for the exit.

"Uhhh, hi?" The thug said hesitantly.

"Fuck off," John told him respectfully, and that was all the permission the man needed to jump on his feet and get the hell out of there.

The vampire's mistake cost him yet another cut on his side, but all clouds have a silver lining, using a bit more speed than he usually would to avoid dealing with that annoying little thing called physics that did very inappropriate things to his shoes, clothes and the pavement when he wasn't very careful with his movement and balance, John turned around and grabbed the unsuspecting...woman?

Whatever, John believed in equal rights and equal lefts.

"Slippery, aren't you?" John taunted, trying to catch her in a grapple. But she twisted out of his grasp with a snake-like agility, slithering around him and scratching him up further along the way.

"A little more on the left, please." He said, squirming until her claws reached that itch on his lower back, "Yeah, that's the spot, baby."

"…"

He was confident in his abnormality, but then again he lived in Gotham, a place where folks like Joker and Scarecrow went around causing mayhem every so often, so her lack of reaction didn't sting that bad.

"Got you now," she hissed, locking her thighs around his neck and pulling him into a chokehold, "Es hora de que mueras, monstruo lamentable."

John grunted as her muscles tightened around his windpipe, cutting off his air. But instead of panicking, John chuckled, his voice strained but still amused.

"Kinky," he rasped, before using his brute strength to pry her legs apart and toss her off him.

Strangulation, deadly to humans, a minor inconvenience for the Strigoi.

The killer landed gracefully on her feet, her eyes narrowing as she realized her venom was having little effect. "You're already dead," she sneered, trying to hide her frustration.

"Poison, huh? Should've figured. But I'm not your average corpse, sweetheart." John licked a bit of blood from his lip, grinning.

A second was all it took for his partially crushed windpipe to heal, and the potent poison flowing in his body failed to accomplish anything on the biological madness that was his cursed, living carcass.

He took the opportunity to take a look at his new toy—playmate, he meant playmate...or was it enemy?

Meh, it's all the same really.

She was a contortionist, bending and flexing her body in ways that defied human limits. Her short whitish-blonde hair clung to her head, framing those unsettling yellow reptilian eyes. The black eyeliner she wore made those eyes stand out even more while also masking her features, giving her an eerie, predatory gaze that followed his every move.

Her skin-tight outfit, made from some sort of snake-skin material, hugged her form, accentuating the tattoos that snaked across her upper body and arms. Each movement she made was fluid, graceful—like a snake coiling to strike.

Did I mention that she looked like a snake?

A very hot snake...no furry...or should it be scally in this case? Food for thought.

She was dangerous, and quite obviously sadistic, but there was something oddly captivating about the way she moved, the way she looked at him.

"Copperhead" John managed to identify her with some minor difficulty.

Wasn't she supposed to be a weird snake dude? Whatever, he sure as hell wasn't going to complain.

The assassin lunged at him again, but John was ready this time. He sidestepped her attack, delivering a quick jab to her side that made her wince. But before he could follow up, a new wave of thugs rushed into the warehouse, armed with knives, bats, and cheap pistols.

"Perfect timing," John muttered, as he quickly adapted to the chaotic battle. Copperhead took advantage of the distraction, disappearing into the shadows to plan her next move.

As the thugs closed in, John couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"You guys really think you've got a shot? I'm starting to feel bad." He shook his head.

One thug, clearly braver than the rest, swung a bat at John's head. John caught the bat mid-swing, yanked it out of the thug's hands, and smashed it across his knees, sending him to the ground with a scream.

*Bang* *Bang* *Bang*

One of the gangsters started shooting in John's general direction, but judging by the way he was holding his gun sideways, there was no need for the vampire to worry about him.

"Argh! Stop shooting if you can't aim, shithead!" One of the bullets ricocheted from the metal machines and struck one of them right in his shoulder, making him throw his weapon and scream in pain.

At this point, John could just stand around and let them take each other out.

"Anyone else wants to try?" John taunted, as he grabbed a thug by the collar and threw him into a stack of crates where he knew Copperhead was hiding.

"Pandejo." He heard her hiss ever so slightly as she scurried away, trying not to alert him.

"Hahaha." He couldn't help but laugh, further terrifying the foolish men who thought money was worth being stuck in a room with the monster who humiliated their bosses in their own hideouts.

Many of them were heavily considering switching jobs, they did hear about some guy hiring everyone from dopefiend to ex-convicts and paying decent money for what it was, they wouldn't make as much but not getting their every bone broken might just be worth it.

Those smarter-than-average hired muscles discreetly headed for the exit before making a run for it.

Not the bravest thing, but there was no honour among thieves.

The remaining, likely delusional thugs weren't exactly brilliant strategists. One of them, thinking he had the element of surprise, charged at John from behind, only for John to spin around and clothesline him.

"Man, you guys need better trainers," John said, shaking his head, holding one of them might be the ankle and using him, a grown man, as a mace to beat on the rest of them.

That's double the pain for every hit, sometimes John's genius terrified him.

As he finished off the last of the thugs, Copperhead reappeared, striking from above with a vicious slash aimed at his throat. John barely managed to dodge, feeling the air hiss past his neck as her claws missed by inches.

"Nice try," John said, grabbing her wrist and twisting her arm behind her back. Copperhead hissed in pain, trying to wriggle free, but John's grip was like iron.

Her other clawed hand reached out to gouge out his eyes, the best solution when someone was grappling you, but then the most insane thing happened.

"Stop." He said, his voice deeper and more intense.

And stop she did, despite the golden opportunity to kill or at least maim her target, despite her instincts honed through years of killing.

Despite all the blood she had shed, whether it was to protect herself, to avoid sleeping with a hungry stomach, or just because she could, because someone was willing to pay and it was the only thing she was good for.

When he gave her the order, all she could do was obey.

"Let's dance," he whispered in her ear, before tossing her across the room.

The spell was broken, whatever that bruja had done to her mind was over, forever if she had it her way.

Copperhead landed on her feet again, but this time she was slower to recover. John could see the frustration in her eyes as she realized she was losing control of the fight.

"Just give up, darling," John said with a small smile, advancing on her. "You're fun, but I'm getting bored."

Copperhead snarled, lunging at him with renewed fury. But John was done playing around. He sidestepped her attack, delivering a powerful punch to her gut that knocked the wind out of her and sent her crashing into a stack of dusty crates.

She crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. John approached her, chuckling.

"You're a tough one, I'll give you that. I think I'll keep you around. You'd make a great pet." He smiled 'kindly'

Before he could reach her, the doors to the warehouse burst open, and the dozens of proper gangsters with proper guns arrived, the business ends of their rifles trained on both John and the injured Copperhead.

"¡Estoy aquí, cabrones! Hold your fire!" She shouted, eyes wide.

"We know, snake-bitch." One of them laughed, joined by a few of his equally criminally-inclined comrades.

It made no sense, they were the ones who hired her, paid the cartels for her.

The cartels who were already employing another copperhead, a metahuman who could spit poison.

The cartels who made her kill the previous one after he tried retiring from the job.

The cartels who were humiliated after her defeat at the batman's hands and the loss of the fifty million dollars that Black Mask put on his head, money they desperately needed to bribe officials, buy ships and planes with good pilots and keep fighting the drug war one day at a time, in an age where every other politician wanted to be seen as tough on crime.

The same cartels that made no efforts to try and break her out of prison despite their ability to do so, condemning her to a full year spent in Blackgate and another in Arkham Asylum before she found the opportunity to escape.

The cartel which just double-crossed her.

"¡Me cago en ustedes!" The assassin growled.

She wanted to get angry, to scream and rage and use that fury to get out of this situation and kill the backstabbing icho de putas who sold her out.

But she couldn't.

She just felt tired, very tired.

Her target though, seemed to be in a very good mood.

"Man, this keeps getting better and better." John grinned.

It was so much better than paperwork.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Neonate -



Vampire Rule N°26: Why be a parasite when symbiosis is an option? Make yourself so precious and necessary to mankind that opposing you, much less attempting to purge you, becomes utter self-harm and insanity.

… … … … … … … … … … … … …

John Harker smiled wryly.

On his right was a freaky, murderous snake-lady.

On his left was a merry band of assault rifle-carrying gentlemen with very lackluster trigger discipline.

Both sides came here with the sole purpose of turning him past tense by any means necessary, so he'd usually just use some of that sweet, satisfying superhuman speed to get out of the way and let them deal with their own issues before stealth-hunting them one by one.

That would be the logical thing.

But on the other hand, he did want to keep his new pet snake, and dozens of bullet-sized holes on its skin were neither good-looking nor practical, someone might even call Peta.

Now that would be ghastly.

Moving out of the way while she's still recovering from his fist of love would surely end with her turning into Swiss cheese with tits, trying to move her around with inhuman speed would work, but it would also snap her neck.

Just ask Gwen Stacy, she'd answer if she wasn't so busy being dead.

What a dilemma! He thought, his smile growing by the microsecond, but time was ticking and he had to make a choice. Should I bail and let the snake lady fry? Or should I be a good little monster and save her skin?

"¡Hijos de puta!" she cursed, her voice dripping with venom as she realized she'd been double-crossed, her potty mouth at least drowned out the clicking sound of the basic yet crucial device in John's pocket.

His decision was made.

From now on, John Harker is an eco-activist, pass him the glue and lead the way to the museum.

He didn't have time for half-measures. He spent some of his plentiful blood to further enhance his resilience, feeling his body surge with inhuman strength. Without another word, he sprang into action, grabbing Copperhead and pulling her into a tight embrace.

"What the hell are you doing, cabron!?" she snarled, wriggling in his grasp, but he held firm.

The gangsters opened fire, bullets tearing through the air, slamming into John's back. His bloodbuff and healing worked overtime, patching up the many holes that were being punched into him. The pain was intense, searing through his nerves, and a lesser man would have screamed in terror.

This is bloody metal. He couldn't help but think, even as he both felt and saw his reserves dwindle through the system interface, the hunger growing with each second. If it comes to that, snake-girl probably wouldn't mind lending me a few pints.

Said woman was currently shocked out of her mind, her heart going crazy as she felt her target—the man she was hired to kill—now the self-imposed barrier between her and those who sought to end her life.

Copperhead felt his body shake, felt him groaning in pain, and yet he held strong.

Droplets of his blood fell on her face, and she couldn't help but wonder.

"Why?" Her voice couldn't be heard among the blazing gunfire, but she asked anyway, her lips moving on their own.

Bang
Bang
Bang

The vampire currently role-playing as the uber-powerful gimp—minus the insane abilities that made the whole masochistic fighting style possible—heard her full well despite the chaos all around as bullets battered his back and sent blood, flesh, and lead flying.

However, he was too preoccupied with trying to keep his unlife to answer her newfound curiosity with some clever albeit cheesy quote that only worked because he looked good and was in the process of saving her life.

Some other time, perhaps.

Still, this situation is far from ideal, he thought, while a particularly precise—or lucky—gangster started tickling his spine with an M16.

Running away wasn't an option; it would slow his healing, and that was the only thing keeping him from turning into a shredded piece of meat. Using Presence wouldn't help either. The gangsters were too confident, too trigger-happy. His blood was better spent elsewhere.

So, he just stood there, taking the barrage, waiting for their magazines to empty or for something to give him an edge. The heavy gunfire began to slow as mags—and not clips—ran dry, but before John could capitalize on the lull, a roar cut through the chaos.

The cavalry was here.

"What the fuck?" One of the goons managed to blurt out before getting real intimate with a bumper.

A black Toyota SUV with bulletproof glass rammed through the rusted-up warehouse doors, barreling full speed into the line of gangsters. The men barely had time to react before the vehicle plowed through them, bullets ricocheting harmlessly off the reinforced windows.

Inside, Reginald Cousins was in a full-blown blood rage, his eyes wild as he floored the gas pedal. He'd received the call to action from his liege, and nothing was going to stop him.

The gangsters scattered, trying to regroup, but the intervention gave John all the time he needed. His reserves were low, painfully so, but he could fix it in an instant.

The assassin barely realized what was happening when he lowered his head, fangs bare, and pierced her neck.

It was a credit to her that she didn't moan right away, but he could feel her relaxing and melting against him. He could see her shaking and hear her grinding her teeth.

And then it came, ever so subtle, ever so quiet.

Moan

Magnificent, shit like this is why I get up in the evening. He smiled against her skin, his fangs still penetrating her neck and pumping out the best of her blood.

With the first gulp alone, the first taste, John knew he had struck gold.

Think of your favorite food, your favorite song, your favorite place, and your strongest orgasm to date. Add in the affection of your impossible crush and the realization of your wildest dreams and ambitions, multiply by ten, and it would still pale in comparison.

It was pure ecstasy, for the both of them.

So sweet, so powerful… He sucked and drank the red liquid in a frenzy, barely able to stop himself before hurting his new, beloved pet.

Yes, there was no way he'd let her go now.

Not such a fine fighter.
Not someone with such exquisite blood quality.
Not his very first meta-human.

[Vital reserves replenished. Blood intake successful. All physical and supernatural reserves at full capacity.]

[Blood Points: 1200/1200]

He barely drank a dozen pints, and yet it was more than three humans' worth of potency. The only one to ever come close to this was Vicki Vale, and even she wasn't so absurdly enticing and rewarding.

Both were characters that played roles, albeit minor ones, in the story of this world.

Yet for Copperhead's blood to have such superiority…

The difference between a human and a trained meta-human was just that great.

And what about aliens? Amazons? Kryptonians? What kind of power would he achieve if he could just have a taste of their vital essence?

He was almost shaking in excitement.

[Congratulations. You've fed on a noteworthy individual. Essence absorbed exceeds standard parameters. Metahuman traits detected—agility and speed enhancements. Your power grows…]

That much was obvious. Meta-blood was unlike anything he'd had before…

[Reward processing…]

[You have gained: 2500 Experience Points, Minor Agility Boost.]

Oh, daddy likes, he grinned, knowing full well what comes next.

The gangsters previously discombobulated were starting to regain their bearings, pick up their guns, and would soon attempt to finish the job.

Poor things…

[Status:

• Level: 7
• Name: Jonathan Harker
• Age: 16
• Titles: Started From The Bottom, Jailbait
• Race: Vampire (Fledgling)
• Blood Points: 1200/1200
• Exp: 2900/600]

Numbers going up, so beautiful.

[Level up?]

Darn right, I will! he thought, and if his maths were correct, things were about to change big time.

[Level 8 reached!]

[Blood Points: 1200/1400]

[Exp: 2300/800]

Again.

[Level 9 reached!]

[Blood Points: 1200/1600]

[Exp: 1500/1000]

"Yes!" He was once more reduced to inhumanly fast tweaking like a gacha addict. Again! Again!

[Level 10 reached]

And then it came—the burning of his blood, the pain and pleasure merging together as his body twisted and changed so fast, yet so unbearably slowly.

Evolution.

The next step in the totem of vampiric hierarchy.

[You have reached a new level of maturity: Neonate. The potency of your blood has reached that of a fifty-year-old vampire. Physical traits and abilities have reached a new level of power.]

[New ability developed: Blood Manipulation.]

[Status Updated—]

[Level: 10
Name: Jonathan Harker
Age: 16
Titles: Started From The Bottom, Jailbait
Race: Vampire (Neonate)
Blood Points: 1200/3000
Exp: 500/5000]

"Yeah," he breathed out, after licking the woman's wound closed, his eyes burning red, a dangerous smile on his face. "Time to go for a walk."

Copperhead, now both thoroughly confused and considerably aroused, could only watch in shock as John gently let her go before leaping into the fray like a man possessed, ripping through the remaining thugs like a savage beast.

His eyes were glowing red, and for the first time, he didn't care if any of them made it out alive.

They were all adults—dumber than fourth graders, but adults nonetheless.

In less than a second, he appeared right in the face of one of the armed gangsters, and before he could press the trigger, John grabbed his hand and simply pressed.

"Aargh! No! Stop! Stooop!" He howled, watching in horror as his fingers were crushed and pressed into a pulp, blood leaking out of the now-visible bones.

John showed him mercy with his fist of love colliding with the man's ugly face, breaking teeth and bones, shattering his jaw as he was sent flying to what was most likely his death.

Or at least the end of his life as an able-bodied man.

"Who's next?" John asked calmly.

His answer was a hail of bullets, but this time he needed not concern himself with a vulnerable charge. Copperhead had enough sense to get out of the way so he could disappear without worrying about her safety.

"Is—is he gone?" One of them asked, not caring about their disastrously failed task or the mangled body of what was once his best friend since childhood, as long as he could get out of this hell alive.

"Above!" Another said and started shooting, but unfortunately, it was too late.

The last thing he saw was a boot getting dangerously close to his face, and then all went dark.

John tore into them with ferocity, using the chaos to his advantage. The gangsters' shots went wild, missing him entirely or grazing his already healing flesh. He didn't bother giving any of them the Kiss, but he did drain a few as their blood spilled out, absorbing it into himself with his newfound abilities.

Blood manipulation probably had better uses than a simple magnet guiding the spilled blood to his ever-so-thirsty throat while he ripped grown men to shreds, but he could figure it out later.

He didn't practice or train to use it even at such a low level. Instinct alone was enough to guide him and let him learn how to move foreign blood and consume it without biting, using it to replenish his nearly full reserves and heal the rare wounds he sustained without cost.

Copperhead was hiding behind the car. She wanted to move, to crawl away, but every time she glanced at the man—no, the monster—her mind was pounded with confusion.

Who was he? What was he? And why was he protecting her? What did he do to her? How was he doing all this? Why did it feel so absurdly good?

As the last thug fell to a fist in the throat, gurgling his final breath, John turned to Copperhead. She was still on the ground, her body twisted at an impossible angle, trying to decide if she should flee or strike again, even though it seemed like madness after seeing what he could do. But the decision was made for her when police sirens wailed in the distance.

"Time to go," John said, grabbing Copperhead by the arm just as she attempted to slither away. He dragged her to the back of the SUV, throwing her inside before climbing in after her. Reginald didn't wait for any further instructions, flooring the gas and tearing through the night.

Copperhead's mind was racing, thoughts crashing into each other like waves in a storm. Why had he saved her? What was his angle? Is he going to do… it again?

Did she mind doing it again?

As if reading her mind, John chuckled.

"Looks like you've been double-crossed." His grin was wide, almost boyish, as if his back wasn't still full of holes from the bullets he'd taken to protect her, his clothes ruined and reeking of copper and lead.

She stared at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. No one had ever done that for her. Ever. She'd been born and raised in the cartel, where everyone and everything was out to get her. She became an assassin to escape poverty, rape, or the misery of being a drug mule like her mother, who died when the package in her stomach broke and OD'd her.

She was good at it too, only failing a handful of times during nearly two decades of murder.

But the man she was supposed to kill had just saved her life.

"Why?" she demanded, her voice low and dangerous, but tinged with something else—confusion, curiosity, and the lingering fear in her heart she couldn't kill.

John looked at her, those slitted red eyes twinkling with mischief. "Because I wanted to," he said, matter-of-factly. Then he leaned in closer, his grin turning into something darker, more predatory. "And you still didn't answer me—can I keep you?"

He was insane. And so was his driver, judging by the cackle that echoed from the front seat.

"You really should. As far as bosses go, he's pretty awesome… if you don't mind the whole busting-skulls thing," the middle-aged man said, and she listened intently, determined to gather as much intel as possible before… before what?

There was nothing left for her.

Except…

Her gaze turned to the young man sitting beside her, his eyes closed as he leaned back, full of openings she could use to attack.

But something in Copperhead's chest tightened—something she hadn't felt in a long time. A strange, unfamiliar feeling. Vulnerability, perhaps? Trust? Madness?

Whatever it was, it was unsettling.

She didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. Instead, she mimicked him and leaned back against the seat, her mind still racing as the SUV sped through Gotham's shadowy streets.

She was alive, and for now, that was enough.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Larissa Diaz -


Slim Shady's back and so am I.

Discord Here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2

Have a nice day!
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Vampire Rule N°27: The only reason you sparkle is because you spent too much time in children parties...you bloody degenerate.



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The rumble of the mechanical steed beneath them echoed through the nearly empty streets of Gotham by night, as the ever so faithful, slightly superhuman miracle of man called Reginald Cousins drove the battered SUV out of Redhook and the Industrial Storage Zone. Careful to avoid the patrol cars rushing toward the scene of the dozen or so crimes committed in that warehouse.

So much law breaking was bound to get at least some detectives off their asses and into the ghetto from some good ol' murder policing, not to mention the dozen of uniforms rushing toward the scene.

Either way, nothing a Gothamite wanted to deal with.

They were soon back home in East End, where the SUV with its damaged front and multiple bullet holes looked perfectly normal, if not a bit too posh for the area.

'Perks of living three floors up from hell.' John chuckled, earning himself a strange look from his new pet...collaborator, he meant his new collaborator, no need to call HR on him. Bubbles didn't react, he was already used to his antics.

Copperhead kept glancing at John, her brow furrowed. The silence between them was thick with unasked questions, but it wasn't long before she gave in.

"How the hell did you do it?" she asked, the almost painful curiosity breaking through her thick, and rather attractive accent, "You took all these bullets like it was nothing, slaughtered these icho de puta and ignored my poison...no one can just ignore my poison, only I have the antidote."

The fact that he took these bullets for her was not stated, but understood by both parties, she owed him big time.

Still, the way she was more interested by his ability to shrug off her poison was quite amusing...almost endearing in a messed up way.

John chuckled, flicking the hair from his eyes as the wind whipped past from the open window, "Practise, sweetheart. That, and a killer diet."

Literally.

Reginald, who had been sitting stoically in the front seat struggled to fight off a smile.

"See, Reg gets it. It's about keeping things fresh." John smirked, enjoying the inside joke.

"Fine..."Copperhead sighed, clearly frustrated but unable to deny the results. "What even are you?"

"Technically? A guy who hates paperwork and loves going on walks, very enthusiastic walks," John quipped, and somewhere in the depths of Oblivion, someone watching Adventure Time while slaughtering Nazis felt very proud of him, "But also, I guess you could call me a problem solver, and this world is full of big, angry problems who just can't let a man enjoy his life stress-free."

"Problems like me?" She hissed, shifting into a more casual sitting position, one bandaged foot on the seat where it will doubtlessly leave a stain.

John could almost picture Tarantino getting a nosebleed.

"You? Nah, you're not a problem." He shook his head, opening an eye to give her a look that clearly meant; 'You don't even qualify as an inconvenience, but I'm not gonna say because I've got manners and shit.'

She didn't like like it very much, but was smart enough not to do something stupid and possibly suicidal.

Reginald's eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror as they approached a discreet garage in the East End. The ride had been smooth, the night passing by in a blur of neon lights and grimy streets, with a noticeable loss in the amount of hardcore dopefiends lurking around.

Not a huge difference, but it was something, it meant that their efforts where starting to pay off and would soon produce dividends.

But now, it was time to switch.

"We're here, sir," Reginald said, slowing the car to a halt. The garage door creaked open, and an older mechanic with grease-stained hands waved them in. It was part of their escape plan: switch cars, leave no trail.

If there was one thing John would learn from the bat, then it would be his plans, their contingencies and the contingency to their contingencies.

Now planning for a one ghoul strong exfiltration team in case things went south wasn't exactly rocket science, but it did the job.

They stepped out of their vehicle, the clinking sound of tools and the soft hum of machinery filling the air. The mechanic grunted a hello before motioning toward a sleek, black Lincoln parked on the far side of the garage.

"Lincoln's prepped and ready," the mechanic said, tossing Reginald the key to his baby.

Copperhead stayed oddly silent in the meantime, not quite knowing what to do with herself, trying not to think about the ramification of the betrayal, how deep it went and what it meant for her future.

Fleeing was an option, and she knew she could deal with a life on the run, taking hits and trying to avoid the heat until the cartels forget her.

The new Copperhead would surely come after her, to prove himself and save the cartel the embarrassment of a previous ace killer running about on her own, for a group that relied on fear and reputation, letting her be wasn't on the table.

But she could beat him, she knew she could do it.

He might be some snake-faced freak, but she had years of experience on him, and she never had to rely on some powers she never earned in the first place.

Yet she stayed put, standing around like an obedient puppy and following that monster and his insane butler into the car, half-listened to their banter as they got more comfortable.

Was it out for fear of the bruja?

Was it to honour some debt for saving her life despite her trying to take his?

Was it because she couldn't forget how it felt to be held, protected from harm at the cost of his own flesh, to have someone finally care enough to suffer for her?

To have someone put her life, her safety above their own?

Because she wanted more of that? More of those absurd, useless emotions? Those liabilities that would only hinder her work, her purpose as a killer for hire, things she hated with passion and craved so desperately.

She didn't know.

She didn't want to know.

"Larissa." She said, not daring enough to look at the monster who spared—saved her life.

"Hm?" He said, and she could almost feel those eyes on her, once a terrifying red yet somehow turned into a more peaceful, striking blue.

"My name, it's Larissa Diaz." She said curtly, so that he might not realize what kind of gesture it was.

To give away her name, something that she hid since her childhood, since the day she started training to become the finely tuned instrument of murder she was today.

A name nobody alive knew was hers, not in the cartels, not in this city that imprisoned her for years, not even that d*mned batman that beat her so long ago.

It almost felt foreign on her tongue, but she didn't regret it, she felt like she needed to do it.

"I will remember it," He said with such weight that she knew, she truly knew that he realized what she did, understood the implication and accepted them.

'I will be in your care,' Was what she wanted to say.

"You better," Was what she ended up saying, gaze stuck to window, still unwilling to meet his eyes.

And John took that personally.

When someone snatched her chin and turned her head, her immediate reaction was to slash his throat with a poison covered metal claw, but her hand was stopped midway and held in a strong vice-like grip.

She was about to insult him, curse him out for startling her...and for ruining such a nice moment, though she would never admit that one.

But she looked at him, her slitted eyes meeting his own, and her anger was blown away.

"It's very nice to meet you, Larissa Diaz." He said slowly, deliberately, tasting the way her name sounded and finding it adequate, "I am John Harker."

She did not blush.

But this man—this John Harker was a dangerous man indeed. Those lying, backstabbing cowards had at least one thing right, he really was a monster.
. . .

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Brideshead, Commissioner Jim Gordon stood amidst yet another scene of urban carnage. The warehouse was littered with bodies—over forty men lay dead, their corpses twisted in brutal ways.

Blood pooled on the cracked pavement, and the air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and death.

He felt like he was back in Vietnam, minus the mosquitoes.

Thirty more gangsters had been injured, ten of them in critical condition.

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on him. This was more than just another gang fight—this was a massacre.

No, more murders in one night and one place than most big cities saw in an entire month was more than a mere massacre, that was an understatement if he ever saw one.

It's a Gotham-grade massacre.

Harvey Bullock stood next to him, his face twisted into a grimace as he surveyed the scene. "This is Batman's work, I bet," Bullock grumbled, lighting up a cigarette.

Gordon shook his head, his brow furrowed. "That's not his way."

Batman doesn't kill, you'd think people would know it after so much time.

"Forty dead, Gordon. All of them from the same gang, all of them fighting a single man. And the survivors? They're all moaning about some fuckin' monster. Monster this! Monster that! Came outta nowhere and bashed my friend's skull, broke our guns with one hand and beat us with it? Rings any bell?" Bullock spat, smoke curling up from his lips. "And where's that anti-Batman task force I was supposed to get? Judge Harkness already gave his word."

"Calm down Bullocks you know as much as I do that Batman never kills," The commissioner said calmly, now used to his subordinate's rowdy nature, "And unless our good friend the Judge steps down from his high chair and becomes the Police Chief, then that task force can wait, we're spread thin enough as it is."

"Well, maybe if I had it then all this wouldn't have happened," Bullocks growled under his breath, but didn't dare meeting his superior's eye.

Gordon ignored Bullock's complaints, scanning the scene again. It was true—Batman had his ways of dealing with criminals, and every once in a while some other vigilante without nearly as much moral fibre would come along and start cutting throats, but this… this was different. This was systematic, almost surgical. Every kill seemed purposeful, not random or reckless. This wasn't a symbol being sent—it was extermination.

A man stabbed with his own shattered pistol, another's rifle shoved down his throat...the risks the killer took to pull it off was nothing short of impressive.

"We'll need to gather forensics," Gordon said, his voice steady. "I want to know exactly what happened here. And start questioning survivors properly. Somebody knows something, and they better tell us everything if they don't want to be charged for everything we can find."

Bullock snorted. "Good luck getting anything out of these guys. Half of 'em can barely breathe, let alone talk. Reminds you of somebody?"

Still, Gordon was certain that it wasn't Batman behind this, he might be a vigilante but he has his own rules, he was someone Jim could rely on even when the brass decided that hunting him down was a good idea despite all previous attempts failing.

'There is something else at play, something wicked.' Gordon lit up his pipe, ignoring the nagging voices of his wife and daughter echoing in his head and telling him to put it down if he knew what was good for him.

Ignoring the fact that he did not know what was good for him, he joined the police in Gotham after all, that made him a moron amongst morons.

He was no stranger to wickedness either, not as someone who spent so much time in this city, seen what it did to people, experienced all the grim and gore first hand.

He really should retire.