Chapter 1 - Assault in the Dark
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Notes/Disclaimer: The Discworld and all its characters are the sole property of Terry Pratchett. If I could worship him as a God, I would, but I'm not quite sure how he'd take that. At any rate, no money is being made off of this.
Warning: Little bit of Greebo/Vimes, little bit of Greebo/Vetinari, possibly a little Vetinari/Vimes, probably not.
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This was the time Vimes loved the most. This was the zone he longed to lose his mind in every hour of the day.
He dashed around a moonlit corner, the pale radiance bringing into sharp focus the scum and trash that littered these back alleys. It reflected off mysterious pools on the ground that may have been blood or may have been the condensation of the fog, which was strangling the air tonight.
All of these things flashed by Vimes as blurs as he pounded on in pursuit of his quarry. He loved the chase. It was the simplicity of it; they ran, you chased. If they were running, they must be guilty, so all you had to do was catch them, and all you needed to rely on was your own speed, your own endurance, and your instinctive knowledge of the streets. Don't think, just chase.
That was why, when he skidded around a corner, it wasn't just his physical motion that he had to check. His mental state switched gears out of chase mode like a train attempting to do a U-turn on a single piece of track. In the mental wreck that followed, Vimes found himself gaping in confusion, staring at the scene before him.
There, in the type of small square grudgingly provided by the back alleys for the purpose of dramatic confrontations, lay the recumbent forms of the three men he had been chasing. Unconscious, but not dead, he thought. Belatedly his senses, which apparently were not as fast as he was, caught up with him and he registered hearing short muffled pain noises and some thuds right before he rounded the corner.
And there, standing amidst the bodies, was the person mostly likely responsible for their current state of unconsciousness. If Vimes's mouth had not already been open, his jaw would certainly have dropped at the sight of the man.
He was naked, plainly revealing the fact that he was astonishingly well muscled. As he straightened from a crouch where he was inspecting one of the downed figures and turned his face towards Vimes, the Commander saw that there was a large scar running across his face, passing over one clouded white eye. Long black sideburns and a large rakish mustache, topped off by a mop of equally dark tousled hair, complemented the face itself.
He looked, Vimes thought, like a pirate. Not a real pirate, mind you. He'd seen real pirates and they were ugly, nasty, vicious brutes who were missing most of their teeth. (Although in many cases it was not so much 'missing' as 'gleefully parted from in the heat of battle.') No, this man looked like women thought pirates should look. Dashing and handsome and ready to tear an opponent limb from limb and still have enough energy to catch the heroine as she swooned.
Vimes, for his part, was frozen still.
Greebo knew this reaction. He was used to things freezing in fear before him. He'd transformed into his human form just earlier, when suddenly three frightened men had come hurtling around the corner at him. It had been no hard task to knock them all out; they hadn't been expecting attack from the front.
They had obviously been pursued from behind and this, Greebo now realized, must have been their pursuer. Another Tom, then? Something mildly dangerous, at any rate. Greebo grinned, showing pointed teeth. He liked a challenge.
Greebo had a strategy for dealing with things that he encountered. There was a mental checklist he went through. He was only interested in something if he could a) eat it, b) fight it, or c) rape it. Normally he didn't eat other predators. It wasn't because he couldn't, only that they tended to have a funny taste. Especially humans. He didn't like the taste of humans. Eating was out, then. Fighting? He'd just had a fight. Three men were already down. Maybe he'd be bored later and want to fight again, but if he wasn't eating this man then he could still fight him later.
That left one choice.
Greebo grinned and sauntered towards the man.
Vimes finally snapped out of his paralysis as the strange man walked over to him with lithe, silent steps, circling around him. He watched warily as the man approached, closer and closer with every turn of the circle. Finally he stopped behind Vimes and the copper could feel warm breath on his neck. He started and tried to turn around only to find that the stranger had one of his arms gripped tightly in each powerful hand, preventing him from moving.
Vimes froze again as the stranger rubbed a cheek against his neck, making a strange sort of rumbling noise in his throat. Teeth that felt an awful lot like fangs came out and bit lightly into the tender skin of his upper shoulder.
Vimes let out an undignified squeak. What the hell is this freak doing? his mind questioned wildly. Suddenly the strange men pressed his body full flush against Vimes's and Vimes could feel exactly what the freak was considering doing.
He started to struggle in earnest now, but the man only tightened his hold. Desperately he tried to kick backwards, but the move was anticipated and dodged deftly, all while the stranger maintained his hold on Vimes's arms.
He didn't get a chance to try another move because at that moment he was thrown harshly down onto the street, the stranger sitting on top of him, still pinning his arms. He let out a small shriek as he felt sharp teeth sink into his ear, drawing blood. He thrashed as hard as he could, but the man on top of him was heavy.
Vimes was pretty sure he had hit his head on the stone street, because his vision was hazing in and out. He cursed it. He was sure that if he had his full faculties he'd find some way to break this man's hold. There had to be something.
There was a sudden chill against his back and he realized that not only had he been divested of his armor, but his shirt had been ripped right down the back as well. He cursed violently. Bad to worse. He felt the fangs again at the back of his neck and stiffened, halting his struggles. Was this man a vampire? Was he not about to be raped, but about to be turned into an undead?
The fangs pressed against his skin but did not bite through it. It was... a show of dominance? Vimes felt confused, though it was possible that that was also the result of hitting his head. This action seemed to... primal, animalistic. Who was this guy?
Coherent thought once again fled his mind in favor of blind panic as he felt a hand fumbling to rid him of his trousers.
Vimes closed his eyes. Please don't let this happen! If there is one merciful god out there, please don't let this happen to me!
Then suddenly, all motion above him stopped. He felt the body sitting on top of him tense, alert. In the distance there came a sound, faint at first, but growing louder. It was hideous, grating against his nerves like sandpaper covered in glass shards. But it was unmistakably a voice. After a few moments, it was possible to make out words.
"GREEBO! HERE KITTY KITTY! WHERE'S MOMMY'S GOOD BOY? GREEEEEEEBO!"
In seconds, the weight on top of him was gone. Vimes sat up and looked around.
He was alone in a back alley, next to several unconscious bodies, wearing only a torn shirt and partially removed trousers.
What in hell was that?
Oh God, that was hideous. Take me back.
or
Oh God, that was hideous. Let me complain to the author.