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

[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.