there's a bad moon on the rise.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

Who: Pascal Roland, Deacon Frost, John Mitchell.
What: Pascal and five or six of his employees get paid a visit.
Where: The docklands.
When: Late at night, Newdi.
Notes: :D
Warnings: Death, violence, vampires.

Since taking over for his recently deceased father, young Pascal (freshly twenty-eight, and baby-faced to boot) has started dressing more sharply, taking his responsibilities in the organization more seriously. He's played around a lot, but recent events have shown him that he needs to prioritize, and thus, along with five of his recent book-keeping hires, is sorting out the next collective attempt at stelanmancy. They have some interesting things they'd like to bring through the fog. Big things. He's an ambitious guy, though not as high-ranking as he'd like to be. Not yet.

The warehouse in which he presently resides is quiet, and out one plexiglass window toward the left of his corner office, he watches his employees mill around in the halls. It's not glamorous, but prestige only attracts attention. This doesn't stop Pascal from wearing a suit, mind you. He likes a good suit, he's found, and Dad would approve.

Above his head, the lights flicker all down the length of the warehouse, and he thinks they've really got to do something about that wiring.

Comments

[fuckin_thirsty]

And then the lights go out entirely.

Someone's already moving to go and rectify this, but they won't be the first casualty tonight. The first casualty was silent, or at least, silent to the men inside the warehouse; someone who fancied themselves border security now missing the important parts of his throat, red quick to empty out of him, left wasted. There'd be enough to go around, especially once the warehouse is thrown into obscure darkness, with light pollution and a moon in the sky knifing vague angles of illumination through the high windows.

Deacon likes a good suit too, but he's used to them getting dirty. Weapons get dirty too, and you can't skip on quality regardless.

There's a thud nearest one of the souls unfortunate enough to be working under Pascal Roland. Like a ragdoll, except one with breakable, smashable parts, his very dead colleague lands in a heap on the hard ground. Not a moment later, another body falls; a rattle of steel open staircase as Deacon, with a lot more precision, plummets from his perch and falling upon the employee like predator to prey. Which is actually what is happening, there.

The show is just shadows and unpleasant sounds to the others. Unless, of course, you can see in the dark.

[martyrdomoption.livejournal.com]

Which Mitchell can. He may not have been here long enough to have been affected by the Candlelighters personally, but they've managed to hit close to home regardless. When Deacon had mentioned this little endeavour, he'd shown his interest in more than a let the new guy earn his stripes sort of way.

He moves quietly and quickly behind one man, a hand clamping over his mouth, a moist noise for anyone able to hear such things, then a click. This is not done with the giddy, frenzied delight of a massacre --this is business, this is a message.

Still, there's an element of satisfaction to be had. He moves on to the next man, and the next, as effortlessly brutal as the first.

[fuckin_thirsty]

A gun fires, which is a stupid idea in close quarters and Roland may want to review the make of his employees, but all that the bullet hits is concrete, burying itself inside. The flash of light is nothing at all, and there's the crack of bone breaking and a stifled cry out, muffled when a white hand clamps over the gunman's face, long nails sinking into skin as his throat is exposed, and bit.

It is both the way Deacon tends to fight when it comes to human execution, as well as a deliberate choice, for all that the next one simply has his head rammed hard into the wall. Otherwise, this is a vampiric attack. Tell your friends.

Deacon steps over the crumpled, moaning form of his fourth kill, looking back towards Mitchell to see how he's faring. He scrapes a gun off the floor, then, indicates the office with a tilt of his head, and makes for it. Any locks on the door won't matter an awful amount, ramming the flat of his foot against the surface by way of entering it.

[martyrdomoption.livejournal.com]

Mitchell is doing a little too well for someone who had insisted he was one of the good guys only a couple of months ago, but then this had always been his forté whether he chose to like it or not. He's busy gutting someone with the knife they tried to use on him when the gun goes off.

For a moment, he contemplates pulling at entrails like a stage magician would handkerchiefs. Despite what he may like to believe, it's not just a matter of killing; there are times when he wants to cause pain. Times when he feels so hideously angry at people and all he wants to do is make them suffer.

But not right now --there are more important matters to take care of. Instead he casts the dying man aside and swiftly follows after Deacon, raring for whatever comes next.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

Pascal is ready for them. Or at least he thinks he is.

Candlelighters are not usually creatures of combat, but there's some training involved, especially given recent public opinion. He hears the screams, the thumps of bodies being dropped unceremoniously to the floor, and he knows that their security has been breached. His windowless corner office is not at a convenient angling for a quick escape, so he's going to have to get creative. He scrambles for the cabinet under his desk, fumbling a little, but managing to come up with a gun in one hand and a small handheld flamethrower in the other.

He picks the flamethrower. By the time Deacon and Mitchell have entered the office, he's sweating and shaky, but pointing the weapon their way all the same.

"What the hell do you want?" And for good measure, he adds a vampire-specific epithet. He can barely make them out in the darkness, but the faint generator light in the corner of his office provides just enough illumination to show him where the blood is tellingly centered.

At least the boy has a little fight in him.

[fuckin_thirsty]

It's true; dark red creates a dark half-mask across Deacon's lower face, staining down his neck and chest, and the skin above it is that same deathly pale despite recent feeding. He smiles wide to show long fangs, pink-slicked ivory, and eyes that are a bit better when it comes to the darkness can make out the shape of the weapon in the hands of their target.

Good show, Roland. "Easy, buddy. Look at you. You're not the kind of guy to get mowed through by a couple of bloodsuckers, are ya?"

He's in a suit and everything.

Deacon enters the room, of course, in more of a very human saunter than the feline animalism of moments just prior. Moves around its perimeter to afford Roland a little distance. The stench of human fear is almost distracting. "We just wanted to talk, you know? It's so hard to get you fuckers' attention."

[martyrdomoption.livejournal.com]

"They never write, they never call," Mitchell chimes. He's also looking more than a little gore drenched, although his eyes remain alien black. His fangs, however, are present but not on show --he's content to suck on the tip of one forefinger as he takes careful steps around the room in the opposite direction from Deacon.

The predator slink may be gone, but the instinct to circle the kill hasn't.

He's also hoping his movements will throw a small spanner in any plans for target practice and that it will create the impression that he's not paying attention. There's nothing he'd like better than for Roland to make a break for the door; getting behind him means being able to disarm him more easily and there's all the fun of dragging him back.

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

Pascal's grip on the flamethrower tightens. He's too white-knuckled to really have anything like precise aim (not, notably, that a flamethrower is exactly a precision instrument for such things). His impulses all say run even if he wants to be brave and fight. "Yeah, I can see you're really interested in talking. This is how you guys prove you're just poor innocent victims of the blood frenzy, is it? It wasn't even our fault."

He really believes that last line, by the way, and it's gritted with both his earnestness and his venom toward the vampires. They'd been pushed. They do believe the vampire should be killed, certainly, but they hadn't wanted to do something so impulsive. No, they were driven to it by something else.

And as Mitchell was hoping, he makes a break for freedom, weapon still firmly in hand.

[martyrdomoption.livejournal.com]

The trick is to let them get a bit ahead. It gives them false hope and it makes it easier to come up behind them with the element of surprise on your side. Sort of like a cat letting the mouse go, only to land a heavy paw on the tips of its tail moments later.

Not to mention few people can easily and accurately fire anything behind them as they run.

Mitchell looks at Deacon, shrugs then speeds after Pascal, grabbing him from behind and easily flinging him against a wall.

"Actually, I wasn't here for that --in fact, I'm not even flustered," he says, as if this were normal chit-chat. "But keep pushing your luck, champ, and you'll see soon enough."

[fuckin_thirsty]

When Roland makes his getaway, Deacon-- doesn't move, doesn't even break the circling pace he's taken around the room as he wipes off his mouth with a sleeve, sniffing once before brushing fingertips, tacky with drying blood, across the loose papers on Pascal's desk. His trust is that Mitchell will do his thing, and Mitchell does do his thing, and then moves.

By the time Pascal is bouncing off impact of the wall, Deacon's hand is gripping the wrist clutching the weapon. It smashes into the wall, a spurt of flammable chemical and licking flame going no where except to peel some paint off said wall before it clatters to the ground, Roland driven down after it with a shove.

Then, Deacon's boot comes down at that awkward angle of knee, and there's the gristly crunch of ligament and bone twisting, dislocating. No more running away.

No head injuries, either. There needs to be discussion.

"What, us? We're not innocent victims," Deacon follows with. Agrees, toothily. He backs up, giving space, and his hands fan out in what be a gesture of some other sort of innocence if they weren't dirty. "Maybe that's you. Enlighten me whose fault it was, Roland, and you don't have to be a smear on the ground like your dogs outside."

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

Pascal has time enough to be grateful that he didn't hit his head on the wall when he's unceremoniously tossed into it by Mitchell, but it's not exactly a great victory. Not only did he fail to make it through the door, he's on the ground and unarmed not long after. The vampires aren't just stronger and faster: they're considerably more experienced.

He doesn't have a lot of time to react before there's a boot dislocating bone from bone in one knee. Roland doesn't scream (to his credit), but there's a strangled, choking noise, and a groan seconds later, shocked at how painful it really is. Dimly, he hears Deacon's line of inquiry, but excuse him for being a bit too preoccupied to answer at the moment: he's busy curling up on the floor, clutching his ruined knee.

"Fuuuh...ck you--" But apparently that line comes to him by instinct.

[fuckin_thirsty]

Deacon's head tips to the side, as if unsure that that's the right answer. But he knows what pain does and he is willing to wait. "Fuckin' rude," he comments, lightly, digging a hand into leather jacket to take out a silver cigarette case, going through the ritual of lighting up while Pascal reckons with muscles that contracts and spasm, tugging brutal at torn ligament and broken bone in waves of pain.

A ribbon of smoke curls for the office ceiling, the white cylinder of paper marked with secondhand blood from Deacon's mouth and fingers.