collapse

Poll

What does your character do?

Blood's blood. And she's near-dead anyway. Vampire's gotta eat.
1 (50%)
Take just what you need. Hopefully that won't kill her. At least not before the paramedics get here.
0 (0%)
You're hungry, but you're never THAT hungry. Maybe she'll survive once she gets some medical attention.
1 (50%)
You've got just enough blood left to spare. Maybe giving her some of yours will... bolster her chances. (Didn't you do this once before...?)
0 (0%)

Total Members Voted: 2

Author Topic: Angel of Mercy, Angel of Death, Part 2  (Read 1253 times)

Offline Rick Gentle

  • Gangrel Playboy
  • Antediluvian
  • *****
  • Posts: 3057
Angel of Mercy, Angel of Death, Part 2
« on: April 24, 2014, 06:24:30 AM »
Yeah, it's not quite as good as the first one, and apparently it's taken me three years to publish this second part, but nobody else wanted to write the follow-up, so you get what you get!
Language. Violence. Babies. All the NC-17 content you've come to expect from my fiction.

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

Well, there's just no helping it. This whole situation was your fault, so now you've got to be the one to clean it up.
Fuck, that's a horrible way to think about rescuing a little broken baby.
You test the handle of the passenger door, taking a moment to peer up at the SUV, then gingerly crack the door open as the handle gives. It groans loudly, the hinges undoubtedly bent in the crash - at least this end of the van fared better than the whole front half. And the baby is still alive, which is more than you can say about its mother...
Propping open the door on your hip, you lean into the car to check on the child more closely.
"Hhh..."
It breathes. Just. It breathes just like your granddaddy did on his death-bed, right before your father pulled the plug on the respirator. God, it sounds creepy. You really don't want to reach your hand in to touch the baby on its little sky-blue jumper, but you do. It doesn't respond except for a hitch in its breath.
"H-hh...!
You rest your hand on the baby's back - lightly! Lightly! - as you crane in and slide your other hand under its chest. You try to lift it up without meaningfully moving its torso, but the big round head wobbles forward and in a second of panic you jerk it up in a fright that you broke it. Broke it even more.
"H-aaahh...!"
If you were still breathing, you'd get a really sick punched-feeling right in your throat. As it is, you consciously suck in a breath to steady your nerves and your hands, and ever-so-slowly draw the baby towards you. Thankfully, it keeps breathing while you do s-
*bump*
Theshitwasthat! It sounded like a car door slamming, and you're sure as hell it wasn't the driver's door!
The baby gets left face-up on the seat as you sidle backwards out of the doorframe and jerk your head to look at the SUV.
Aw, fuck. You hate it when you're right - the passenger door of the SUV is now closed. That means there was someone left alive (animate) to close it. And they probably know you're here.
Fortunately, you've got a chance. The blood in your veins surges like you got a shot of adrenaline to the heart as you move fast as thought past the passenger side of the van, down along the driver's side of the SUV, around the back, and KINKLE goes the passenger window as you bash your elbow through it. The flying glass moves prettily through the air according to your altered perception of time, seemingly as seconds pass by before the glass hits... something.
Then the shards come flying back out at you in a haze of razor edges, cutting into your face and puncturing the white of your left eye as blackness counter-attacks. Roiling shadow finishes off the broken glass around the windowframe on its way to your head, giving you a resounding slap against your cheekbone and driving a piece of glass into your flesh. It wouldn't seem like it had the leverage to get up that much force, but, fuck, apparently it does!
You stagger back a step, hand instinctively clutching your brutalized face as the shadows twist and grasp the frame of the window and wriggle like a spider's legs climbing out of a hole. Whatever is in the SUV is getting out, and for the wrong second you're stunned enough to let it.
An explosion of blackness propels the entire door straight out - and into you, cracking into your knee hard enough that you're pretty sure it breaks, doing the same thing to your out-thrust elbow. To add injury to injury, your own hand crumples into your face and your vision goes black, blacker than the shadow.
Somehow you ended up on the ground, head aching behind the sharp pain of the glass in your face and what feels like numerous broken bones in your left-hand limbs. You immediately try to heal yourself while rolling out from underneath the door - or anyway, that was the plan. Mostly all you can do is shrug along the ground and drag yourself out from under it. Finally, you crawl most of the way out and get a look at what's attacking you.
You have got to be kidding yourself. It's a teenie girl, white as white can be, strutting her stuff in a tank top and denim shorts. She's got a wicked smile on her face whose curve matches the twisting shadows she's got coiling around her arms like so many black cobras. Fuck this.
Your body thrums with power as you kick-start your vampiric super-speed again, this time also feeding the "strength of twenty men" into your arms (well, the one that's still working) as you pick up the busted door and throw it at her. Between your speed and power, it catches the teenie-demon by surprise and sends her rocketing back into the hood of the SUV. How does SHE like the broken bones?
"aaa-AAAA-HHH!" Not well, it sounds like, the sound of her short, sharp, pained scream stretching out in your ears like some bad recording. The door falls slowly to the ground, and behind it she's got a midsection as well-crushed as the poor driver of the van. That's gotta have gone through to the spine.
It's a shame for her that all your pity has been spent on the baby that she made you hurt. It's a damn shame that all your pity has been spent on the death of that baby's mother. It's a real huge fucking shame that all your pity has been spent on your broken bones and gashed eye. Yup. It's a shame, alright.
Before she can even properly crumple to the ground, you're on her, delivering a nice solid blow to her head with your working right arm, and then another one to her ribcage. Bones splinter under the force of both blows, and she suddenly doesn't have the breath - or probably the actual lungs - to scream anymore. Funny thing - neither does the baby.
It takes another few rage-fueled blows to finish her off. Once her skull goes, so does she - a smear of ash across the hood of the SUV and falling in a soft pile by the front tire.
Then the downer hits you, and you sag, wishing the healing in your knee would speed up so you can collapse onto them without doing even more damage. You lean into the SUV's open doorframe and brace yourself against the passenger seat. Whew!
But, hell, you survived! So maybe your sire was right about a couple things after all, but your point still stands, right? Hell, yeah, it does! You can take care of yourself and you're suddenly aware of how great unlife is and how stupid this all sounds to your own head. Okay, calm down just a little. There could be another fucker to deal with.
No-one in the driver's seat. No-one in the middle seat. But as you rip open the back door of the SUV, there is someone back there.
Aw, damn. Tonight's just not your night. There's another one. At least this one is fully-grown, but in about as bad a shape as the baby-child. Blonde, skinny, late teens maybe, bound and gagged and bleeding from a scalp wound. A smear of blood on the back wall probably means she hit her head in the crash. What's the word - concussed? Umm... no... You're pretty sure that "concussed" doesn't cover that much blood. At least she's not a vampire. Nope. Fully mortal, from what you can tell. Blood smells like it. Blood smells like friggin' ambrosia right now. Fine wine. Fresh steak. The only blood in the whole world, as far as you're concerned.
There's just the one problem: she doesn't look like she could survive anything more.
« Last Edit: April 24, 2014, 05:35:13 PM by Rick Gentle »
Remember: It's not the size of your fangs that matters; it's what you stick them in.