warnings: violence, minor character death, slight xenophobia and sexism, bad language
The sun was just beginning to emerge from behind the clouds as Mike Newton stepped onto the escalator. A few final raindrops plopped half-heartedly onto his head and shoulders as the metal steps bore him sluggishly down into the vast concrete pit, its walls perfectly circular and perfectly useless against the elements. What a stupid way to build an escalator. If the sun hadn't made its timely appearance, he would have been steadily soaked the whole way down into the bowels of the subway system.
He paid little attention to the weekend tourist bustle around him. He was playing out the usual Saturday morning mental debate over whether to stop and get presents for Chloe when he was already running late. Would it be worth the headache of Jessica pitching another fit, accusing him trying to buy their daughter's affection and undermine her parenting? Mike couldn't decide. On the one hand, it was fun to piss Jess off now and then. On the other hand, her voice got so damn shrill.
It was kind of a drag, Mike thought as he stepped off the escalator, that Chloe would only ever know them like this. That she would never be able to remember a time when her parents didn't hate each other. He and Jess really had been happy for a while, when Chlo was a baby. He imagined trying to explain those college years of giddy freedom and first love to a teenaged Chloe someday, How I Met Your Mother-style, and came up empty.
He needed to get the hell out of this city, Mike knew. It was getting nastier by the day. Chloe should grow up somewhere with fresh air and wide open spaces. He swiped his fare card, pushed through the turnstile, and let his mind conjure up somewhere better—not a lame white picket fence scenario, but maybe a nice condo or something, with gleaming modern architecture and a pool someone else cleaned. There would be a playground for Chlo and a decent bar for him, where the cute girl mixing drinks would ask if he was new in town…
A crowd of fashionably dressed teenagers rushed past, carrying those heavy umbrellas meant to block out UV rays rather than rain and chattering in rapid Japanese. Mike followed them down the stairs to the red line platform at a more leisurely pace. An LED sign announced that next train wouldn't be arriving for another five minutes—couldn't they read?
The lower platforms always felt oddly claustrophobic compared to the cavernous upper ones with their vast, inverted ice-cube-tray ceilings. Mike pondered his chances of getting the last car to himself for once. Usually it was a long shot, but today things were looking up: the crowd had gathered on the far end of the platform, where a man with a bass guitar was plucking out the opening bars of "Superstition," his grin a white flash in the subterranean gloom. He was having a good day, by the looks of it—as Mike watched, one of the tourist kids tossed a few bucks into the open guitar case at the busker's feet, already full of more bills than coins.
In the lull between trains, the acoustics weren't half bad down here. The twangs of the bass cut through the air, somehow sharper and cleaner in the dark, without the distracting visual clutter of the aboveground world. Moving closer, Mike switched the water bottle he was carrying into his left hand and pulled out his phone to take a video for Chloe. She was still too little to pay much attention to lyrics, but she loved to dance. Bringing her a video instead of a present would be a good compromise. This way he wouldn't have to stop and make himself even later to pick her up. And it wasn't like Jess could object to dim iPhone footage of a Stevie Wonder cover.
He was so focused on the screen that he didn't realize how close he was to the edge of the platform until he nearly tripped over the little warning bumps they put there for blind people. Oops. Close one.
His stumbling recovery meant he happened to be looking down at just the right moment to notice the stiletto-clad feet strolling along the very lip of the platform, coming down left, right in time to the beat of the music.
Seven years of bad luck, good things in your past…
Mike looked up and felt his breath catch in his throat.
Holy fuck.
Two women were striding up the platform. Two stunningly, unbelievably beautiful women.
The first, the one in stilettos, was petite and Asian. She wouldn't have looked out of place among the trendy Japanese teens, except that she would have looked out of place anywhere by virtue of sheer attractiveness. Her dark hair was cropped short and slicked boldly back as if to say, look at me, I'm so exquisitely feminine that long hair would be superfluous. Her short, black dress was tight around her slim thighs (Mike swallowed.) The rest of her lithe figure was engulfed in an oversized coat—a strange choice in this hot summer weather. A pair of oversized designer sunglasses completed the look, hiding her eyes.
Like the Japanese girls, she carried a large black anti-UV umbrella, though her skin was such a pale blue-white that it looked like she could've used some sun. In her other hand dangled a bag from Saks Fifth Avenue, swinging back and forth in time to the twangs of the guitar.
And a few steps behind her trailed her companion.
If the first woman was inhumanly gorgeous, this one was…indescribable. Where the first girl was an appealingly slender nymph, the second was a full-figured Amazon in leather boots, jeans, and a motorcycle jacket. Instead of dark hair cropped short, magnificent blonde waves cascaded down her back, glinting bronze in the red floor lights. Her features had nothing in common with the first girl's except for their flawless, airbrushed symmetry—and that her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.
How could she see? It was dim enough down here even without tinted lenses. Why didn't she take them off? Mike's brain filled in the gaps: beneath the glasses she'd have big blue eyes with mascara-commercial lashes, of course.
The red lights at his feet began to flash. Mike felt a shiver of longing as the women passed within inches of him, equally unconcerned with him and the oncoming train. He couldn't resist checking out the taller woman's ass as they passed (sure enough, it was as magnificent as the rest of her.) The petite woman's ass was regrettably shielded from view by her giant coat.
Without thinking, Mike swiveled his phone around to follow the two women.
By now the crowd around the guitarist had begun to disperse along the platform, ready to jockey for seats. Amid the commotion of flashing lights, whooshing air, rumbling train, and the busker's voice belting out lyrics over the noise, no one else seemed to notice the two mysterious supermodels.
WHEN YOU BELIEVE IN THINGS YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!
Ding ding! Doors opening. Step back to allow customers to exit.
THEN YOU SUFFER!
When boarding, please move to the center of the car.
The two women stopped a polite distance from the busker, who looked up at his audience and immediately missed a note.
Ding-ding-ding-ding! Step back, doors closing.
The back of Mike's mind prickled uneasily as the train began to pull away. Never mind, he'd catch the next one in seven minutes. He was already late anyway, what were seven more minutes? Right now he was exactly where he wanted to be: in the comfortable darkness of the station, listening to a guy sing about the devil, taking a video for Chloe, and harmlessly ogling two of the hottest girls he was ever likely to see.
The busker had recovered quickly and was strumming with extra gusto, hamming it up for the pretty newcomers now that he was seemingly alone with them on the platform (none of the three had noticed Mike, who was mostly obscured from their sightline by a person-sized billboard ad for grocery deliveries.)
The brunette turned to murmur something to her companion, and as the noise of the train died away, Mike was able to catch a few words.
"—understand, but can't…until nightfall? …too public." her voice was as lovely as her face.
The blonde shook her magnificent head. "Easy for you…already fed…stuck down here anyway, and I'm thirsty."
She was thirsty? Oh, perfect! Mike's hand tightened around the bottle of water he carried—thank fuck it was unopened. How should he approach and offer it to her? What would be the best, least creepy angle to take?
The busker had evidently had the same idea, because he paused in singing (but not playing) long enough to call out over the music, "You ladies thirsty? I got some Gatorade right here. Help yourselves!"
Mike's insides seared with jealousy at having been beaten to the punch. The blonde's face broke into a smile of such dazzling radiance that she almost seemed to glow, a white-and-gold apparition wreathed in shadow.
"Don't mind if I do," she said, and disappeared.
Or that was how it looked to Mike. One second she was standing beside the brunette at the end of the platform, and the next she had reappeared fifteen feet away, beside the busker, who had no time to be astonished before she sank her teeth into his throat.
There was an awful, choking gargle and a discordant cacophony of twanging strings as the music cut off.
The busker's arms flailed in a spasm of shock and pain, striking feebly out at his attacker. She casually pinioned them to his sides. There was a sound like crumpling plastic—had his bones just snapped?
The little brunette had not moved, but was watching these events with an expression of detached resignation. "Oh, Rose," she sighed, crossing her delicate arms as if her friend's behavior was just so typically embarrassing.
From where Mike stood, hidden behind the free-standing wall of the advertisement, he could see the creature called Rose in crystal clear detail: her long fingers, gripping the busker's dirty T-shirt. The twin lenses of her sunglasses, peering blankly over his shoulder. Her perfect pink lips, fastened on his neck in a profane parody of a kiss.
But most of all he couldn't look away from the muscles of her elegant white throat, pulsing beneath her skin as she swallowed.
She was drinking. Drinking the man's blood. Holy fucking shit.
It was around this time Mike became aware that he had frozen in place behind the ad, his feet rooted to the tile, his hand still outstretched and still holding his phone, which was still recording.
Right on the heels of the realization that he had just witnessed a murder came the realization that he had captured it all on video. Oh, God. Had they seen him? The light from his phone screen suddenly seemed blindingly obvious. He snatched it back, clutching it and the water bottle to his pounding chest as he pressed himself against the billboard. From this angle he could still see the brunette, but not the blonde—Rose—or her victim. How long did it take to drain a body of blood, anyway? Oh, God. Why hadn't he just boarded the train?
He checked the LED sign that announced when the next train was coming: five minutes. Five minutes before he could move from his hiding place.
The sound of a train arriving on one of the upper platforms seemed horribly distant, as though he heard it from underwater. To think there were people, regular people going about their days, so close, just up the stairs…if he called for help, would they hear him? Would they make it to him in time?
He remembered the way Rose had seemed to teleport across the platform, and the sound of the busker's bones snapping, and doubted it.
Above him, the train pulled away. Mike struggled to calm his breathing in the quiet that followed. Cold sweat seeped through the back of his shirt. Four more minutes.
A soft sound floated its way to his ears: someone was humming the melody to "Superstition." The little brunette had picked up where the unfortunate busker had left off. She was once again swinging her shopping bag back and forth, back and forth, radiating bored impatience as she watched her friend's sick tableau unfold.
Mike nearly jumped out of his skin as the busker's body collapsed into his line of sight with a soft thunk. He choked back the scream that wanted to claw its way from his throat as the man's blank, staring eyes looked right through him.
"You could have waited until the song was over," scolded the brunette.
"I was thirsty," came the angelic voice of Rose.
"Then clean up," ordered the brunette. "We've got three minutes."
The body disappeared from Mike's view. He heard a horrible wet thump as it hit something—the tracks on the opposite side of the platform? He didn't care, as long as it didn't interfere with this next train—his train.
Three minutes. He only had to last three more minutes. Then he could blend in with the crowd, casually board the train. The doors would slide shut and he'd be home free. He could get off at the next stop and go straight to the police. He didn't need them to believe his whole story, just to watch the evidence on video…
"Did you leave blood on the floor?" came the brunette's voice. "I'm still seeing an investigation."
"That's usually what happens when a person throws himself under a train, Alice," said Rose.
The water bottle clutched in Mike's left hand, slick with sweat and condensation, was beginning to slip. Gingerly, hardly daring to breathe, he bent down. Had to put it somewhere he wouldn't trip over it. Had to set it down slowly, silently, before it could fall and make a noise.
He did it. Not a sound as the plastic touched tile. Mike straightened back up in equal silence, allowing himself a slow exhale of relief. Two minutes. He only had to last two more minutes.
Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzz.
The vibration of his phone, still clutched against his chest, jolted violently through him like a shock from a defibrillator.
Stupid, fucking phone! He shut it off before it could vibrate a third time. Jessica's smiling face winked out on the screen.
Silence. Mike held his breath. Maybe they hadn't heard it.
There was a light breeze, a rush of air in the dark.
"Well, well. What have we here?" She was standing before him.
Seen up close, the brunette—Alice, the other one had called her—was tiny. Even in heels, she didn't reach Mike's shoulder. Her smile was open, friendly, and devastatingly beautiful. It reached all the way to her eyes, free of sunglasses now. Eyes that were not the brown he'd imagined at all, but a lurid, vibrant crimson.
Rose appeared in the shadows behind her, wiping her mouth. "Is that who was breathing so loud?"
Alice tilted her head, appraising. "I thought he did rather well, all things considered. I'll take that." She reached up and slid the phone from Mike's boneless hand, which offered no resistance.
His arms and legs had turned to useless jelly. His Adam's Apple throbbed as he swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth enough to speak:
"P-please…I have a daughter…"
Alice's red eyes unfocused. A little crease appeared between her elegant eyebrows. "Oh, she'll be fine," she told Mike, refocusing on his face. "Your ex is about to be promoted and transferred to the suburbs. The schools are much better out there, you know."
"Quit dawdling, Alice," scolded Rose. "The train will be here any second. Just snap his neck and let's go. You already fed."
Alice looked thoughtful. "Hmm, yes, but I'm not full yet." She grinned again, exposing back teeth.
Mike's instincts kicked in. The synapses in his brain fired, commanding his body to bolt for the stairs.
Before his muscles could stir, a little hand clamped around his arm, as hard and cold as iron.
"Sorry," said Alice. "But you know, 'waste not' and all that."
On the floor, the lights began to flash again, staining her white teeth red.
She leaned in.
author's note: funny story, I was minding my own business waiting for the next train when the muse descended from on high and ordered me to write evil!Alice and Rosalie before I could finish anything else.
Hope you enjoyed this installment of Evil Cullens Jukebox Hour! I might turn this into a series if I can come up with Concepts for the other Cullen kids, who knows.
as always, I can be reached on tumblr (url volturialice) if you'd like a faster response to stuff!