Alan leaned against the door of the diner, eyes scanning the patrons there, glancing at his brother who meekly sat down at a table and began to examine the menu. It didn't sit well with him, the way his sire was brainwashing Edgar on a nightly basis, even if it made dealing with him a little bit easier. Now, here they were. About to have a late-night dinner. With...the absolute last person he'd wanted to see in the world, hiding behind a bar stool as if that would somehow protect him. He bit his lip and remained silent, no longer having the will to attack or try and fight with Quinton, but still not liking this one bit.

"Ahh, Samuel, come out and have a seat please, we need to have a little conversation." He sat down smoothly, crossing one leg over the other, "Sit." He motioned for Sam to sit across from him.

"Look, man," Sam held his hands up in front of him, "I swear I wasn't...I'm not following you guys anymore, alright? I just wanted some coffee...that's all…" He continued to stand, despite what better judgment he probably had.

Quinton raised an eyebrow, "Sit, Samuel." He ordered, meeting his eyes, compelling him to oblige.

Sam pressed a hand to his forehead, mirroring what was likely the headache Edgar had complained to Alan about just after a particularly direct order from the master vampire. He'd like to think he'd feel sympathetic right now, if he cared anymore.

The moment Sam sat, Quinton released his hold, sitting back in his seat, "I would like to believe that, really, I would, but I just can't bring myself to think this isn't Providence that I found you here."

"Providence? Like...like Jesus or God?" Sam's eyebrows shot up, "dude, I don't think they would've planned this kinda shit."

"Very well, call it fate if it pleases you. I find it fortuitous that we encountered each other. I didn't want to let you go, no, not you, but I'm afraid I was left with no choice. Now, however, well, I won't be making the same mistake twice." He paused, "I will give you a choice, however."

"Okay. I don't even need to hear it, I already know what I'm going to say. I promise I'll go home, stay in Santa Carla, stay away from shit-suckers for the rest of my life...I'll even get an Art degree...or...a job at a souvenir shop."

He chuckled softly, "No, that isn't an option. Your choices are as follows, you can take Edgar's place, I don't require two servants after all, and he will be turned, or I turn you and Edgar remains human."

"That's...that's a tough call," Sam stammered, eyes darting about nervously.

"You have a little time to think on it, for now, however, I'm feeling a little peckish."

Alan made a mental note to make a phone call, the minute they crossed state lines. That was, of course, right about the time Sam jumped off of his stool and dived over the counter, shoving the kitchen door open and darting through into the back of the restaurant.

"...Shit," Alan sighed, glancing apologetically towards the dumb-founded waitress.

"Alan, would you be so kind as to collect him for me?" He shook his head with a sigh of disappointment.

"Yeah. I got it," Alan reluctantly pushed away from the door and crossed the diner, leaving Quinton to, what would no doubt be, a very big meal. He'd probably be too busy chasing after Sam to fucking get any of it.


David relaxed back in his chair, it was about time to return to Santa Carla's nightlife and he was looking forward to it. Michael and his little trip to find Sam had relaxed his fledgling and David couldn't be happier. Generally, they preferred to stick with round numbers...but the escapade with those teenagers wandering into their domicile recently had convinced them enough time had passed. The boardwalk was calling.

"We should get a chick," Marko called down from the ceiling he was dangling from, battling it out with Paul over a bet about who could handle the birds agitatedly pecking at their feet the longest. Paul was just barely hanging on with one foot, so he wasn't likely to win.

"Why?" Dwayne shot back, "They're nothing but trouble."

"Well, I mean...make her feed this time around," Marko replied, crossing his arms.

Michael rolled his eyes, flipping through an auto magazine, reclining on the couch, "it's crowded enough already."

David nodded, "Why do you want one anyway, Marko? The last chick you brought home kicked you in the balls."

Paul grunted, reaching up to bat away a few of the birds, "maybe he likes having his balls k-" Marko slugged him in the shoulder, sending him flying towards the ground. He barely had enough time to recover, avoiding a fairly nasty crash, "you dick!" He snapped, settling his feet on solid earth.

"I liked Star," Michael lowered his magazine, "before she ditched me. I liked her."

"They're fickle, I liked Star when I met her but it didn't turn out well...I suppose one good thing did come out of her at least." David leaned against his fist, elbow propped up on the side of his chair.

"You know, what we could do…" Paul mused, flopping down on the side of the fountain and drawing his feet up so he could examine and pluck at bits of caked-on feathers, "it'd be good for a laugh. Maybe make a game out of it…"

Dwayne glanced over at him and snorted, not even bothering to ask. Any idea that came from Paul was bound to be the retarded stillborn of a harebrained thought. Hardly worth listening to, much less worth saying.

David rolled his eyes, "And what exactly is that?"

Paul grinned, "if Marko really wants one, let him pick one. Bring her back...give her a couple of days...three...four...come up with a bunch of crazy shit for her to do, and if she finishes all of it, then we turn her. Proves she's worth keeping around, and even if she isn't...it'd be fucking hilarious to watch."

Their leader looked thoughtful, "I don't want to turn one but we could have some fun with one for awhile at least."

Michael tossed his magazine to the ground, "you guys are dicks. Just throwing that out there." Even years after the fact, he was still a little sore about the maggots and worms. Gender didn't really mean anything. They clearly fucked with everyone.

"I'm not," Dwayne looked offended. "I'm practically a saint."

"Liar," Marko snickered, biting the thumb of his glove. Stubbornly clinging to the perch above them, even after beating Paul.

"So...when are we going out?" Michael glanced over at David, shifting on the couch to make room for Dwayne as he cross the lobby to drop down beside him.

"Now sounds like a good time, it's a nice night, let's go have a little fun with the locals." David cracked his knuckles, getting to his feet, "After all, they don't know what they've been missing."


Burgers popped and sizzled on an open grill, while girls in cheap bright skirts and highlighter pink bikini tops floated around the patio at the burger shack, and a crackling radio announced the latest billboard hits before being swiftly interrupted by a quick news update about the attack or 'accident' over in Belleview.

"Authorities are still uncertain what exactly happened in Nancy's Diner last week...suspicious activity...animal attacks…" The voice faded in and out, battling with a dozen other signals for attention, "will not be releasing any further details...conclusive...tragedy...twelve dead…" Finally, the cook reached over to switch the station, and the news anchor lost her battle with Nicki French.

Dancing carousel lights. A ferris wheel spinning to the beat of the live music pumping out of boardwalk speakers. All the while, the girls in the cheap bright skirts skated away from the burger shack patio, and the eery echo of multiple revving bike engines hailed the arrival of the first bikers anyone had seen around Santa Carla in years.

Five young men pulled up and parked as if they'd always been there, as if they belonged. They slid off their bikes, taking in the sights. Three blondes and two brunettes stepped away from their bikes, onto the wooden planks, their boots thumping against the ground loudly.

The one in front was dressed in a worn leather trench coat, his light blonde hair cut short, spiked up slightly. There was an odd familiarity about him to the locals, but for the few who paid him any attention, they simply dismissed the idea with only a mild sense of wariness.

The girls in the cheap bright skirts twirled on their skates as they passed him, smiling to each other before dashing inside a small souvenir shop, giggling and poking each other in the shoulders.

They didn't look like the sorts of boys you'd bring home to meet your parents. Even one of them, who a few people actually recognized as the moody young mechanic who would occasionally service their station wagons and pick-ups. But there was something different about him now. He seemed more at ease, happier, than he had working at the auto shop. Judging by the company he was keeping, too, he looked like he fit right in.

A pair of bald punks watched them stride across the wooden slats of the boardwalk, passing a joint back and forth and whispering to each other, one of them eyeing a particularly nice set of boots worn by the brunette in the back with the commercial model hair.

The blonde in the loud vest grinned at them, giving a little wave as they walked past, it seemed like their interest had been spotted.

"Think we can take them fags on, Benny?" One of the punks whispered, screwing up his face as he tried to hold his breath in for a few extra seconds before finally coughing up a breath of acrid smoke.

"Yeah, no problem, they all look like pansy-asses."

He passed the joint back to Benny, covering his mouth and laughing under his breath, "get a few of the guys together, then, see where these ladies head off to...probably get a few bucks for one of those bikes they came in on…"

"I want those boots too." He grinned, "Beat the shit out of them, take their stuff, not like they deserve it."

"It's our city anyway," he agreed, "our beach. Our waves."

"We'll teach them." He nodded, "Let's go get the guys."

They pushed off of the building they leaned against, while Benny managed to just nudge the last member of the biker gang before they disappeared in the crowd. He chuckled to himself as he glanced down at his brand new set of keys.


Quinton let out a long sigh, he had given Sam three hours to decide who was going to receive the blood and he was still being stubborn. He looked at Alan, beckoning him over. His fledgling reluctantly complied, practically dragging his feet as he approached, avoiding meeting Quinton's gaze.

"He is stubborn, isn't he?" He questioned, looking over at Sam and Edgar.

"Doesn't want a liquid diet, I don't blame him," Alan replied, staring down at his feet.

"Perhaps it shouldn't be his choice, perhaps it should be yours."

Alan jerked to attention, "what?!"

"Since Sam is unable to decide, someone else should make the decision for him. I already know what I would choose, however I don't want to be the one to decide. Therefore, that leaves you. Which shall it be, your brother or your friend?"

He clenched and unclenched his fists, "I think you should give him more time," he responded through gritted teeth, biting back as much of the resentment in his tone as he could.

"Three hours isn't enough? How much time should I give him?"

"Maybe you should just let them go. Just tell them not to follow us. I'm pretty sure they'd listen," even to his own ears, it sounded like a pretty pathetic response.

"Try again, Alan, you know the reality of the world." He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, "I have no intention of letting either of them go."

"Why not?!" Alan demanded, and then took a hasty step back, "I...I didn't mean that…"

His eyes narrowed, "Alan, do we need to have another lesson?" He warned, looking at his fledgling. He wasn't broken, but it could be arranged if he persisted in his little outbursts.

"No. I'm good," Alan replied hastily, "I'll...I'll go talk to them…"

"See that you do."

They'd found a small house, unpresuming. Rundown. The middle-aged couple who lived there were tied up and locked in one of the bedroom closets for a late-night snack, if the need arose. There really wasn't much time to hang around, given Quinton's apparent need to cut a swathe through the places they were going. So, Alan knew he'd have to make his choice quick. Whether he wanted to or not.

Pushing the bedroom door open, he strode inside and summoned up his best game face, grinning down at Edgar and Sam tied down firmly in a set of dining chairs they'd drug in from the kitchen, "how you guys holding up, huh? Get you anything? Coffee? Tea?"

"Aspirin," Edgar groaned, his head slumping forward. The trances were really doing a number on him, now. Alan wondered if he'd be able to convince his brother to stop fighting so much, if it meant keeping him from hemorrhaging.

"How about you, Sam? Made up your mind?" Alan crossed his arms.

"I can't! Can't you help us, do something? Alan, I want to go home."

"You kind of blew the last chance I gave you, dumbass," Alan sighed, rubbing at his temples. "He'd kill me if I let you go, you know that? I mean really...kill me. Permanently, this time."

"I was going home! Michael and David came and untied me and I was going home! I just...I wanna see my mom." He bowed his head.

Alan rolled his eyes, kneeling down to pat Sam on the cheek, "you should have gone home right then and there. What the fuck were you thinking, stopping at a diner...or anywhere...until you got right back to Santa Carla? You knew we were out grabbing a bite to eat. Seriously, Sam...you're supposed to be smart."

"I was hungry and tired and I needed coffee, asshole!"

Alan glanced over at his brother, and then right back at Sam. He made his choice. "Don't worry about it. After you eat, you'll feel a lot better," he told him briskly, striding towards the door, "sorry, Sam. Maybe you can just...I don't know...call her or something."

"Alan?! Don't do this! Come on man, please."

He paused in the doorway, tapping his nails on the frame, "sorry, Sam. It's too late for me. Too late for all of us."

A sob escaped his throat, how could Alan do this to him but was there ever really a choice? Sam had to admit that if it came down to Alan or Michael he would pick his brother, he supposed that Alan was the same. What was worse? Having his mind fucked with like Ed or turning? He wasn't sure. There was no doubt in his mind that Quinton would make him feed this time. He knew the moment Alan walked out that door to go report to his sire what he'd decided that he was royally fucked. A soft sob escaped his throat, he wanted to go home. After tonight though he knew it wasn't going to be an option.

"Stop being a pussy, Sam," Edgar finally grunted, shaking his head and squinting at him in the dark. Of course Alan hadn't bothered leaving the light on for them. "I've got a plan...I think we can make a break for it if we work together," he took a deep breath, "but...I think I'm gonna need you to do the deed…" He nodded towards the door.

He scowled, "Ed, I really don't think either of us is gonna be able to kill either of them, we don't have any weapons!" He paused, "And what if it's Quinton and not Alan that comes for us? What then?"

"Well…" Edgar looked up at the ceiling, "then I'll do what I gotta do. I don't know about you, Sam, but I don't wanna eat people...and I don't wanna clean up after Satan's ass-muncher for the rest of my life, either." There was a finality in his tone. They both knew they weren't going to be able to take on Alan and Quinton, but Ed was clearly of the 'die tryin' philosophy at this point.

Sam sighed, what else could he do? "What's your plan?"

"...I've got a razor taped to the bottom of my shoe," Edgar grunted, nodding down at his right foot. "If I can lift it high enough...shift the chair...maybe you can grab it and saw at the ropes around your wrists. We break one of our chairs, try to stay as quiet as possible...climb out the bedroom window...and if they chase us, we give it every fucking thing we've got!" He sucked in a breath of air, lowering his voice at a warning glance from Sam, "we give it every fucking thing we've got!" He hissed.

"Well, give me your foot then."

Giving one quick, nervous look at the door, Edgar began to bounce up and down in his chair, scooting it back with small, anxious squeaks, until he finally managed to move it far enough back so that his legs were facing the back of Sam's chair. With a grunt of success, he kicked up his foot, pressing his shoe into his friend's bound palms.

"Dude, there's nothing here." He glared at him over his shoulder.

"What?! No. I taped it there. You're just not feeling it in the right place," Edgar shook his head violently.

"I've felt all over it, there's nothing here!"

"That's impossible. I taped it. Right around the heel part."

He dropped his foot, "Must have fallen off!"

Edgar threw his head back with a frustrated sigh, "this wouldn't have happened if you guys had just waited for my chicken pox to heal. We could've taken this son of a bitch on in one day, and been back home, easy," he sobbed, "and now...now my brother's a blood-guzzling night bitch, Sam. A blood-guzzling night bitch!"

"This wouldn't have happened if you weren't such a fucking hypochondriac!"

"I could have DIED!" Edgar snapped, glaring at the back of Sam's head. "You have no idea the pain I went through, waiting for you two to come home…"

"You didn't have chickenpox and you didn't have some skin eating disease, you didn't have cancer the last time either. This is your fault!"

Edgar swung a leg up and kicked Sam's hands, grunting as he repeated it several times, "we're going to die! We're going to die, because you two screwed this whole thing up!"

"Now boys, you need to learn to get along." That was Quinton.

The two humans paled considerably, both looking towards the doorway, where the light seemed to illuminate the master vampire from behind, making his silhouette that much darker. Edgar whimpered, "I'm sorry Sam...this was my fault...you're right…" Given their situation, if either was going to die, they definitely didn't want to do it pointlessly cursing each other's names.

Alan stood behind Quinton, purposely looking away from Sam and shifting on his feet. "Get we get this over with? Still have to black-out those van windows before dawn…" He mumbled under his breath.

"Hush, Alan, this is something to be celebrated." He moved forward, standing in front of Sam, grasping his chin and tipping his head up, "Now then, are you ready?"

There was a faint groaning from inside the closet. The homeowners had finally woken up.

Sam jerked his chin away from the vampire's grasp, "eat dick, dude. Just...eat dick." He was going to die tonight. There was no other answer for it...but Sam wasn't going to just go down without a fight. Or at least a few retorts.

He chuckled softly, "Such fight still in you, this will be enjoyable." He looked toward the closet, "And your dinner is waking up."

"No…" Sam whispered, glaring over Quinton's shoulder at Alan. The guy who was supposed to be practically a second brother to him...just standing there...watching. "NO." He wanted to talk to his mom. He wanted to go back, to do what Mike told him to do in the first place. He pretty much fucking wanted to do anything but be here right now.

"Shh." He brought his wrist to his lips, biting down, the blood welling up over his skin, "It will all be over soon, Samuel."

"I'm sorry, Sam," Alan mumbled under his breath. "You too, Ed…"

The bloody wrist was pressed to Sam's lips, as he desperately struggled to breathe through his nose, and Edgar watched in horror. But he wouldn't open his mouth...he wouldn't. He couldn't. Quinton stroked through his hair, unmoving, merely pressing insistently against his mouth, "We have plenty of time, you will feed, one way or another."

Sam knew there was only one fading hope left, a final chance...he just wasn't sure how the hell he'd be able to avoid feeding long enough to get his brother or grandpa on the phone. Maybe he'd get lucky, and this asshole would just bleed long enough to pass out. Could a vampire faint, he wondered, delirious in his fright. A drawn out sigh escaped Quinton's lips and he dug the fingers of his free hand into his jaw, prying it open and letting the blood spill in, hot and thick.

He tried to spit it out, but the gesture itself was nearly impossible. This tasted...so much better than the animal blood he'd had to drink and wretch up, so much better than a barn owl, or even the lingering taste the last time he'd been unwittingly forced to drink the bastard's blood. From what he could remember of the aftertaste, anyway. It also triggered something in Sam he hadn't felt the last time either...a more vicious hunger. More...animal.

"You're giving him too much!" Alan exclaimed, taking one step forward and wringing his hands together; he hesitated before drawing back again, so as not to rouse his sire's anger.

"There's no such thing as too much." He stated, finally pulling his wrist away, "How're you feeling, Samuel?"

He panted, licking at the blood that dripped around his lips and gazing up at Quinton with eyes that quickly clouded over in an inky black haze, "...hungry…"