Zesiro had chosen a fine night to hunt. A clear sky, very clear. Each star twinkled down like a tiny diamond set within the mightnight blue vault of the heavens. They all circled the virgin moon, which cast the most light from its ivory reflection. Which was why Zesiro wore his sunglasses.

He wore fresh clothes too. His old ones, covered in blood they were, would never be worn again. There would be blood tonight, though, he knew it. He longed for it and that was what gave him the knowledge.

Yes, the night was prefect.

Even against heightened police security, sneaking into this run-down area was simple. Simple for the vamire who spent more than three centuries perfecting his nightly movements. From Egypt to half of Europe in fifty years, to Russia and crossing the very ocean itself until wandering brought him here.

His claws itched. Well, his fingernails often resembled claws, not actual cat claws. He bared his fangs to the cool night air and breathed in deeply. Mortal flesh... The sweet scents of sweat and tight pores and fear. He began to follow it, crossing stoop and back porch until he found his target.

A man. Coming by his look, trying to get a mover's cart out of a rut in the ground, swearing. Zesiro smelled alcohol and anger everywhere. It made him tingle. He snuck with cautious care upon his victim, edging closer, closer...

Blood rose in his eyes and heat burst in his throat as he denied himself a cry of triumph. He took the cart and bowled over the man with it. He threw the thing aside, not caring any longer for noise or neatness. No one would come. Scared they were, scared of him. Z, the silent killer. He began to laugh.

His hands shot out and grabbed onto warm flesh. He began to tear, watching blood flow over his hands, feeling it. Sublime. A scream was caught in the victim's throat as Zesiro flung him over and once more beset to ripping and tear. Cloth and flesh and blood flew and bones cracked, vessels broke, and Zesiro rode the waves of his murderous rage.

He stepped back, panting, and admired his handiwork. That would give the coroners something to ponder about. It looked as if a particularly rabid and vicious bear had attacked the man, and let them think whatever came; Zesiro cared not.

Shad was tired of sleep. Tired of the Unnish and Innish alike needing to rest. He did not want to perch himself in a tree. No. He wanted to walk. No one was around, she he did not bother putting ON his cloak. He had it drapped over an arm while meandering the streets. The cold air felt so good to his feathers. He was glad to be out strolling verse sleeping.

Yes, he had heard of the murders. He really could care less. He could fly. He could get away. His cocky attitude was bad, but he figured he was right. He walked with confidence, though a pressing thought in the back of his head let him be catious. And anyway, he had raptor vision, and really, day or night, could see everything. His hearing was much worse, but for that his sight was all the better.

Shad heard a scream, and froze, stock still. He peered down the street to see a few black blob figures fighting... Murderer? Shad slowly aproached, hiding in the doorframes of shops. He got close enough to clearly make out the luminescence of Zesiro and the spilt blood of the victim. He shuddered, and watched with a wide eyed horror. Unfortunatly, his eyes were not watching his feet.

Clinck clinck clinck clinck clinck...

A glass beer bottle is tipped over by Shad's foot, and all he can do is mutter a few profanities. And step out into the moonlight. Maybe the murderer was Unnish, and scared to death by the fact Shad had wings. In fact, Shad spread his wings out to meet half his normal six foor wingspan. Maybe it made the little boy look bigger. Still wide eyed, he watched the murder. He kept his jaw clenched. No awe-struck dumb look for him.

Screams.

Cy can hear them. Unclear. Wet with condensation, and he knows the sound. Fuck, they all hear it, almost as bad as gunshots. Worse. Gunshots can miss and screams don't, tree falls in a forest and really, he should be turning away right now. Feet on gravel, making noise, slow-soft crunch and he can take care of himself, really he can, he can run. Running is good where he lives. Won't make you dodge bullets, though, and god he's tired and god, his arm.

Considers going back. Back to the diner, the theatre. To Fred's house. Anywhere, anything, any time but this because that noise is in his way. Palpable danger and violence, probably some mugging, low voice and the pain is easy to hear in the echoes. The echoes that curl around him around chemical smoke, and he keeps walking. Home. He deserves that, he thinks, a bed and maybe something to eat. (Gotta keep stuff around for Jamie, man. Gotta pay your own way.) There's a ringing in his ears and he keeps to the sides, the shadows. The light. Between the two in that hesitant dark space that really isn't safe at all, but he can pretend.

And then there's that noise. Everything's closer, now, alley's right there and the noise is too and he looks, because he has to. Because this might be the emotion he needs for that next performance, or maybe he's just weak. The weak ones look, he thinks, and the weak ones die.

Wings.

Wings in the light and a kid, a boy. Few years younger than him. Looks Jamie's height, almost, high-quality wings and he tries to keep going. Ignore the kid, the wings. Ignore the sound. The scream. The thrashes and the laughter, somewhere in the back, the wet sound of liquid hitting ground.

Ignore it, he thinks. Ignore it and keep walking.

Don't run, he knows. Running attracts attention. A half-step and, shit, wings attract attention. How young is he? Is it a he? And he's watching, eyes focused in the darkness. Badly. Light pollution and moonlight, slow frigid setting in his arms and legs. It's too late and cold for him to be out.

It's too late and cold for the kid to be out. And really, the kid is.. is in danger. Funny to think that, he thinks, and for a second all the shit buildings are fictional and safe, and this is some Batman comic where any second the Dark Knight'll save them.

Yeah. And the kid's Robin.

Kid's Jamie's height. From what he can see. Wings, legs. A head. And he isn't thinking, is just running before he realizes and his arm, his arm's moving too. There's such badness there and he grits his teeth, not screaming, not screaming and grabs the kid. Too close, too close to that noise and he moves. He runs, holding the kid as light as he is and, god, this isn't real.

This isn't real, and he runs. Tries to run. Hampered by wings and the acid in his gut that boils into his shoulder through veins hard and wet with fire.

Zesiro surveyed his blood splashed attire, wiping his hands on his pants. Then chuckled. Why not? He'd gone and done everything else... why not? He dipped two fingers in a congealing pool of liquid coloured like coffee in the darkness and sketched himself out a pretty flower. Pretty bloody flower.

He rose. A noise assaulting his ears and grabbing his attention. Glass on pavement. He hissed at the movement, an almost feline noise. His fangs flashed down and heat filled his throat again. Something deformed, something more twisted than him. What was that thing?

Then it was gone. He hissed again. A witness. The feathered thing could never tell, he was safe. No one would believe in a vampire. No, a slayer would. How could he tell? He couldn't. But that other one looked human. Human could tell others. Could tell others who would believe and come after him with fire and weapons. This would never do.

Zesiro bunched his muscles together and took off across the pavement. He moved a serpentine sinuous ease that carried him well on his way in pursuit of the two. Or at least the one.

He sprinted unhampered even by the weight of mortality. Infact, he shot straight past his target. And turned, rolling his shoulders back and letting his ivory fangs down from his lip to leer at them with jade fire eyes.

Shad had enough time to blink. Blink and then he was off his feet, moving with speed and this was all so confusing. He hadn't flapped a wing. He hadn't lifted a foot. Why was he moving? He pulled his wings to his back, keeping his body streamlined with the direction they were moving. Why were they moving! Who the HECK was this? Shad saw a figure speed past them as well. Oh GOD he is after us! Wings extend to their full wingspan, slowing down whoever the heck was pulling him. Heels attempt to dig into the ground. They hadda stop. The man beared his teeth... No. His fangs... They were gonna die.

"STOP!"

More for himself than for the man who had dragged him this way. He jerked himself back, and turned to flee. He threw the cloak over his wings, for God only knew he would probally scare half the town into thinking a mutant bird was the cause of the murders. Little did he know, his Savior THIS time had been Unnish. Unnish and probally going crazy. Better to flee.

Shad could run damn fast when he wanted to. And he did, other way, past the body, and if fate would have it, slipping on the glass bottle. It shaddered, and he hit the pavement with a loud thud. All air escaped him, and he took a sharp and very painful breath. His knees and hands were skinned painfully, his chin cut up and bleeding, his whole body aching. He didn't get up. Just lay like he fell, breathing and waiting. This was it, huh. End of his life.

Wings against his chest and he can't breathe, can't move, violent thrashing and he hits the gravel. Hard. Tries to roll but doesn't think fast enough and he can feel the flesh tear across muscle, veins exposed and raw. White cells cascade into his elbow, where a piece of plastic has embedded itself an inch in.

Same elbow as the arm. Same arm as the shoulder. And this time he does scream, just keels out with the noise and doesn't think. Doesn't think about the boy, or the pursuer. Ran too fast. Ran too fucking fast, him not him, and the throbbing in his ears only heightens when he manages to close his mouth.

His back had hit first. And Cy can feel it. Bruising. Contorting into the shape it had been on the moment of impact. His side, then, where the hipbone aches and he caught himself on his elbow. Tried to. Elbow's bleeding, he can't see the plastic, and his back.. is exposed. Doesn't think. Doesn't think to move, even as the adrenaline pours in.

Shattering glass. Familiar sound. Car alarm. Hates the noise, cacophony, thick immense intrusion in his skull. Can't breathe, where he is, arm against his side and in his head he's still screaming. Screaming and thinking Jamie, who should be asleep at home in the relative safety that childhood provides.

God, his arm.

Both mortals down. Zesiro fought back a laugh. He hadn't lifted a finger, so he must have been just good.

This time he did chuckle, sheathing his fangs under his lip and striding languidly to the closest of the two, Cy. He placed a cool, dry palm on Cy's spine and fixes him with a glass emerald stare.

"That was very gallant of you... trying to save the pigeon and everything, but-"

He frowns, pinching the skin beneath the clothing with his nails.

"Stop yelling for Christ's sake, you're hurting my ears!"

His fangs are back, the polished toe of his shoe near Cy's temple, his lithe body folded neatly with a knee hovering an inch over the ground very close to the downed rescuer.

Shad lay on the ground, listening. Screaming, and it hurt his aready pounding head. His rescuer being murdered? No... No, the thing... The vampire was still speaking to him. Calling Shad a pidgeon. Pidgeon...?

"Awwww... I am not a fucking pidgeon..."

Muttered almost unaudiably while he painfully climbs to his feet. Head is swirling, and glass crunches under his feet. He turns to see Zesiro over Cy, his back to Shad. The screaming... Must... Stop... One swaggery step towards them, a hand to his chin, wiping the dripping blood off. Eyes lock on the vampires back. He straightens himself, and takes steps towards them again, not showing that his knees still hurt from the fall.

"I am NOT a FUCKING PIDGEON."

One foot is let fly at Zesiro. He didn't care if he'd likely die for that. He was no dirty bird, and he wouldn't take that. Not at all. And maybe, beneathe all the stupidity of this, he bought his rescuer a second to get away while the vampire turned on him.

He stops. Screaming. Moving, thinking, stops breathing as if maybe that will help. And he lies still. And he hurts.

This, he thinks, this the nightmare he's having at Monroe's. His face against the counter, maybe, or in the crook of his arm and it smells like a dream. Like blood and exhaust fumes. Like that slow groan he makes when the hand touches his back, torn flesh with strawberry burns, is all just him. Snoring, maybe. (He doesn't snore.) Dreaming. Wheezing in the grease from that place, that dream of a place and the waitress must be too polite to wake him.

Because this? This wouldn't be happening. Not now. Now on some dark, wet night with bootleather against his face. Not with the knowledge that he hasn't yet forgiven the stage manager for that crack last year, or the lighting guy when he asked (they aren't supposed to ask) if he was allowed to be there. And god, it's petty. And because it's petty, it can't be real.

Armed with this knowledge he moves. Can't breathe, not yet, feels like his lungs have burst inside of him. Weight on one arm, the good arm (he never wanted to have to say that, the 'good arm'), his head bowed. He knows this dream. Knows that to wake up he has to submit, or hit bottom, or die. All the same. That falling dream, off a ladder off the moon and he remembers that pride when he learned how to wake up. To feel the impact of his own body against concrete and that vise in his chest that means this, this is the end. You're awake. You're safe, and you've lost another life. Like playing Mario.

Cy had a friend, one time. This kid. Typical Junior High geek, nothing special, but he had that look. That haunting, hunted kind (JC Superstar, he recognizes). Played video games down to the last life, last heart. Down to the last hitpoint, because he insisted then it wasn't just a game.

Can't remember where he's started or ends, can't move past that aching biting ache of a bite (god, his arm) shooting across his side. Sides. And there are words, too, words that aren't his but he's internalized it. That's what he does. To survive. So inside himself, and to himself, and wrapped up in the world he must have encased himself in (this isn't real I read the headlines must have thought of it must be asleep, god I'm asleep) he speaks. Tries to. A dry swallow raw and metallic and he's talking, slow loose words jarred against his teeth and gums.

"..pidgeon."

There was more, in the beginning, more that must have gotten lost along the way. But it's out, and he's waiting. Waiting to wake up, waiting so intently he doesn't hear that rush of air. All that movement and glass, shattered in retrospect (he's shattered in retrospect) and the boy gaining in. Boy wearing wings. Beautiful things, those wings, and he closes his eyes to see them more clearly.

Zesiro turned in time to watch Shad's foot come flying. To watch Shad's foot connect with his chin and to laugh as his head barely jerks. The boy had a solid kick, he would grant him that much credit, however.

"That was very brave as well, pigeon. You've got some spunk..."

His free hand shot out, grabbing Shad's opposite leg and yanking him onto the ground. He is now in his crouched position between the both of them, one hand on Shad and one hand on Cy.

"How lovely.. two brand new friends all to my lonesome. Should I just kill you like that fellow up there, or drink your blood slowly? I'm rather hungry... but at the same time... killing you does sound rather rewarding. Any suggestions from either party? The polls are open.."

He's on a power-high and enjoying every minute of it.

Shad just blinked as his foot actually hit and did nothing. There was nothing he could do. Just... Blink. Then gasp as he hits the ground, and lets out a muffled moan of pain. Delicate wings crushed against the pavement. God it hurt... He understood now why his savior had been screaming. Shad squeezed back tears as the pain fired through all the tendons of his wings. His head had hit the ground as well, but that didn't seem nearly as painful.

The polls were open, and Shad said nothing. Just grimaced and tried to roll over. Anything to get off his wings. He pushed his free foot against Zesiro as a brace, and rolled himself onto his stomach. And his wings throbbed with pain. Something had to be broken in the right one: it slid off his back limply. His left wing twitched and Shad let it fall over like the right. Let someone see them. He didn't care now. His cloak was tangled around his body, twisted up and not covering anything.

"Kill me... I'd sooner die than help you..."

Shad rested his chin on the ground, then jerked it back up. It stung still, from his previous foolish fall. No. He'd have to rest his head on his cheek. Which proved better, for now he could see Cy and Zesiro. Another thought.

"Kill me... And let him go. He didn't do anything. And people'd just call him crazy if he said that he knew the murderer was a vampire. They'd lock him up sooner than they'd lock you up..."

He falls silent again, letting himself try and heel the pain by doing nothing to aggrivate it. He breathes small, slow breaths, eyes on Zesiro's grip on Cy.

Long, low whine. Deep in the back of his sinuses, nasal sort of growl. Plea. Words coherent in his head transfer to soft gasps of air, small syllables interspersed. Stop, and go, and no. His hands at his sides, his own sides, as if to hold the ribs in, push the hand away. Offending hand, and the body next to his is providing heat. Slow instant realizations, not paying attention and when he squirms, the pain gets worse.

He can't hear them, fully. Vampire-word, and go-word, and the soft cajoling voice of a young male. And Cy's distracted further by a liquid against his cheek, ache in his mouth. Copper taste.

The whine increases, deep-loud, and his face contorts with the effort to further shut his eyes.

Zesiro watched Shad squirm, letting Cy move his hand. He stood, tilting his head back, his eyes shining brightly. He was laughing softly again.

"This is just like some little fairy tale to you, is it not?"

He was speaking to Shad with passive slowness. He smirked.

"You're the brave ickle knight trying to save the poor.... well... you could have picked a better princess."

He gave a single bark of laughter, nudging Cy with the toe of his shoe. He raked fingers back through his hair, letting it fall, spikes limp.

"I don't think I could let either of you live. Mortals or not, you know of what I am, and this is not permitted. I really ought to kill you on principle, but I haven't decided so if you'd like to start running now I'm giving you a sporting chance."

He paused with a smirk.

Ice crunched underfoot. Carelessly, the heel of a black dress shoe pressed through the thin layer of frozen water collected into a rough pocket of sidewalk. Another step, the rubber sole hitting dry cement and followed by the other. A shorter stride, a longer; perhaps the owner of the rhythmical feet was performing a mild dance with his pace. A waltz that slowed, and then stopped, as a coppery promise of death was caught on the breeze.

Marcus paused beside a lamp post, fifteen feet away from the scene, and considered as his eyes scanned over it. Here was a vampire, and two mortals, one quite a bit different than the other. Marcus shifted the violin case in his hand, his thin fingers walking the leather-cased handle over their tips.

Here was the vampire, the one behind the recent massacred bodies that had been decorating the headlines, an ulcer to EGO and the Innish. For just a moment, a sort of chilled fury raced through Marcus’s veins, and then seemed to evaporate with the heat of a recent meal that also coursed through the vessels.

He continued on his way toward the group, a very pale man clothed in pricey evening dress, instrument swinging loosely at his side, earphones looped around his neck, and a dangerous gleam to his eyes.

’Zesiro. If you cannot play nice, do not play at all.’

The statement was not audible to the mortals. The words formed of thought entered the other immortal's mind only, and Marcus watched him, his gaze intent, his expression relaxed.

Shad would have hissed if he could. No, instead he made a rather crude growling sound, lashing his words out against Zesiro's taunting remarks.

"If I wanted to be a knight in shining armor and save a princess, I wouldn't be wasting my time with you. And I most certainly would be saving a princess like hi... Hi..."

Words faded off into nothingness, and he stared towards the figure that was making its way here. A soul. A living soul that would call the police. That would have them come save a winged freak of nature and a bloodied whining mortal from the clutches on the city's madman. Thank god someone would.

And Shad just blinked, letting his forhead knot in pain and confusion. Why did he just stand there like the body behind them and the blood before him was nothing!? Why did he say nothing? Rich guy, by his looks. And a musician. Violin or viola, by the case and size. Shad shook his head slightly. Help...? Please? Words didn't come. Just a slightly open mouth, and a slightly shaking head, from a slightly quivering boy.

The whine breaks, shatters, falls to a manic rhythm somewhere like laughter. Grating sound and his hands keep moving, against the ground or the men or himself, pushing the air away as if it would burn him.

Knights. Nights, or knights, he can hear the words and that means they're talking, doesn't it? Busy, trying to escape, <i>he's</i> trying to escape, escape is movement and movement hurts. He hates them all, hates them all, is twisting against himself trying to move and movement, movement hurts.

A hand against the foot, foot against him. Violence. Violence is movement (silence is violence?) and everything is wet and cold and hurting. And he can smell the bootleather, feel the heel (unmoving) against the heel, his heel, heel of the hand. Weak push. Knuckles aching and he's making noises again, less like laughter and more like dry heaves or sobbing.

Zesiro sensed, felt, heared the presence before it was quite made known. But he did not raise himself from Cy until the message invaded his sadistic thoughts of ripping and tearing and blood and other such subjects. He rose to his full height and rolled his shoulders back to a ruffling of his nondescript clothing. Not entirely a superiority conflict, but more an instinct. He almost wanted to appear less.. like Sabbat before the opposing immortal.

He fought the urge to hiss. Uncivilized as it may be. This one was older. Much older. He tilted his head so his glassy eyes were hidden behind his wilted bangs.

Who are you and why are you interrupting me?

Conveyed in the same mind-to-mind manner. He was aware of Shad and Cy as well but less. The new being, new immortal, new vampire was intriguing him. And paining him. The only other male vampire he had seen since this arrival in the City had been his brother. Zesiro balled his hands into fists and tried to decide on a plan of action. Kill the mortals and run, kill the mortals and wait, run, or wait. Decisions, decisions...

He could feel the pain of the mortals, the physical and the mental. The words whimpering for assistance that would not come to the winged boy's lips were heard in the mind. If his control had been less, if his heart that much softer, his calm expression would have faltered, and his eyes would have met the victims' with gentle promise of deliverance from their plight.

As it were, nothing about his physique changed. Pale green eyes shot with silver still watched the immortal, seeking to meet the gaze hidden beneath the dark hair.

His hair, Marcus's hair, was tied back from his face, the wavy light brown locks tied semi-securely at the base of his neck. The few fly-away strands were lit from behind by the street lamp in a perforated halo to the perspective of those who looked at him head on.

He stood shorter than the other, by a few inches. Long, black frock-style coat brushing his knees. Violin case jigging over his fingers again as he smiled thinly.

'My name is Marcus. I interrupt because I dislike to see the innocent so wrongly treated. It is not right that they should suffer for your despair, Zesiro. That we all should.'

Shad didn't need any other invitation. Not one by the distraction to the killer, not one by the killer, and not one by anything else. He jumped up, as if to leave. Pain seared through his shoulder, his wing, his arm ached. His chin still stung, still leaking bits of blood, though most was dried over. He froze, and cringed. Grimaced. Fought back the tears he so despreatly needed to cry. Not here, not now. He turned, again painfully, to run. Three steps away, and he stopped, clutching his arm. It was the closest thing he could clutch without touching his wing, which was hard enough to touch even when he wasn't in pain. He also stopped because he forgot something.

He didn't WANT to be the knight in shining armor, but he couldn't let Cy be left there with the two people standing, just watching each other in silence. The Distrator was probally innish of some sort. A god, perhaps? Maybe they were mind talking. Whoever he was, he was keeping the Killer distracted just long enough...

Shad pulled on the arm of Cy. The one that was closest. Maybe the hurt one? Maybe not. Shad wasn't being all to gentle either. More rushed and spastic. He wanted out of here. Now. And the guy who originally attempted to save him was in need of rescuing. Pay back a favor with a favor, eh?

Guttural breath, exhalation, spots of (blood)? Lips tight, dry, pulled against his gums and teeth and the smell of the ground is worse, on his stomach, hurting rolling moving away from the man, standing man, standing men.. standing boy, his arm still out to the attacker, his arm, fingers curled in where the boot was. The foot was. Trying to remember things, details, already lost when the hand comes. Comes to his arm. Good arm, but not good enough, and rolling onto his stomach turns into drag, dragging through the gravel. More dirt in his skin, on him, gravel inside, contaminated blood and it burns. Car accident victim, he's thinking, this is how it feels and he tries to bring the hand down. Hand attaches to his arm, his arm, the arm bleeding less hurting less dragging him forward.

Stands, tries to, his back won't move or respond and his shoulderblades have connected to his knees, thighs, unresponsive and he must have hit his tailbone, too. Feels everything too strong, too tight (sensation against blood, nerve endings pulled taut) and he's trying to stand, really he is. Trying to move but is mostly, mostly dragging. Feet scrabbling for purchase against the ground, good tread but it's worn, worn-down boots that slip against wet blacktop. Grip tightening, reflexive. Ignoring the tear along his back, feels like something fragile breaking, old wounds opening. He doesn't have scratches there, not recent, but there's wet heat along his side and something's wrong. His elbow sticking to cloth, his cloth and the ground, standing and hurting. Moving, trying, because the only option right now is to escape.

Zesiro was vaguely aware the former prey was moving. Motoring both on feet ad not. He now ignored them. He now no longer cared. His eyes were on this immortal... this Marcus who had come and effecitvely stopped him. He could not bear to look and averted his gaze.

This whole world should suffer. It is foul and evil at the roots and like a tree infested with worms it should be removed and thrust into the fire. My brother took not the blood of the innocent and yet they saw fit to have him destroyed. I cannot continue forth in such a universe so unjust as condone parting brothers... my brother... from me for my eternity. You may savour your life and freedom and your music, but do not attempt to stand in my way.

Zesiro felt tired. That was a good deal of thought to be conveying to anyone, and he felt a throb against his frontal bone to suggest he should quit at some point. The murderous light had left his eyes and he sunk to pondering the origins of the other immortal, trying to gather the fleeting scraps of information retrieved by their mental correspondence.

Surface thoughts, easily received by Zesiro, changed order. They were originally of the present; the two mortals, hope that they move a little more swiftly. Yet at the mention of the lost vampire brother, the moment was replaced by a deeply rooted past. Not forgotten, just seldom thought of.

A sister. A beloved sister, lost to death as he, Marcus, was born into darkness. No name to be overheard. Merely a strong presence in the elder vampire's mind, a deeply loved presence that brought gentle compassion for the other to his eyes.

'You cannot have lived for so long without knowing that life is never fair, and becomes less so as such events that teach the lesson compile over the years.'

He inhaled deeply, and exhaled in the same fashion, also offering a small, sad smile. Words of the same warm and understanding volumes as those spoken in Zesiro's mind continued vocally.

"This is not the way to deal out vengeance against the world. No matter how many you slay in cold blood, it will do nothing to change the injustice you and everyone will suffer. Fate is a damnable bitch whose disposition against us all cannot be swayed."

Shad paused a moment as the man scrambled to get to his feet. Pulling on his arm tighter. He took in his breath rather sharply, forcing back tears. He said nothing. He wouldn't let himself admit to the pain. But it was too great. Tears spilled silently. He didn't whimper. He needed to. He had to. He had. To. Go. He tugged on Cy again, and started to run again. This time, he avoided the glass of the broken bottle. But he stopped again. Why couldn't he keep going?

They actually spoke words. Through pain and discomfort, through fear and energy, he was curious. He heard the words, and understood. They had to have been having a silent conversation. And now a piece of it was spit out. And this stranger seemed to say that this... This killing was for an injust reason? Oh, how Shad needed to know the reason. Nosy or curious, whichever you'd call it, he had to know. He let Cy go, and aproached again. This time, he did hide, without the noise of the glass bottle, in the door frame. He disappeared from the vampires view. He doubted he was safe, but at least now he could listen. And cry softly, without the eyes of people on him.

The arm fell, <i>he</i> fell, fast collapse against the wet grit and the aftershock rummages through his bones as if looking to wipe out last survivors. Hand up, down, weight shifted. Too far away from the boy to use him as leverage, and the clinical part of him is cataloging wounds. The shock of ground against flesh, muscle, revitalizes Thomas in ways he tries to ignore. Sentience, self-awareness, the sore tug of his knee which is bent, not broken. Bent.

There are words - real words, again, out loud and he grasps onto this. They know language, these men, this boy. Pigeon-boy, and he could communicate if he tried. Awareness seeping from body to mind, and it hurts less and he thinks more and the pain is almost as bad.

"..naillin.. hanup?"

The words slur, worse than before as his teeth chatter, chin dangerously close to wet asphalt. When he speaks there's more, more blood on his lips and pain along his face, stretching tight muscles, shifting the things that hurt. He clears his throat, tries to, more for theatrical effect than need, the desire to enforce his own competency with this situation - this situation that seemed to revolve around his life and death. Adrenaline made him careless, shocky, and he couldn't bring him himself to turn to face them. The column of his throat aches, newly aggravated.

"If we're.. not killing me, can I get a -"

Short exhalation, head back to crack his neck. His body is turning numb to itself, and this above all else is a bad sign.

"- hand.. up?"

The plea is a lie, and neither shoulder can likely take more abuse. He does not insinuate this, and does his best to appear to wait patiently, arrogantly.

Zesiro closed his eyes and furthermore turned his head away. He did not want to listen to the rational thining of Marcus, or face the truth of what he had been doing. Cold blooded murder. Such an uncouth hobby. But when one can drape it behind the curtain of revenge it is very easy to take any life. He deemed to follow suit and spoke aloud.

"Life is pain. From one day to the next. This entire world is caught in a macabre waltz and from the moment of birth until the moment fo death, each person dances to the tunes of the dead before them until their blood boils and their limbs break."

What he said made no sense to him; he did not bother to see if it made sense to anyone else.

"Fate..."

He laughed. It was a joke. Somehow. He laughed again, blinking and smirking, his lips closing until only mad titters escaped.

"Life is pain, yes," he agreed, bluntly, in a conversational tone, while setting his violin case neatly on the ground.

"Yet if we do not feel the pain of the dance, how are we to know that we are still moving?" He slipped his expensive coat off, folded it four times, and set it atop the instrument case.

Approaching the fallen man, he continued to speak to the vampire. "And I would not laugh at Fate if I were you. She doesn't appreciate it." He got down on one knee, and put one arm that likely felt like it was made of marble under the mortal.

"However, I can't quite believe that you are just coming to the conclusion of what life is now, when you've had as much time as you have to learn its meaning." He hoisted the mortal into his arms, not entirely gently, and stood to face Zesiro again.

"Everyone lives life, and suffers by it. Some do as you have, and try to share this knowledge with others in a more... obvious manner. But the majority accept it. Enjoy what they can. Help others to do so, if subtly. Is that path so much more difficult to follow?" Smiling, faintly, over the man in his arms, who was now set on his feet again.

Shad desperatly wanted to know... Had to know the first part of the conversation. But it wasn't spilling. The killer... Was in pain and this was how he dispelled it? Close enough. Shad reached to help Cy up again, tears not yet gone from his face, but was cut off by Marcus. He blinked clear the tears in his eyes and watched silently until Marcus let go of Cy. This left Cy to standing freely, and the man seemed to be having trouble doing that. Shad gripped onto the base of his arm, and steadied him in case he were to fall. He watched the two vampires converse a moment, but now he felt an aching need to go. Go back to the conservation area. Get L'arancia to heal his wing. To heal him. Maybe drag Cy with him? No. That would slow him down. And it hurt so bad.

Shad gently tugged at Cy to start walking. He looked back at Marcus, and spoke a hoarse whisper through a jaw clenched in pain. It sounded so little.

"Thank you..."

Another more urgent tug on Cy.

Doesn't respond to the words, the men's words, melodramatic and confused. He follows the pace half-heartedly, measuring cadence and body position. It all looked rather scripted, overly thought-out. Too calm on the surface, but the boy and he were hurt. That wasn't allowed, was it? You weren't allowed to break character but you couldn't let the other ones hurt, no, not at all, and maybe the lift up was proof of that. Unsteady on his feet, vertigo as the ground stretches out before him like the aisles in the house. Tilted and slick, and he swallows convulsively.

The men talk, continue to talk, the boy wearing the wings approaches (hurt but he can't tell where, wings must be attached by a chest strap, why doesn't he take them off?), leaning him. Properly, standing, except the kid just looks worse. Can't accept the weight. He feels like an ass, leaning on this kid, trying to remember which way his knees bend, trying to catalog the reactions of the others. Out of such immediate danger his mind skips to the less imminent - getting inside without waking the others, taking a shower to clean out the cuts. Wash off the gravel. The sheen of sweat along his neck, nervous and earthy with the lingering smell of gutterwater. He could go to Fred's, he thinks, Fred who wouldn't mind and probably wouldn't notice, Fred who had no running water and bare mattresses.

"Ow," he says, conversationally because he thinks if he stops talking he'll forget how altogether, worse than the knees because this is a skill that might not come back. Communication, the dizziness in his head. Tunnel vision, intermittent, the ground stretching out in an inescapable sky.

"Which way?"

Asks, slowly, making sure the words are in English. They speak English, he thinks, they must. The boy does. Pigeon-boy, and there's another short burst of giggles, mostly internal and choking up the back of his throat. Kid must live somewhere closeby, even if he doesn't have the right instincts, and Cy wants to get him home. Get him home while the other two stay distracted. He can recognize them, recognize them as predators both, and even the lesser of two evils compounds danger.

Zesiro watched Marcus, eyes narrowed, left shoulder twitching almost invisibly.

"Maybe we haven't. Maybe we've all just stopped and are simply waiting in the endles abyss for something to come and swallow us up or by some means destroy us. What are you doing?"

He all but demanded of Marcus' setting down the case and his coat. By that he meant, "what are the motives behind your actions". He could plainly see what Marcus was doing.

"Fate's fucked me over enough. I'm getting rather used to it."

He mumbles in reply, pupils following the other vampire's every movement. He watched Marcus help the mortal. It made him somewhat sick. He bard his fangs very briefly. It was his prey being handled. Yet he did not move. Marcus was old, undoubtably stronger. It would have been the proverbial suicide, he feared.

"I would imagine what life "is" to be objective. Perhaps I have come to the conclusion and the meaning; you simply do not agree."

He remained stationary, though it was difficult.

"It may not be difficult for you. But we are very different, you and I, as I am sure you have observed. You have also undoubtably observed that we react to our experiences in different ways, and that we, on a whole, seem to have a different opinion about things. Perhaps, therefore, it might be wiser for you to simply leave me alone."

The very last few words came out in a snap, as if he had intended to say something unlike it originally and changed his mind instead.

"Ah. But you see, I fear I cannot." He watched the feathered boy and the man out of the corner of the eye nearest to them. To Shad, short mental words are spoken.

'If you truly wish to thank me, hasten your steps.'

Outwardly, the flow of speech continued as he unfolded his coat and slipped it neatly over the now blood-stained dress shirt worn beneath. "I am unable to simply 'leave you alone' now that our paths have finally crossed. Not unless I can extract a promise from you regarding the well-being of this city's citizens."

Marcus pressed his lapels smooth against his chest again, then bent briefly to retrieve his case. As he straightened, the smile was gone, his far-seeing eyes serious with a trim of threat. "You will become responsible again. The mindless slaughter will stop. Any you kill will be to fulfill your immortal thirst, and their bodies will be appropriately disposed of: Out of view of mortal cameras and police reports. Are we agreed?"

There seemed little need to suggest what the implied 'or else' after the question specifically was.

Shad let Cy lean on him, and did not make a motion to let anyone know it hurt. That it was hard to hold him up. He just tugged Cy away down the street. Walking too slowly for his comfort, but this was all his comfort could take. Still tearing, still throbbing with a pain he could not fix. If he could take off the wings, he would. And they wouldn't be hurting if they were strap-ons, so even then he'd have no need.

Shad heard Marcus in his head, and panicked. Just the intrusion of the thoughts was enough to make him realize what they were near. Vampires. Big, scary, immortal, blood-sucking vampires. He nodded to no one, and quickened his pace. Cy had to move too. Shad was, unfortunatly, going to resort to dragging if the young man didn't get his feet moving.

"Which way? Anywhere... Just get away."

The small voice held a tone of assertion. He was taking control of the situation. He was going to get them out of this. And if they didn't get out alive, then that was his fault as well. Maybe a little of Cy's. He was the one with the wobbley legs and the stiff knees. But he might also know a place to go... A place Shad could dump him, and disappear back somewhere.

"Do you have a place in mind where you could go?"

They reached the curb, and Shad paused. Half a block from the vampires. Think. Just think.

Zesiro pulled his lips back in a snarl.

"Cannot? Cannot? This is not your place to chose..."

He watched Marcus firmly, unfaltering, eyes narrowed to almost deadly points. Yet he could feel his superiority in the situation waning. His prey was escaping, and all he could do was stand there like a marble-carved figure and gaze, albiet angrily, at the elder vampire.

Were these orders? He straightens. His clenches his fists. He is ready to fight. He will not be ordered about by any strange vampire. He will defend his own decisions for they are his. Until he makes the mistake of looking into Marcus' eyes.

Serious. He could no look away. As serious as Odion, as serious as Senusnet, named for the pharaoh, his beloved sire. He gave a low groan, a tremble in his voice that escaped his lips like molasses. He made claws of his hands and tightened both shoulders. He tried to look away and finally succeeded in closing his eyes.

"Agree... agree..."

He sounded as if he were arguing with himself, the audible half wanting to lie sides with Marcus. He twitched as if stung, twisting left and right and then moaning again.

"It is so great... Oh divinity, my thirst.. it will overcome me."

Why did Marcus, ancient, powerful, undoubtably wise, why had he mentioned the thirst? He felt the weak, childe longing. The slaughter, the kill lying only yards from where they stood, the dead blood spilled everywhere. Zesiro began to shudder as if weeping. He was reminded of the time Odion brought him prey. Fresh young men unknowning, longing for redemption. He had been too weak to leave the safety of their sanctum and so his brother fed him. The blood had been warm beneath the sickly-sweet smells of the cool skin.

Zesiro cradled his head in his palms for a moment, then cried aloud in his grief and tore at his own flesh. The shreds of his clothing fell to the ground, his body rent open across his chest and arms. There was no blood to bleed.

"Odion... my brother... my dearest comfort; they have stolen you from me forever."

"House."

Hand up, out, overbalanced and the arm tilts, he tilts, catches himself on the ball of his foot. Tired, aching. Adrenaline half-gone as they walk farther, trying to point to the apartment complex he's in. It's only two blocks away. Cy doesn't fear the alleys anymore.

"Or.. Fred's.."

Fred's shack is maybe a block in the other direction and then a sharp turn right, and if he's coming home with some kid Fred's place has more room and less questions. He'd have to watch him, though, doesn't trust Fred's houseguests and the kid keeps limping in different directions. Worse off than he is, he thinks, even if his arm has been reduced to a hot numbness.

He doesn't point, but his head reclines backwards.

"Fred has.. stuff."

First aid stuff, adrenaline shots. Lube. Air freshener. Not much else, not much that's legal. Insulin, in the icebox. Sometimes.

Thomas's trying to watch the kid, look past the wings (the smell itches his tonsils, animal and dusty), assess the damage. Everything's mental, at this point, ignoring the body and ignoring the ground except for fast spikes of worse pain, left side held rigid even as he leans. Walks. Can't run but tries to keep up, pigeon-boy keeps getting faster. A jerky exhalation of grey air.

"How bad you hurt?"

A hand points to House. House was good. That way, Shad wouldn't be dumping Cy somewhere were someone else had to watch him. Then again, someone else watching him might not be so bad. But Fred has stuff. Shad could only guess as to what stuff. And his guesses were probally misled and very twisted. Maybe House was best? What if Fred's was closer? But backwards. Towards the vampires.

Shad released Cy carefully, and took a step back. Bad idea. The wing that was broken had been hanging limply off his body, the flight feathers grazing the ground. The heel of his sneaker caught them, trapped them, and brought the already broken wing down further, a second snap signalling that the wing had now been clean broken off. The skin around it was all that held the mass of it there.

Shad gasped, flinched, and let out a muffled cry, thrusting his weight off his wingtips and back onto less painful ground. Hands over mouth. Don't scream. People watching. Can't cry. Boys don't cry. Boys that cry are weak. The axioms of his time growing stronger in his mind. The axioms that he had been taught in a type of hypnopædic trance of life. What did he say to the man he was fleeing with? 'Everything is fine. I am fine.' He couldn't even get a word out, muffled cries choking out all chance of communication. Try again, Sally Jane. Try try try.

"I... I think I... I broke something... That's all."

Whimper whimper. Sob. The wing in question lay behind him, three feet of it streached down, the other foot dragging on the ground. Dammit. If he wasn't obvious before, he was obvious now.

"Go... Anywhere."

He gave up trying to be the knight in shinning armor. He couldn't even move. Screams were caught in his throat, tears causing his face to shine in the moonlight.

Marcus observed, patiently, as Zesiro sought to defy his order and was defeated by his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, and then slowly closed it again as anguish overran the other.

He knew, now, that he had perhaps been too harsh with his manner of exerting his power of age to gain the younger vampire's obedience. Too rash, as well. The digits of his hand performed the waltz of consideration with the case again as he continued to watch, to hear the troubling groan, to nearly feel the shudder that perhaps longed to be tears.

With the ripping of fabric and shredding of flesh, Marcus felt something within him bend in sympathy-- no, closer to empathy. Memories of a slaughter no prettier than that which Zesiro had been conducting on the city rose to his mind. Granted, most of those that Marcus had reduced to mere pools of blood and ribbons of flesh were the alleged killers of his sister, but the women and children had most certainly not been directly guilty.

"You have been lucky to have someone to share eternity with for so long a time. She who I had hoped might accompany me in mine was taken while I was gaining that infinity for us. The ache of her loss has never healed, even after all of these years." A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he lowered his gaze to the sidewalk for a moment, watching a strip of torn fabric drift and then become caught on a rough patch of cement.

"But, time has made it bearable. The difficult part is getting past the emotions-- the rage, the sadness, the overall anguish and the constant turning of memories. Once that has all bled out of you, you can begin to rebuild yourself. I had my sire to aid me."

By this time, he had lifted his eyes and closed the distance between them in the least threatening manner he could manage, appearing to be walking past. He hesitated, though, when he was a half step away from being beside Zesiro, and raised his hand to be lightly placed on the other's shoulder. "I am not your sire. But if you need to talk, I will be there."

The hand was dropped, and he continued past the other vampire.

Zesiro ceased dismantling himself to look at Marcus. His eyes were flat and hollow and his arms slowly dropped to his sides, hands relaxing. His biceps and chest ached now, fiercely. It was cruel irony he could feel the pain, but nothing else. He tilted his head, picking up more information than he bargained for with this one.

He continued listening in silence, lips parted, eyes sliding to the fabric on the ground. His shirt. The fourth he's ruined. He would need to get more soon. He straightened. He could think of nothing to say in regards to Marcus' loss. He knew little to begin with. He could not bring himself to probing the other vampire's mind.

"My sire is gone. Senusnet... he took my brother and myself to a coven. We stayed with seven other vampires for about ten years before humans discovered us. When they came, they brought fire and killed four of our ten. Senusnet among them. Odion and I left with the other four, but we do not know their fates after. Before the sun rose we dug holes in the sand and covered ourseleves from the light."

He was not looking for pity. His tone did not say he was. His eyes did not say he was. No, rather, he was trying to tell Marcus. Almost... trying to make an excuse. I'm misbehaving because my sire's dead, so you can't yell at me. Haha.

Zesiro felt the weight against his body for one moment, then frowned and sighed. He did not feel like lashing out, like ripping and tearing and killing anymore. He felt like asking a question. His body shifted, turning on his heel to watch Marcus.

"... How long?"

How long does it take for the pain to go away. His eyes misted and he tried to pull what remained of his shirt around him.

Cyril isn't strong, strength of mind or stomach or nerves, swaying as Shad steps away and watching the buildings tilt on their axis. Watching the kid, but a half-second too late and the wing's already gone, torn and dangling like the awful broken thing that it is. The sound nauseates him and he tries to step back, wet footing and he stays upright but his neck is forced towards Shad, forced to watch him. Dribbles of blood, dark blood, thick deep-from-the-inside blood that Cy knows means serious injury, skin translucent in the streetlight and Cy's tonsils burn with bile.

"Fred's," he says, fast and he forgets himself for a while, can ignore everything but his arm which he lashes to his side with sheer strength of will. The pressure aches, white-hot burn, but the smell of blood along his throat is no longer his own and Shad is heavy. Too heavy to pick up but there's a try, aborted quickly, impossible to get a hold on the kid without touching that wing. Doesn't think about it, either, the wing. Doesn't think about the feathers that are falling out, falling without glue stubs on the end, no fabric underneath but a hint of skin. Pulse. Organic things, maybe, and Cy's arm slips under them, best it can, supporting the bases and the child's back at the same time, walking him perpendicular down a dark side-street, angling back the way they came. Same direction but with a line of buildings between them and the men, or that's the plan if he can only make himself move. His arm is warm and wet and he knows that feeling in a vague second-hand way, knows there's something wrong there, both arms now but only one makes his teeth clench with each whisper of sensation. He's in charge, now, trying to walk the kid and maybe failing and that's all right too as long as he's pushing in the right direction and maybe still lucid. Not thinking, not listening past the (mercifully deafening) rush of blood inside his skull.

Marcus paused, two or three steps past Zesiro, and thought over the most reasonable answer. He related the question to himself. How long had it taken him to get over the loss of Lavinia? Had he truly gotten over it?

"There is no set length of time," he answered quietly, gazing distantly upon the broken sidewalk once more, his back still to the other. "It really depends on how long you allow it to linger, how often your thoughts double back to your loss. If you can keep yourself busy enough, occupied with other things, then the pain will gradually numb."

He sighed heavily, giving his head a brief and sad shake. "To tell you that it will ever stop hurting entirely would be to lie outright."

One blink. That was all it took for Shad to register that the man before him was horifed with the snap. The snap of bone. The bone that was supposed to stay together, for now there was no bone holding the wing to his body. Just skin and muscle to hold up something near ten pounds of bones and muscles and feathers. But shoulder muscle that was strong with use. Maybe it wouldn't tear off... Oh god would that hurt. But Shad couldn't help but think, 'It couldn't hurt more, and hell, it'd get better faster.' More stiffled sobs are released, and then a yelp.

Ouch. Wing. Hands touching wing. Burning. Like fire. So hot. So cold. And dragging too. Shad's feet responded to the movement by moving with wherever they were going. He heard the words Fred's. Fred had stuff. Shad wanted that stuff. Anything to get rid of the pain. Let it be legal or illegal. Pain. Must. Go. Away. A few more whimpers, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Why was he crying? Boys don't cry.

((Ack, short... My apologies...))

Zesiro listened and did nothing to stop the wave of despair from washing over him. He closed his eyes and wore a very twisted expression. Something between malice and sorrow. He felt a strong urge to snap about not quitting his rampage until he washed the pain away. In blood. That would be powerful, meaningful. True. At the same time, it could also end in his regretting it very strongly. There was a good chance Marcus was stronger, faster, and much more resilient to attacks.

"Well.. I suppose since all I have done is kill lately, I'll have to find some oyher way to occupy myself."

How. He did not know. He idd not know if he would even follow through with that. Part of him longed deep within to screw his owns words and kill again. He wanted that brief release from everything but the sub-level animalistic urges and pulsings.

"One should not lie."

Even if he lied to himself daily. Or nightly.