mouth is alive with juices like wine

[retconman]

WHO: MAXWELL LORD and JOHN MITCHELL
WHERE: Downtownish?
WHEN: Late afternoon/early evening.
WHAT: To catch a vampire! Accidentally.
WARNINGS: Blooood, vampirism... will edit in anything else as needed!


[ Another day, another dollar -- as some folks say, even if Max Lord finds that expression a bit dismal. He prefers thinking in multiples of dollars, and it's what's been keeping him clocking out early on the job. The thing about non-profit is that being convincing is key, and Max certainly is that. He makes his quota for the day before lunch some of the time, but he usually paces himself so nothing seems too untoward.

He washes up and indeed leaves his office an hour or two early, strolling out and whistling a little as he walks; he makes no bones about putting on a good, amiable front, and even when -- as he passes a gas station/convenience store -- a young twenty-something with a knife attempts to intimidate Max out of his wallet, all he does is pull out his handkerchief and persuade the kid to get lost.

It's easy, almost second-nature. Max mops the blood from his face, puts his cloth away and continues down the sidewalk, checking his watch to see if it's still too early to grab dinner at some kitschy diner. ]

Comments

[humanistic]

[Blood.

Hide a bloody rag in a junk room and set a vampire loose in it, and he could find you that rag in minutes. Give the same task to a hungry vampire and the time drops significantly. Adjust the factors a little more--a hungry vampire and a rag covered in very fresh blood--or even a man, bleeding--and it's not even a contest any longer. A well-fed vampire might exercise some restraint before his gluttony--but Mitchell has only come close to feeding, he hasn't actually broken down yet. The hunger that he can usually manage is running him ragged. There's too many factors working against him, and he can feel his grip slipping, little by little, day by day--

Mitchell is walking, trying to clear his head, when he smells it. Blood--fresh, and closeby. Over everything else, he can smell it, a sharp copper scent that makes him look around immediately. Anyone that's seen a dog on a scent might recognise the tension in that look--not in his eyes, they're hidden behind his sunglasses--but in everything else, in the line of his body and the straightening of his spine and the clench of his hands.

There. The man, walking. And it's like some nightmare, Mitchell barely has control. He falls into step behind the man, reversing his direction--hanging back, keeping his distance--but the smell of blood on him is unmistakable, and eager hunger quickens his step. Turn around, he orders himself, leave him, but he can't, not now, he's on this path, following him along the sidewalk, his eyes boring holes into the back of the man's neck. Any familiarity or recognition is impossible. Every spare inch of Mitchell is focused on the task of following, on the smell of blood, on deciding what to do next.]

[retconman]

[ It isn't immediately that Max notices anything might be amiss. He's not a Batman -- or even a Superman -- not the sort of man who's been trained for years to listen to the light sounds of footfalls or who's meta-genealogy could let him hear a pin dropping; if not for his metagene, the mind control, Max Lord would be a completely normal guy.

He, for instance, doesn't smell blood save for a mild scent that the air strikes him with occasionally, a faded reminder of what no longer left visible traces on his face. He was clean.

Mostly clean.

It's a balmy evening, the air more crisp than humid, and Max slows down at a corner with the intent to light a cigar. He stops entirely in order to reach for his lighter. ]

[humanistic]

[It's so easy, to fall into step, to follow along the way he knows to do. It's more instinct than intent, the way any animal would stalk its prey before striking. Not his usual style, not his usual target--evening, and not night, it's so easy to be caught when it's light out, when one glance down an alley and the glint of blood is enough.

He knows better than this. He's not some pathetic little newborn, he's got a style. But hunger is working against Mitchell, it's always working against him, and the instinct to feed is stronger than anything right now. He's been so long without it.

The smell of blood is even stronger, when Mitchell draws even with the man. His fangs are just there; his hands are bunched in his pockets. He draws out his lighter--heavy, silver--and holds it out.]

Here.

[When he looks around, he recognises the man. The drink, in the crappy palm tree pub. Mitchell smiles, thinly. That's fate for you. Fucks you every time.]

You all right?

[retconman]

[ It's when he sees -- hears -- someone approaching that he looks up, but Max places the man at the same time as he's addressed. He smiles faintly in recognition, offering over his cigar for Mitchell to light. ]

Hey, thanks. Didn't expect to run into you out here -- we're sort of in the "in between" hours right now, aren't we? Thank god for quitting early, better this than a crowd.

[ The tip of the cigar lights and Max brings it to his mouth, inhaling a drag off it before he lets smoke escape the corner of his mouth. He's not sure what to make of Mitchell's question -- maybe he's asking why Max is out early, but the guy seems a bit tense himself.

He assures: ]

I'm fine -- just finished up ahead of schedule, that's all. Are you? The smoke's not bothering you, is it?

[humanistic]

It's fine.

[Despite the tension in him, Mitchell's tone is surprisingly cool and even when he answers. He flicks his lighter shut and shoves it back into his pocket. The smell of the cigar's smoke does very little to dull the scent of blood--sharp enough that he curls his fingers into fists, that he sets his teeth on edge. That weird grimace, he tries to pass that off as something of a grin, thin and sparse.]

Busy day? What's it you do again, I forget... [And he cocks his head a little, with a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth--a flash of teeth, just a little--] Not a doctor, are you?

[retconman]

No. Charity -- I mean, non-profit. I'm a lobbyist.

[ Max grins back, but his is wider, more open. At Mitchell's okay he takes another drag from the cigar -- though he turns his head to blow the smoke out -- before he relaxes his posture more conversationally. Mitchell still seems tense somehow, but Max decides not to pry. It might be something personal, something none of his business. ]

Pretty busy, but no more than usual. Every day it's the same thing -- a lot of asking people to donate money. Luckily I'm pretty good at being convincing. [ His eyebrow arches just slightly, knowingly in spite of any other more immediate obliviousness. ] You on your way somewhere or just taking a break?