1894 - United Kingdom

Being immortal had its advantages. That much he had learned in the last decade. He had also learned that being a vampire, with all the added extras of strength, agility and speed and the fact that suddenly all women – and some men – found you incredibly attractive, did not automatically protect you from making terminally stupid decisions. Decisions that could end you in prison that had been reinforced by people who knew what they were doing. Well, one person, singular, who knew what he was doing because he was a vampire as well.

Spike swore under his breath and rattled the chains that bound him to the stone wall of the prison cell. A rat ran across the floor and he gulped. "The Immortal" as that asshole of a blood-thirsty maniac called himself, did not believe in feeding prisoners. And Spike was hungry. He had been hungry for a while. Even that rat looked like a nice snack and rat blood tasted disgusting. Also, not much blood in those animals, really, they weren't even a mouth full.

Before he could drift off into fantasies about beautiful, pale necks and how his fangs broke through skin and drew blood, a conundrum could be heard from the doors down the hallway.

"Seriously, guys?" he heard somebody complain in what he made out as an American accent. "Tax evasion? You must be kidding me."

Three figures appeared in the dim light. Spike already was acquainted with the two guards. They were servants of "The Immortal" who willingly did all the dirty work for the tosser. He was quite satisfied to see that one of them still sported quite a huge scar over his right brow. It took some serious damage to leave marks on a vampire's skin. And even the scar would vanish soon enough. But Spike couldn't help but be a little proud of himself anyways.

The guards were flanking a guy whom Spike had never seen before. He was of average height, perhaps a bit better off than most in the muscle department and had unruly black hair. His ice blue eyes looked enraged and when he bared his fangs, his handsome face distorted into a predatory snarl.

The guards didn't care. They were used to handling anyone who crossed "The Immortal". Two minutes later, the dark-haired guy had been confined to the chains on the opposite wall and the guards had left again. Dark-and-handsome (he really wasn't tall), struggled against his chains, letting out a scream that was wilder than his gentlemanly clothing and overall looks would have suggested. He looked like an aristocrat with his fine attire. Just Spike's luck, the kid probably was one. New money, America, south, slaves and all that jazz.

"Hey," he said, when the kid had finally accepted the fact that there was no way he'd break out of this cell by sheer force. "I'm Spike. Would say it's nice to meet you, but considering the circumstances, I'd much rather become acquainted somewhere else."

"Damon," his opposite responded with a nod.

"American?"

"Damn, you can still hear that, can't you? I'm trying to get this accent straight but it's harder than you'd think."

"What brings you to good old Britain?"

"None of your business."

"Okay, admittedly, yes. I was trying to make conversation. Then how about we skip the small talk and get down to business directly."

"What business?"

"The business of how the heck we are going to break out of this cell. Me, you, our combined brain-power. I take it you're not an idiot, so we might actually stand a chance."