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fandomweekly2017-01-09 12:54 pm
sealrat) wrote in fandomweekly2017-01-09 12:54 pm
Entry tags:
[#27] The End of it All (Original)
Theme Prompt: #27 - Flophouse
Title: The End of it All
Fandom: Twice Bidden (Original)
Rating/Warnings: Blood, reference to violence
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 939
Summary: Devin makes it through a critical fight, but not without taking a beating. Takes place prior to the events of Exception to the Rule.
There weren’t many places that would open their doors to you while you were trying not to bleed on their floor. Going to a hospital was out of the question - failing to have a heartbeat would get him noticed in an instant - and he was too far from the doctor who had grudgingly patched up his wounds in the past.
Devin limped through the dimly-lit hallway, one hand pressed to a deep gouge in his abdomen. The ceilings were low and sagged in places where water had clearly leaked through the roof, here and there the tiles beginning to rot through to expose wiring and pipes. The walls were thin and the wallpaper was yellowed and peeling, making the original pattern nearly indistinguishable. Beneath his feet, the carpet was worn and stained, and all of it reeked of cigarette smoke and despair. The odor clung to every surface like a limpet, a clearer message than what Dante saw entering hell: abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
It wasn’t the sort of place he would be easy to find, had he left anyone alive to find him. The occupants of other rooms and the stench of poverty were a shield unto themselves, and the desk clerk would keep his mouth shut for the right price. A flophouse wasn’t ideal for tending to his wounds, either, but it was better than out on the street. His risk of infection was low, seeing as he was mostly dead.
The vampire fumbled with his key for a moment before gaining access to the room. It was a little cleaner than the halls and showed evidence of being scrubbed raw to keep it that way. He locked the door and tossed the keys on the narrow bed, then headed to the bathroom. It smelled faintly of bleach and cheap soap.
Carefully, Devin lifted the bag he was carrying onto the counter and began peeling off his blood-stained clothing, hissing when the movements strained the torn muscles of his abdomen. Aside from the stab wound, he was fairly certain he’d cracked another rib and bruises would be blooming all across his chest and face by morning. His lower lip was cut from the beating he’d taken, but fortunately his clothing had protected him from getting more scraped up than that. The superficial injuries would heal on their own, but the gash in his side was going to require a little hackneyed surgery.
Most vampires could heal this in a matter of minutes. Devin couldn’t, and it was the only aspect of being unique that he really didn’t like. With his shirt off, he could again see all of the scars he’d gained over the years: uneven circles where bullets had ripped through him; claw marks and long, thin slices from other knives and daggers; the jagged, ropey scar over his heart left by someone he thought he loved; the criss-crossed hash marks covering his back, evidence of his father’s hatred of him; and the massive burn that hid half the scars from being whipped, earned when he demonstrated hatred of his father in return by killing him and burning down their house.
Vampires weren’t supposed to scar, but Devin did. He’d had to learn to tend to his wounds at an early age, because no one else would help him.
From the duffle bag, Devin removed a pair of blue neoprene gloves, a small bottle of lidocaine with epinephrine and a sterilized syringe. He also pulled out a bottle of iodine, some gauze, scissors, a sterilized surgical needle and sutures, and placed them on the counter together.
Devin examined his wound. It was about an inch or two long; deep, but no major veins or arteries were cut or he’d have bled out a long time ago. He could only hope the knife had missed his organs, too, or he'd have bigger problems. The vampire moved efficiently to numb himself and then sew the gash shut, but he couldn’t quite stop his hands from shaking. It hurt to stand, but it would hurt more to sit and have to get up again, so he stayed on his feet until he’d finished poking the needle through his skin for the last time.
Deciding to clean up the mess later, Devin shuffled slowly to the bed and lowered himself onto the thin mattress, wincing as he came to rest on his back and could finally relax.
This was what a successful mission looked like: vampire targets all dead, Devin alive. The harm to his body was an acceptable risk, and his scars told a story of survival. Despite the dirt and the dim lighting and the uneven floor, despite the bowl of congealed peppermint candies on the nightstand and the water stains in the ceiling tiles, this wretched little room may as well have been an oasis. He would live to fight another day.
And this mission was more important than most. He had critical information about a vampire alliance growing in the New England region of the United States. Vampires were intensely territorial, and a coalition like this was extremely concerning. They were making a move, and so it was time to make his.
In the bag Devin had brought with him was also a silver envelope, addressed to one Lord Michael Dudley - the vampire elder Devin had just killed, along with his entire entourage. Devin grinned, the expression feral and unrestrained. Now he had what he needed; all he had to do was find the group of hunters in New York that he’d heard whispers about, and the end of it all could begin.
Title: The End of it All
Fandom: Twice Bidden (Original)
Rating/Warnings: Blood, reference to violence
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 939
Summary: Devin makes it through a critical fight, but not without taking a beating. Takes place prior to the events of Exception to the Rule.
There weren’t many places that would open their doors to you while you were trying not to bleed on their floor. Going to a hospital was out of the question - failing to have a heartbeat would get him noticed in an instant - and he was too far from the doctor who had grudgingly patched up his wounds in the past.
Devin limped through the dimly-lit hallway, one hand pressed to a deep gouge in his abdomen. The ceilings were low and sagged in places where water had clearly leaked through the roof, here and there the tiles beginning to rot through to expose wiring and pipes. The walls were thin and the wallpaper was yellowed and peeling, making the original pattern nearly indistinguishable. Beneath his feet, the carpet was worn and stained, and all of it reeked of cigarette smoke and despair. The odor clung to every surface like a limpet, a clearer message than what Dante saw entering hell: abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
It wasn’t the sort of place he would be easy to find, had he left anyone alive to find him. The occupants of other rooms and the stench of poverty were a shield unto themselves, and the desk clerk would keep his mouth shut for the right price. A flophouse wasn’t ideal for tending to his wounds, either, but it was better than out on the street. His risk of infection was low, seeing as he was mostly dead.
The vampire fumbled with his key for a moment before gaining access to the room. It was a little cleaner than the halls and showed evidence of being scrubbed raw to keep it that way. He locked the door and tossed the keys on the narrow bed, then headed to the bathroom. It smelled faintly of bleach and cheap soap.
Carefully, Devin lifted the bag he was carrying onto the counter and began peeling off his blood-stained clothing, hissing when the movements strained the torn muscles of his abdomen. Aside from the stab wound, he was fairly certain he’d cracked another rib and bruises would be blooming all across his chest and face by morning. His lower lip was cut from the beating he’d taken, but fortunately his clothing had protected him from getting more scraped up than that. The superficial injuries would heal on their own, but the gash in his side was going to require a little hackneyed surgery.
Most vampires could heal this in a matter of minutes. Devin couldn’t, and it was the only aspect of being unique that he really didn’t like. With his shirt off, he could again see all of the scars he’d gained over the years: uneven circles where bullets had ripped through him; claw marks and long, thin slices from other knives and daggers; the jagged, ropey scar over his heart left by someone he thought he loved; the criss-crossed hash marks covering his back, evidence of his father’s hatred of him; and the massive burn that hid half the scars from being whipped, earned when he demonstrated hatred of his father in return by killing him and burning down their house.
Vampires weren’t supposed to scar, but Devin did. He’d had to learn to tend to his wounds at an early age, because no one else would help him.
From the duffle bag, Devin removed a pair of blue neoprene gloves, a small bottle of lidocaine with epinephrine and a sterilized syringe. He also pulled out a bottle of iodine, some gauze, scissors, a sterilized surgical needle and sutures, and placed them on the counter together.
Devin examined his wound. It was about an inch or two long; deep, but no major veins or arteries were cut or he’d have bled out a long time ago. He could only hope the knife had missed his organs, too, or he'd have bigger problems. The vampire moved efficiently to numb himself and then sew the gash shut, but he couldn’t quite stop his hands from shaking. It hurt to stand, but it would hurt more to sit and have to get up again, so he stayed on his feet until he’d finished poking the needle through his skin for the last time.
Deciding to clean up the mess later, Devin shuffled slowly to the bed and lowered himself onto the thin mattress, wincing as he came to rest on his back and could finally relax.
This was what a successful mission looked like: vampire targets all dead, Devin alive. The harm to his body was an acceptable risk, and his scars told a story of survival. Despite the dirt and the dim lighting and the uneven floor, despite the bowl of congealed peppermint candies on the nightstand and the water stains in the ceiling tiles, this wretched little room may as well have been an oasis. He would live to fight another day.
And this mission was more important than most. He had critical information about a vampire alliance growing in the New England region of the United States. Vampires were intensely territorial, and a coalition like this was extremely concerning. They were making a move, and so it was time to make his.
In the bag Devin had brought with him was also a silver envelope, addressed to one Lord Michael Dudley - the vampire elder Devin had just killed, along with his entire entourage. Devin grinned, the expression feral and unrestrained. Now he had what he needed; all he had to do was find the group of hunters in New York that he’d heard whispers about, and the end of it all could begin.
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