"You think you know who I am, what I'm capable of? You have no idea."
These words kept echoing in Oswald's head long after they had been spoken.
He had underestimated Jim Gordon, his capability to be anything less than good and righteous, while overestimating his honesty and first and foremost his sense of friendship. He should have felt exhilarated at the prospect of being the new king of Gotham, though self-proclaimed. And he was… just not to the extent that he would have anticipated.
The first nights after the fateful events, he kept his club running as usual, while keeping tabs on the businesses formerly ran by Falcone and Maroni, trying to get his hands onto as many as possible. As long as he was busy, he felt ambitious and motivated, maybe a little exhausted, but fine. More often than he would have liked however, these nagging thoughts about his friend's betrayal kept reappearing, breaking through the surface of his consciousness and causing the sense of victory to disappear, leaving only a strange feeling of loss and disappointment.
After closing, Oswald sent Gabe home, he needed time to think, to contemplate on the situation, to bathe in his sour mood and hopefully reemerge with fresh ideas and a slightly more positive outlook on the upcoming days and weeks. To his delight, stepping outside onto the gloomy streets of Gotham, he noticed that it had started raining. On occasion, he enjoyed the rain. Not the pouring showers which left him drenched, umbrella or not, but the gentle drizzle which caused an array of little drumming sounds on the pavement and made the gloomy nightscape of the city shimmer in a more pleasant light.
Opening his umbrella, Oswald made his way home through the nearly deserted streets. The rain sort of cheered him up. At least it somehow distracted him from the nagging feeling in his gut, a strange concoction of anxiety, disappointment and bitterness.
It all happened very quickly.
At first, Oswald was sure he was just becoming the unlucky victim of a mugging, thus cursing his carelessness of walking the streets alone at night. But the assailant did not talk, did not demand anything, just swept him off his feet and dragged him into an alley, holding him in an iron grip he had no means whatsoever to escape.
If this was an assassination attempt, why was he still alive? If someone wanted to kidnap him, why was the guy alone and did not knock him out?
But these questions were soon pushed from his consciousness as the man ripped Oswald's tie and the first two buttons of his shirt open, sending the little red and gold pin flying onto the wet concrete. Utterly confused, Oswald held his breath, his heart drumming in his chest, and made an attempt to reach for his knife. The sharp pain he suddenly felt in his neck paralyzed him, however.
In a strange way the situation felt familiar, he did not dare to count how many times he had been close to death, though in every other situation, he had somehow been in control and able to talk his way out, to negotiate. This time was different, he could not speak, he did not understand what was happening to him, he did not even see the man properly. It was as if a shadow was holding him in a tight embrace, slowly sucking the life out of him.
Was this what just happened?
It certainly felt as if he was quickly losing at lot of blood. With terror, he felt his limbs getting colder and weaker, soon the only thing that was holding him up was the firm grip of the man who was pressing his lips to his neck. After a while, Oswald had lost track of time, the panic was displaced by an eerie calm. He did not know if he was going into shock or if his heartbeat just slowed down due to the loss of blood. In any case, it was terrifying. He did not want to die, not like this, not after everything he had accomplished. Suddenly, the man lay him down on the wet pavement, surprisingly gently. He still could not make out his face, it was hidden behind a dark hood and his vision was starting to get blurry.
"Drink if you want to live."
The voice was oddly familiar, but Oswald could not quite place it at that moment. Not that it mattered.
What was he supposed to drink that could possibly safe his life?
He understood when the man bit his own wrist and offered it to him, softly pressing it against his lips. While any coherent thoughts left him, intuition took over and he began drinking the stranger's blood hungrily and desperately. The sensation that flooded his body was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was like a drug, like fire crawling its way through his veins, taking him over completely.
Too quickly, the man pulled his wrist away again and the warm feeling subsided. What was left was the strangest sensation. His lungs were gasping for air and his heart was desperately trying to keep beating. It hurt, but not as much as he expected. Somehow he had an odd feeling of weightlessness, like levitating off the ground whilst feeling the cold concrete underneath his body and the rainwater soaking his clothes. He could not tell if it was his quizzical look or if he actually managed to ask what was happening, but the man answered.
"It's just your body that's dying. Pay no attention."
The words were nearly a whisper, even if Oswald had had the capacity to remember to whom the voice belonged, he most likely would not have found an answer. The message, however, sunk in. It terrified him, beyond anything he had ever experienced. Coughing and panting, he tried to get hold of something to steady himself and found the stranger's arm. With a surprising amount of strength, he held onto it and did not let go until the horrible feeling subsided and his body stopped fighting. The warm sensation in his veins and the cold feeling in the rest of his body took over. For a moment, the world around him seemed to disappear and the only thing that was left were the vague thoughts of the few people he cared about wandering through his mind like ghosts, until everything vanished in a cloud of heavy fog.
When Oswald woke up, the man was gone. It took him a while until he realized that he was still alive, somehow at least. He could even muster the strength to shakily stand up and find his umbrella. With jittery hands, he felt for the wound on his neck. There was nothing but a slight unevenness, and a lot of blood.
How he had managed to finally make his way home, he did not remember. It was all a blur of sounds, colors, smells and confusing sensations. The only thought he could somehow come up with, was that he was glad he had hastily rented a room of his own after the recent events. Feeling the crosshair on his chest, he was too worried for his mother to stay home for the time being. It was only a small room in a little hotel close to the club. Oswald planned to find a proper apartment soon, after things settled down a bit.
He must have fallen asleep, when he woke up, the setting sun was shining through the gaps between the dusty curtains. At first, he was sure he had had a nightmare; maybe someone put something really nasty in his drink. But when he noticed the dried blood on his shirt and suit, realization struck him. So it had not been a dream.
Though if not, what on earth had happened to him?
Slowly, Oswald tried to sit up. It felt like the weirdest hangover he had ever experienced. He felt nauseated, had a really bad headache and the light that was coming through the curtains was way too bright for his liking. With unsteady steps, he made his way to the bathroom, dreading the look that might greet him in the mirror. Indeed his eyes widened when he saw his reflection. He looked pale even for his standards, eyes dark and red rimmed. All the caked blood made him look like an extra straight out of a cheap zombie movie. Sighing, he peeled himself out of his clammy clothes and took a shower. The hot water made some of the life crawl back into his limbs and when he exited the cubicle and toweled himself down, he almost felt like himself again.
It struck him when he got to the next step of his routine, after brushing his teeth, he panicked for a second when he saw that the foam he spat out was tinged slightly red. This made him remember the weirdest part of past night's encounter. So he really did drink the stranger's blood after all. Faintly hoping to find a tiny cut in his gums or lips, he inspected his mouth more closely.
Something else had changed, something that made Oswald feel suddenly very dizzy. Upon closer look his canines were longer and more pointed than usual. It was not too obvious if one payed little attention, but Oswald knew it had been different before, significantly.
Carelessly grasping for the bathrobe, he limped back into the bedroom and lay down.
He knew what had happened to him. The only problem was that his explanation was by all means impossible.