My Little Ventrue Pt. 04 Ch. 10

One human, just the one, and it wasn't his fault. Not his fault. Not his fault.

"... one. I... it was an accident." Should have lied. Why didn't he fucking lie?

"Yeah, hear that a lot. But here's the big secret, fucking vampire." She leaned in closer still, got right into his face, and glared at him. "You wouldn't be the first vamp with only one or two kills under their belt, where it was an accident. In fact, it's pretty god damn common. Strange how that keeps happening, isn't it? Almost as if vamps are a bunch of rabid monsters that can't control themselves, and need to be put down." She poked him again, harder, and got into his face until he could feel her breath and fury against his skin.

He almost said he was sorry. He almost said that he regretted his one and only human kill to this day, that sometimes it haunted him, that sometimes he checked on Mrs. Pavala's family, just to torment himself, just to remind himself how easy it was for a vampire to become a fucking monster. He almost spilled his guilt, his self loathing and pain over her, and asked for her forgiveness.

And then he grew the fuck up. He wasn't human anymore, and he had to accept that. He'd had. It wasn't murder anymore, it was feeding. A predator feasting on prey. They didn't have to kill their prey, but sometimes it happened, and sometimes that hurt. That was the struggle of a vampire, balancing the beast with their humanity. A kine would never truly appreciate that until they had a beast in their guts, changing their instincts, their reflexes, changing how they felt about everything. He wasn't human anymore, and that was that.

And that's how it was going to be, he realized. There'd be no even ground with these kine, these hunters, no way to get them to accept that Kindred were higher on the food chain. And maybe that's how it had to be, maybe that's how it should be, with hunters killing vampires who got too cocky, and vampires forever hiding in the shadows, protecting the Masquerade. No way for Kindred to ever truly reach a sort of compromise with kine. How do you convince sheep to let the wolf suck their blood on occasion, along with occasional fatalities? You don't.

Strange. Staring this livid woman in the eyes, it was oddly freeing, realizing that he could not ever come to peace with her. A ceasefire, maybe, hell maybe even a tense truce, but peace? Vampires preyed on humans, and no human would ever accept that. Why would they?

A small smile crept onto his face as he met her gaze of fire. No need to ask her to look into his eyes, none at all. And through the heavy weight of the handcuffs, he found his depths, found his beast, and pulled it up through the weight pinning it down. No, not pulling it. Breaking the chains that held it.

"You... are mine."

"What? You can't be fucking serious. Kid you are a twerp, a tiny little vamp, young as fuck, and you're wearing those... hand... cuffs..."

He smirked, and tore through her eyes and into her soul. "You. Are. Mine."

"Stacey, the fuck?" The other hunter stepped in, and Jack threw his gaze at him as well.

"You. Are. Mine." This was one easier. This one didn't have fire to break through, tempered steel. This one was a pawn, a puppet, mind unguarded and soul exposed. And Jack reached out, and grabbed it.

The two hunters stood in front of him, and with wide eyes, jaws dropped, they waited.

"Good. The two of you will guard me with your lives until I am safe. I am your master from now on."

"Yes master," they said, in unison.

Jack breathed deep, and sat up straight. This wasn't the usual way to dominate a mind, this wasn't the gentle caressing he normally used to coax people's thoughts, to mesmerize. This was different, this was total domination. Through the weight crushing his insides and trying to keep his Kindred disciplines at bay, the beast in him roared, snarled, free of the chains binding it, and unleashed its will upon the two helpless fools in his cell with him. This was something Viktor would do, break people and turn them into meat puppets; Julias didn't like it, and neither did Jack.

He was going to get out of this prison though, one way or another.

"Where are the keys for the cuffs?"

"The handcuffs do not open with a key, or anything, master. They cannot be removed."

God fucking damn it.

"How are the cuffs bound to the chair?"

"A padlock, master."

"Keys for the padlock then?"

"Angela has them, master."

Mother fucking piece of god damn worthless fucking shit fuck.

"Either of you have a crowbar, or can you get one?"

"No, master."

Fuck. Fuck! He twisted and turned and banged his cuffs around against the back of the chair. The chair was bolted down, and the padlock wasn't going to break this way. If Angela had left the blowtorch, maybe that would have worked, but she hadn't.

Ok, maybe crushing their minds into mindless puppets incapable of a coherent thought wasn't the best plan. At the time it was the only way he could push past these damn cuffs, and the only way he'd get these two pawns doing what he needed them to do. But now his plan hit a wall, and quickly at that. So much for feeling so damn superior. Hubris, fuck you.

No, no, no. Fuck that. Fuck that, he wasn't going to just sit here and die to a couple of torturing psychos. He was getting out of here, no matter what it took.

"... You." He nodded to the man. "Get out your knife, and cut off my hands. And do it fast."

His whole body paralyzed. He'd said the words. He fucking said them, cause it was the only plan he could come up with. Hands off, handcuffs slide off, and he'd be free. Regrowing hands? Sure, he could do that, right? Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

God, he was going to need a lot of blood, and several nights sleep, to regrow two hands.

Flip the switch in the brain, make logical decisions, and ignore the emotional state of the mind. Emotions are not logical, emotions are reactive and mindless and without concern for reality. Emotions did stupid shit like make you not do something because you were afraid of pain, even if you logically knew the outcome was worth it. He was good at flipping that switch.

But he wasn't good with pain.

The hunter didn't hesitate. He grabbed one of Jack's hands, and started cutting. Jack thought he knew pain, but every fucking day of this second life, it found ways to introduce him to new levels of it.

Metal, cutting through skin, slicing through muscle, tendon, cartilage. And then, using pure strength, the hunter cut through bone. It took a moment for the pain to kick in, just like getting a really nasty paper cut and the sting only happening a second later when the body realized what just happened. Except a million times worse.

He started to shake, and then, to scream. They'd hear, and they'd be running down to see what was going on. He had maybe twenty seconds he figured to get control, to manage the outcome, to guide the events a way a Ventrue should.

"The other! Quickly!" God, his voice was a wavering, cracking mess. Anymore and he was going to burst into tears, and he wasn't even blushing life. Fuck, please, let this work, he couldn't take any more of this. No more, no more pain for just a few seconds.

And then the hunter started cutting off the other hand, with just as much brutality and brevity as before.

The sound of his hands falling to the floor, withered husks quickly drying to a corpse, were the biting ice on the scorching inferno of pain working up his arms. Any and all DNA evidence was ruined, just a pile of compromised ashes in the shape of a hand. Older vampires would leave nothing but ash behind, but not him, he was way too young.

It wouldn't have been so overwhelming if he'd only needed to get one hand off, but the cuffs wouldn't fit through where the padlock was locked to the chair. He needed both off. And now with both off, he forced himself to stand, and looked at the jagged stumps of his limbs.

Stay. Standing. Stay. Standing.

Bone and flesh, the dried and withered flesh of a vampire. The thick Kindred blood that coated the bones worked quick to keep more of the blood from pouring out, but the wound was too great to stop it completely. And, as he let his arms drop to his sides, he heard the splish splash of his blood hitting the floor of the prison.

Stay. Standing. Ignore the pain. Ignore the agony, the searing fire working up through your limbs. Every part of him wanted to squeeze on something, and every time his muscles made the attempt, his body started to shake with new waves of pain. He had no hands. He had no fucking hands. Another scream escaped him as the pain struck him like a steel pipe against his skull, acid working down his limbs and back up into his brain until it felt like it was going to explode.

Footsteps, rushing down the hall. No time, no time to stand here and agonize over his agony. No. Fucking get ready, get ready. Get ready!

Two hunters came through the doorway. "What the fu—"

"Kill them."

The two hunters at Jack's side unloaded their shotguns. They weren't just kine with shotguns, they were trained marksmen, trained killers. They didn't miss or hesitate or any of the things he'd have to worry about with dominating normal kine. These tools were perfect.

The two other hunters managed only a second of surprise, eyes wide, panicked, torn, before they both went down. His tools didn't aim to wound, they aimed to kill, as he instructed. The enemy fell backward, chunks of their faces and skulls splattered against the cell wall. And Jack should have looked away. But it was only a second's time, just long enough for him to see the look of death in their eyes before they were murdered.

Don't think about it, keep moving. He couldn't wait, couldn't stand here and get trapped, get pinched inside the cell. He had to get out there and get moving.

"You, what's your name?"

"Henry, master."

"Henry, you will cover our back. Stacey, cover the front."

"Yes master." Again, in unison.

Jack marched forward, two living tools at his side, and stepped over the bodies. Ignore the fact they were the first humans you'd ever killed while in control of yourself, ignore that, ignore that you'd turned these kine into tools and were probably going to get them killed as well. The pain of his wounds was constant, unending, like he'd stuck his hands inside boiling water and he'd just left them there. And he ignored it. Lament the pain later, when it was safe, when he could take the time to get a proper meal. Flip the switch. Logical choices only.

A prison. Cells, bars, and lights. He didn't know how they had power going in an old abandoned prison, but then maybe that's why they picked this place to take him. So they must have known. Jeremiah and his psycho partner may not have been setting up a base here, but it wasn't just some random drop off zone for him. That meant there may very well have been more hunters.

And there were more. He could hear them, boots hitting the floor, many of them ahead. Had Jeremiah lied to him about this not being his base? Either way, there were a lot of people coming to investigate the noise.

He walked forward, passing the empty cells, stumps dripping blood at his side for each step. Shirtless, pants a mess and with a big hole through one leg of them. He wasn't blushing life, so his skin was pale, body thin, musculature more defined like a dehydrated person's would be. Hell, he must have looked like a zombie. He smirked through the pain, and kept walking.

Someone must have seen what was happening, and communicated it out to the others, because instead of another hunting running in blindly to see what the shooting was about, three hunters poked their heads around the doorway at the end of the hallway. And then they opened fire.

Crushing minds and communicating with animals, Jack knew these skills were coming to him quickly. Ventrue were also naturals at resilience, to be able to take a bullet to the chest and get right back up. And Jack knew he sucked at it. He threw himself to the side and into one of the cells, and screamed as he landed on his side, one of his stumps smacking against the concrete floor.

His two slaves opened fire, each ducking into their own cells and poking their heads out only long enough to unleash some bullets or shells.

"Jack you fucking little shit! Let them go!" Angela's voice echoed down the hall. Sounded pissed. "How the fuck did you get out of those cuffs? Should have locked down any piss-ant vamp!" And when she was pissed, she had a habit of saying too much, giving stuff away. Good to know. "Where are Mitchell and Jacky?"

Damn it. Would have been easier if he didn't know their names. Attaching names to their shocked expressions before shotguns tore them apart was not a good thing to do.

"Dead." Maybe, if she was pissed off enough, she might make a really bad mistake.

"You're fucking dead! Dead! I'm going to split you open, rip out your guts, and send the ashes to your girlfriend, you fucking shit welp! Dead!"

Holy crap. If he couldn't get out of here, she really would do that shit, and it'd take him days to die as she slowly tortured him to death. Christ she was terrifying. And insane. And stupid.

No Jeremiah though, where was he? The fuck had the phone call been about? Whatever, an opportunity was an opportunity and—a rat! Hiding in the corner, in the darkness of the empty cell,.

Jack almost rolled onto his nonexistent hands, before he stopped. The pain had become a constant drumming, persistent, almost overwhelming but not quite, enough that he could function. And, with a single glance at the rat, he grabbed its mind. "Come here."

It sprinted over to him and stood at attention.

"Good. Now, get your friends. I'm not getting out of here without an army. I need an army."

The rat nodded, and scurried out into the hallway before disappearing down its length, away from the gunfire.

Jack forced himself back to his feet. Don't use your hands, don't use your fucking nonexistent hands. If anything, keep your mind half on the pain, to remind yourself you don't have hands anymore. Once standing, he looked out past the bars of the cell enough to see the hunters waiting for him. They'd stopped firing. The only people still launching bullets were Jack's new bodyguards, and only when they saw an opportunity to try and land a shot. But so far, no one had shot anyone. Angela's hunters were reluctant to shoot their friends, and reluctant to stick their own heads out and get shot.

A minute or three was exactly what he needed. Rest for a second, tap into his core, pull at more of his vitae, and wait for his army to amass. And he knew he could do it. Somehow, he fucking knew it. He should have been wiped, should have been on the ground screaming about his hands, crying out in agony and then falling into torpor, no energy to remain conscious. But he wasn't, and he knew, as he grit his teeth until his jaw clicked, that he could do more.

"Let me go and no one else has to die."

"Like I'm going to let some fucking vamp outta here!" she said, voice bouncing down the hallway.

"You started this!" He poked his head out enough to see down the hall, and glanced around to take some stock of his situation. No catwalk over him or anything, just a single floor hallway with probably eight cells on each side, and he was close to the wrong end of the hall.

"You're just a leech, a stupid fucking blood leech. Your words mean nothing. Lay down and fucking die."

"... you're not making a good argument for me to spare the lives of your friends." He looked across the hall to his tools. Man and woman, each poking their heads out just enough to keep an eye on the enemy, each with empty gazes almost like porcelain dolls.

"This isn't a fucking conversation you fucking insect. Let them go and I'll kill you quickly, best offer."

"... you suck at negotiating. You wouldn't last five minutes at an Invictus contract meeting."

"Shut up! You're a cancer, a fucking cancer. You're all ants to be walked on to get to my real goal. Housing fucking monsters, fucking Azamel, and just letting them nest? I'm going to rip out your fucking throat and film it all so your fucking bitch girlfriend can see it. And then I'm going to burn down this city, all of you, and record the fucking screams for a nice fucking lullaby to sleep by!"

Wow. Just wow. Psycho was right on the money. And, as he listened to her insane babbling, a familiar chill worked through his body, fear on his toes and traveling up his spine. This woman was terrifying. Reminded him of Athalia, hate and anger included.

Some squeaks behind him drew his attention. More rats, a dozen, and more coming in through the cracks of black, through the shadows, quick scurrying in front other cells, and more through the holes years of neglect and weather caused. More, and more, and more. They kept coming, droves of them, dozens, and then dozens more, and then hundreds. They stood in lines, rows and rows of beady eyes starring up at him. And more. And more.

He stood there, and watched the cell floor around him grow into a carpet. So many rats. His voice had carried far more weight than he'd realized, and it'd somehow echoed throughout the rats that had spread it. That wasn't normal. But, normal or not, it's what was happening. More rats came in through the holes in the walls, and many from other cells did their best to remain hidden to join his growing army.

There must have been food, rations or something in the basement of the prison, some place where they stored provisions, for so many rats to be here. Negligent of the government; nothing new there. He smiled as he watched the army grow, and felt his pride begin to swell as his army swelled along with it. It was almost enough to make him forget the pain he was in.

Would Viktor have been proud? Did he want that old monster to be proud of him? Viktor had been a powerful Kindred, even for his age. Julias was the same, better even, relative to his age. And Jack was following in that path, he knew that, and this was proof. What sort of history did Viktor have, where did his bloodline come from, did bloodline even play a factor in any of this? No one fucking knew, except for maybe the Lancea et Sanctum and their records.

Mental note: ask Damien. For now, survive.

He looked at his amassing army, and again reached down into his gut, into the pool of unlife, of energy, of vitae he had within him to enact his commandments.

"All of you, protect me with your lives."

The multitude of rats nodded. Unending, alive, an army of claws and teeth and scurrying little bodies.

"Now, come, we—" The tink tink of metal rolling along the floor yanked his attention, and he spun around. Grenade? No, Angela wanted to save the lives of her hunters.

The object rolled onto the floor by his cell. Longer, thinner than a grenade. And a lifetime of video games told him what that was. That was fucking flash-bang.

"Cover it!" He threw up his arms to cover his eyes, and screamed in agony as once again, muscles squeezed down to try and work hands that weren't there anymore. But he kept his arm there, turned around, and waited for inevitable explosion, the sound, the light. It didn't come. Instead, a loud but pale comparison to the expected noise erupted, nothing more than a muffled cry. And no light followed.

He turned around. In the center of the hallway, a pile of rats were spread about, dead or injured, and dragging their half-torn bodies across the concrete with trails of blood. The shards of the flash-bang sat in the hall, surrounded by dead rats.

He frowned, and again began to grit his teeth. Enough of this fucking absurdity.

He stepped out into the hallway, and pointed his bleeding arms down its length. His two hunter friends jogged ahead of him, each ducking into cells and readying their guns. But it wasn't them that he was relying on to get him out of here, it was his army of rodents.