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five thousand users fed today

Who: Fish, Deacon Frost
What: Something goes wrong in Spatters, and no one is surprised. Except the people involved.
Where: Spatters, in one of the not completely terrible blocks.
When: Shundi evening (OOCly: the 4th of December).

It stopped raining when the sun went down, which is good news for night life.

City lamps paint illumination off puddles, where they've collected murky on the sidewalks and water makes the streets seem made of ink over asphalt. Ramshackle residential buildings, businesses that barely limp along, and those that don't have anywhere indoors to go are what lines the roads. There is, at one stage, the rather unusual but very sharp sound of horse hooves clapping down the road, a rider directing steed through space otherwise occupied by cars, but gone again like a ghost.

The predators are more silent, keeping to the shadows, but they're present too.

Somewhere.

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Everywhere.

Or so you might think upon observing this citizen, hunched up in his autumn layers and his skinny ripped jeans, a mildly unfortunate pink-and-purple scarf swinging over his shoulder, as he hurries his little ass through the neighbourhood. It's not that he's running, but he's got the shoulders-up, head-down, hands-in-your-pockets, looking-purposeful act down pat, hoping to seem only in a hurry and not like all he wants is to be left alone. Because that's all he does want.

He keeps his distance from puddles, takes little hop-steps up curbs, crosses the street to avoid people when he can. This is shit, basically. Damn that jerk for living so far away from this canton's only El station—no, actually, damn himself for caring enough about said jerk to come all the way out here, and for not having the sense to leave before the end of dusk.

When Fish turns the correct corner to seal up his journey, there's the crackle of electricity, the thud of a warm body.

It's unfortunate timing, stepping straight into the clear just as, not so far down the road, a taser is pushed into the soft side of the very being he had come to see, as if to confirm all of Fish's more pessimistic expectations in the sum of a split second. The street is otherwise empty save for the two figures shoving the limper silhouette of the former Valhalla Inn stay-in into the side of a car that had its wheels removed and windows smashed in on some other evening.

Not quite unconscious but seizing up all the same from jolts of electricity, the unfortunate victim crumples into the gutter, and one of the attackers takes out his CiD.

"Oh fuck— hey!"

Honestly, shouting is not the ideal reaction, here. He should have run, just turned and booked it out of there, and this occurs to him just as the impulse to raise his voice has taken physical effect. He already looks that special kind of regretful—the panicky kind, the kind that says, wow, clearly I didn't think this through beforehand—before the sound of his voice dissipates fully.

And so, like a pro, Fish stands there, not sure if he should run now, or charge them, or call somebody (who would come out here anyway), or... stand there. He looks ready to do something, sort of, he's just not sure what.

Boy, does he ever feel small right now.

Somebody does something for him.

Primarily, a boot plants itself in the small of his back in sudden kick that does more to bluntly shove than cause sharp injury - it's strong, too. And whoever did it was quiet enough and/or fast enough to position themselves accordingly. There's the sound of a car door, and also approaching foot steps, wolves come to circle. There's the warning snap and crackle of a taser, a flash of light nearing.

"Hey," is wry response in a much quieter and earnest tone than Fish's initial panicked bark, and one of them laughs. "A twofer, gentlemen. Let's pack it up."

Huk is approximately the sound Fish makes as he's punted forward, stumbling immediately into a sort of forward-leaning run that barely keeps him on his feet. An acrobat he is most certainly not. To his credit, however, the spook lifts his head as soon as he's no longer in danger of a nosedive, and with his hood half fallen-down, the black mess of his hair peeking out, he... uh, well, he fails to appear unmoved by this gang of toughs. But he's trying!

It seems like a foolish choice at this point, but Fish wants very much to get closer to his unfortunate friend over there—oh, to hell with it, he's going. Without a word, he just bolts toward that derelict car (and without superhuman speed, too, you cheating jerks).

"Get him?"

This is Deacon's suggestion, lilting up into sarcastic query, his voice somewhere behind Fish - despite delivering a sneak attack kick, he isn't inclined to do more of the practical dirty work. Whatever help he's hired, however, don't move in the same preternatural acceleration.

Heavy footsteps fall behind Fish, and rough hands go to grab the back of his jacket. This particular breed of violence is strong, lazy and arrogant, with the intent to wheel him around, deliver a punishing punch.

Fish doesn't recognize our friend Frost at this point, likely because he's both unobservant of the network goings-on and sort of busy freaking out at this time. As soon as he catches a glimpse of the guy's face, though, it will be saved like a snapshot to his memory. And then he'll draw unflattering pictures of him and post them all over!! ...no. But he'll do something.

That can come later, though—first he has to get manhandled and smacked around. It may take a bit of effort to land a good hit, though, as Fish becomes the squirmiest little person the instant he feels that yank on his coat, attempting to keep his skinny flailing arms between his head and the fist of his attacker, grabbing and slapping and squawking.

"Don't— lemme go, you fuh—" He goes silent upon being struck.

There's an exclamation and sigh both of disgust at this, frankly, embarrassing display-- Jesus Christ-- as it is altogether too loud, too unwieldy for Deacon's taste. Time to end it - this one's too fucking squirrely to take along for the ride.

By the time Fish's words have been cut in half, that somewhat stronger presence is back to interfering. A hand grips hood and hair both to pull Fish into straighter poster, other hand gripping the front of his jacket in steely ease. Deacon is, in actual fact, not much taller than Fish, if even that at all - but this isn't particularly unusual. It's good for your posture when they're not littler than you, anyway. The growl in Fish's ear is close to canine but definitely human; Deacon's fangs are not, and they'll probably be sinking into flesh soon without proper motivation to do otherwise.

Not so far away, there's the growl of an engine, the rattle of a vehicle being dragged along by it.

Stature aside, the vampire is stronger than Fish, and he knows it, which is why he makes no further attempt to shake off his assailants just now—it's not like he's willing to have his head wrenched around, but he doesn't much fight it, either. His feet are still under him, and he grasps the fist at his chest out of reflex. Eyes squeezed shut. Lips pursed tightly.

And then this jackhole is grumbling sweet horrible nothings so uncomfortably close, and so Fish turns his head as best he can—toward the would-be diner, not away—to spit a mouthful of thin, cold ichor at his face. It's the colour and consistency of ink, tastes vaguely sweet, and carries a vile cocktail of infectious pathogens.

Surprise!

It's a failing of coming from a world where the vampire/human binary doesn't allow for anything more creative. While Frost was alive, anyway. Considering his hunting ground of choice, it's a mistake he could stand to make.

Less.

Preternatural rumbles transform promptly into very human complaint, all syllables and no words, because ergh is easier to say than what the fuck. Frost is shoving Fish away from himself as one might when realising they'd picked up something awful and dead (and he kind of had), hands up to smear the liquid from his face, spit it out of his mouth to splatter dark and inky on the pavement between his feet.

For a few seconds, Fish is quite free - unknowing of what the fuck themselves, the two goons automatically give him space. Their ride is approaching, a pick up washing headlights over the pavement rumbled around the corner.

How convenient. This is the perfect moment to make his escape—or it would be, at least, were Fish thinking of escape anymore and not outright flinging himself bodily at Deacon while he's distracted. It's bad enough that he's been sitting on his feelings for months now, living in a state of perpetual fear and anger that rivals anything he felt at home—on top of it all, now he's being attacked by someone who should be on his side. So, fuck it. He's had enough.

Fish may not have preternatural speed on his side, he may not even possess actual fangs, but his teeth are sharper than they look and the PSI of his jaw well surpasses that of any baseline human. It's nearly triple that, in fact. Taking a bite from him is comparable to being savaged by an angry dog. So...enjoy, buddy, whilst this supposedly easy target now tries his hardest to put his teeth someplace soft, spewing flecks of bilious black.

There's a flash of blue eyes gone wider, that inky, diseased fluid a black smear across moon-white face, and then a flash of snarling fang by the time Fish is all up in Deacon's business.

Vampire blood is red, it should be an obvious note, at least when it comes to Frost's breed of vampire. It doesn't run as warm and it tastes ionised and bitter. Fish is rewarded with a mouthful of it when his mouth finds-- Frost's arm gone up in protection, fending off the monster's fangs from somewhere more important, but he can feel the bones strung between elbow and wrist cry out beneath the clamping pressure that pierces through skin and muscle. He doesn't cry out, but he does snarl.

"You little fuck--"

It takes that supernatural strength edge and a certain amount of carefully not giving a fuck that has Deacon wrenching his arm out of savage bite, leaving behind shreds of fabric and flesh in the process. He's moving fast, the back of his other fist flying with the intent of rearranging Fish's face.

While his features stay more or less where they're meant to be, the impact does at least put some space between the two of them. Fish goes down easily, in fact—although he is not quite out of commission, despite the bark of pain and the complete loss of balance. Totally okay with the negative dignity score that comes with landing on his ass, Fish sits forward almost immediately to spit the bully's own gore back at him, purely out of defiance.

See, you jerk, he's not even going to eat it. And this guy eats roadkill, so that...might be insulting if Frost even knew that. Whatever, details.

Looking fierce in the way only a desperately fearful creature can, his face a slick mess of red and black, his own dark blood now streaming freely from a tear next to his closing eye, Fish is already primed to scramble back to his feet.

There was a catchy phrase that Deacon got to know moments before he died messily all over the Blood God temple, and it went something like: some motherfuckers always trying to skate uphill.

He has the good grace not to say it out loud, anyway, barely even checking on his people, disinclined to ask for help as he smears his sleeve over his face. They're occupied, anyway, uneasily settling about their original task rather than mess with whatever diversion Deacon's gotten himself into. The truck's pulled up and the limp body of acquaintance is basically being levered in the bed of it, a crinkle of tarp not the most dignified sound to go along with the whud of flesh meeting metal.

Frost mostly watches to see if Fish is gonna go for it, but not for long - he only waits until the other supernatural being is just off his knees before a few long(ish) strides bring him up closer, flashy Italian leather burying into Fish's stomach with solid kick to send him some few feet away.

"I could do this all night, champ." But not all day. His shakes off his hand, thick blood splattering on the ground beside him where it runs freely from open bite. He won't be using that arm, either.

And away he goes, as ever a slave to momentum, rolling ever so gracefully to a stop on the wet asphalt. After not so long, he's lifting his torso from the ground with both arms, he's spitting again, he's flipping the hair out of his eyes. Half-sitting in a puddle. His scarf's fallen off and his shoelace is untied.

"Big deal," he says, and it sounds just as wet as it looks, his mouth still glossy red. "I could do this forever." That's probably a lie, but it sounds good coming out, and as he drags his feet into a rising position once more he's feeling pretty ballsy about it. (He also feels a little like crying, frankly, but uh, that can wait.)

"You fuckin... jerk."

Wow, Deacon might need some medical attention for that ice burn.

That gets rough, dry sounding laughter. Not much, understated and insincere between fangs, canines long but not bloodied - it's Fish that got his nibbles in, even if said gore is on the ground between them. Smile and accompanying mirth is quick to die, however, tempering into irritated impatience. "Run home, kid, before I tear your fuckin' spine out," Deacon advises, standing between Fish and truck before judging the former is ready.

He scrapes a step back, in the kind of wary backing off that predators do when they really do not trust the other animal to do the same.

There. Fish rises again, looking a total mess, and once he's widened his stance he's even able to keep steady on his feet. Possessing a comparatively low center of gravity has its perks sometimes. Times like now, when falling over would be both inadvisable and embarrassing.

"Try it," he says, and maybe it doesn't sound incredibly convincing, but although his voice just squeaked like he's fourteen again and he's begun to shake, he is holding his ground, so maybe that counts for something too.

Ground is cheap, relatively speaking.

"It's been real."

With Fish only barely standing, Frost deems it a good time to turn on a heel and head for truck, nimbly leaping into it to become one with the amorphous shadow of silhouettes, a flare of lighter light glimmering among them. The truck bed creaks beneath the added weight, the engine gutters, and it goes to pull away, Taking with it the sound of swearing, hissing conversation.

Well. That's...not even remotely a victory, since Fish did get his ass handed to him, and a friend of his was just kidnapped and will probably die now, but then again, he does still possess his spine. So that's good.

Fish waits until the red taillights have gone out of sight, and a little longer after that, and then goes to retrieve his scarf. Its soggy and bloodied state upsets him, though, so after dragging it around for a short time he decides to leave it on a curb.

Fuck this place, basically. And that one guy, whoever he is. He's gonna get it real bad. ...Whatever, no he isn't, Fish can't do anything and he knows it. But he'll think about it a lot while he's sulking under his bed in his shitty attic with his face halfway mashed against a pillow.

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