Summery: Between 33.1 shakedowns and organizing crime-watch in several cities country wide, Chloe's investigations lands her smack-dab into the middle of yet another classification of Freaks. Genetic experiments, vampires, and demons.
Multi-Crossover Components: Blood + (Goldschmit/Goldsmith family, their Cing Fleches corporation, and David), Anita Blake (animal-to-call and shifter communities), and Twilight (shiny vampires and Volturi). Teen-Titians (Raven), possibly Supernatural (just demons and the end of the world stuff).
Disclaimer: I hereby give up all rights to the various characters and the universe they belong in, be they animated, scripted, or comicbook related. Also, un-beta'd for viewing confusion.
i: obligatory teaser scene
Or: The Prologue
There is splintering, an explosion of wood as the tree was hit with force. A body, for there were arms and legs that moved in the huddled mass, crumpls at its base. In the darkness, beneath long bangs, eyes are eerily lit. "Right," soft words, feminine, "so much for logic." She stands, shaking the debris and dust and something else off. Walking, there is a glint of metal blades, long daggers in hand, and moonlight filters through the canopy of thick leaves. Then she is running, swift, fast. Inhumanly graceful.
"Alice."
The female is in the open now, a quarter moon high above, sky clear. Wild grass grown tall hides her legs, her hands, the blades dripping with blood. Smooth pale skin, white marble in the moonlight. There is a blurring, another figure. Tall, slender, male. Long brown hair.
Red eyes.
Fangs.
He wasn't the only one there with them.
"Alice?"
The female, girl, woman, sneers and grips a bloodied blade, "Your death won't be pleasant."
The male's laughter is cruel. "You should be so lucky, sweetheart."
Her eyes are green and bright, but flickering, darkening. Not red or yellow or black. More grey, not metallic but somehow liquid in appearance. She moves like a vampire, like a soldier, a Guardian trained for war by the council in Italy. He is fast, powerful, and she is almost to slow. Then blade pierces cold, hard flesh. The scream isn't human, isn't inhuman, but it is loud and painful and terrifying.
The woman/girl/warrior had been right, his death… anything but pleasant.
"Alice, what's wrong? Alice?"
The woman/girl/warrior is in a field of wildflowers, insects flitting here and there. Her skin isn't as pale in the unfiltered sunlight of morning. It isn't as defined, as bright, or obvious, but it still reflects. Tiny particles of dust dancing in the air shine, a glittering whirlwind.
Head is thrown back with laughter, turns sideways and jokes. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"
And in her smirk are fangs; yet her eyes are still so green.
A city, a street, and tall buildings reaching for sky.
She is walking, shoulders down, heavy, despite her straight-backed posture. Past the lobby, an elevator ride. Key pads and retina scans. Small plaque on the side of door in the long hallway. A word, a symbol, three horizontal black lines inside a triangle visible only though the contact of her fingers.
The man who is on the other side is handsome, big. "You're late."
Her smile: slow, tired, relieved. "You're older." His skin is a rich and smooth mocha, youthful, left eye hidden under a patch of grey cloth.
She walks in and he waves his hand at something black and shinning in the wall behind her, the door closes with a mechanical hiss. "Really?"
"It's the new hair style. Decided to stay a while then?"
"As long as Raven will have me."
"She's the only woman crazy enough to try."
"Hey, see if I get you a Christmas present now."
The warrior is more woman/girl, even while daggers strapped to her belt are uncovered. She hands her cloak/coat/jacket over to be placed on a wooden rack looking somewhat unsteady with its already heavy burden. "Technically, as your boss, I should be the one threatening to withhold holiday bonuses."
"Yeah, but you like my toys to much to try."
A blur and the new male's smile is infectious. "Chloilicious –babe! 'Bout time you joined the party!"
The woman/girl was dipped low, her laughter sweet.
"Alice, I've called Carlisle. They're on their way, just hold on. Please, be okay."
"Lois too. It, it didn't work a second time. Clark…" The woman/warrior is broken-girl and while there are no tears, her voice is crying. She takes a breath, swallows. "Clark's gone. Faster than Bart was twelve years ago. Couldn't- I can't find him. Lost him somewhere in the Amazon. He was only on the ground long enough to confuse me and he knows how to evade our satellite. I think he's gone to make a deal."
"Give a girl a brake, we weren't exactly in the neighborhood."
"Never kept you before." The man is older now, older than before. Grey hair, whiskered chin. There is no patch this time, just metal underneath aged mocha skin and a mechanical red eye. It radiates the same inner light as her own.
The woman/girl/warrior shrugs, "First time for everything."
"Alice! Oh god, oh god. Where are they?"
Inside, a lecture room, rows of chairs and small little pull-out desks. The woman/girl/warrior clutches a tall paper cup, ignoring the chaos around her as a professor drones on about ecology. She frowns, her soft "It's rather amazing I haven't gone completely insane yet," is ignored by everyone near.
A forest. Blond hair mixes with dirt. It is short. Shorter than it had been previously. The woman/girl/warrior is screaming, no longer woman/girl/warrior. Just victim. Tall/lithe/male stands above her, blood down his chin, in his eyes. She is screaming. Screaming.
"Naughty, naughty…"
Her body is twitching with seizures and while the male laughs she bites her tongue and more blood is added to the forest floor.
"… little frail."
Then tall/lithe/male joins her, there on the ground, screaming. His dark amusement, now panic and agony and disbelief. And they are both screaming. Screaming. Screaming.
Morning-afternoon-night-morning-night-afternoon-morning-afternoon-night-morning-afternoon. She is no longer screaming, her skin pale, laying on wooden planks, on rug, in bed, falling. Her eyes, green, so very green, bright in the dying light. Body still uncontrollable, she looks to be in agony.
An old man in a white coat and young man in red watches over her prone form. One more afternoon, another, and another. There were nine now, twelve, fifteen.
There in the small room with her, large and powerful, seven males to four females. The combinations switches are paired and shifted. Seconds are days where the woman/girl/warrior/victim is dieing painfully strapped to a bed.
"Kara thinks she might have found something up North. Stories of something called ukpik. Snow, or something. It was the closest they would get to naming, well, whatever monster did this."
"Then, it's not Meta?"
"No. Not unless you know of another wave of meteorites falling in the 16th century."
"Damn. Were you able to decrypted her files?"
"Just about, program's running the last bit now. Whatever it is, took her to Peter's city. He's trying to find us a lead, but so far… Any word on the crystalline fragments?"
"Traces of organic material, but nothing conclusive."
"Damnit Chlo, what the hell were you doing?"
Same scene, but time is playful, and a conversation can only be heard in pieces: "But why isn't/ should we just- you know- wouldn't she just wake up after?/ whatever it is, its changing her biochemistry/ Then I'll take her to STAR labs!/ this is just, how can you stand it?/ why… won't she die?/ what did this?/ Did you find that Meta? No. He was long gone and I couldn't pick up a trail. Damnit- what are we going to do?/ Oh god, Clark- CLARK! He's down, what's he reactin' to?/ her eyes, look at 'em/ Get him out of here!/ Christ, he's heavy. Here, help me out./ Chloe?/ What the fuck did this to her?"
There is a large screen before her, gadgetry and glowing, beeping things everywhere. She sits in a desk chair, comfortable, hands flying over a white keyboard, smile and anticipation on her face.
"Green Arrow, signing on."
"Cyborg, signing on."
There is panic. Another jumble of words: "It's not a solution/ compression. I don't know about this/ it's all… well, pretty theatrical, she'd be our first human trial, think suspended anima-/ -you're killing her!/ my god / Doc! Look at these readings/ the channel's corrupted/ we need to get out of here. Not without Chloe!/ It's to late- NO!"
The woman/girl/warrior/victim strapped to a bed is dead. Machinery attached to her skin is silent and there is crying. Seven males to four females. They are not looking at the still, dead body and miss when her eyes open.
And her eyes are green and bright, but they are flickering, darkening. Not black, more grey though not metallic, and still they are somehow liquid in appearance.
She takes in a breath and her eyes, her eyes are still changing, still swirling with indecision. The noise she makes alerts the blue gaze of one of the males and then another is suddenly there, right there beside her.
"Chloe-babe," in his voice is heartbreak and hope, but her own is a plea because she is hungry. So very, very hungry.
Her eyes solidify. They are the same color as the blood her fangs tear from parched lips and she is hungry.
She is just so very, very hungry.
"Impulse, signing on."
"Aquaman, signing on."
The girl is warrior/woman, back straight, proud. In a room that is empty her voice clearly sounds; "Watchtower, officially signing on."
"Oh man- this is, this is, why didn't you tell us she said yes!"
"As if I'd let you flounder in the dark, you obviously need my help, and besides- Arrow's letting me keep all these wonderful toys."
"Oh babe! Open you're window, I'm commin' home to give you a welcome-back kiss."
"Impulse, don't. You. Dare"
"Aw, 'licious!"
"Oooh, crash and burn."
"Seriously, dude, give her a brake."
"Alright guys, cut the chatter. We've got a mission objective to fulfill."
"Aww. Yes dad."
And she laughed carefree. "Security deactivation in 36 seconds."
"Emmett- Em, look."
"Alice?"
"Alice! What the hell was that- Do you know what you just put us through!"
The smaller vampire in the trio just smiles, "Love you too, Rosie."
Several states away Chloe Sullivan is sitting comfortably at an outside bistro, idly flicking through online subscriptions. Translated news from five countries are glanced at, passed over, or ignored. She has delved into old archives and searched databases for newer material. Her attention is only half-heartedly given to the screen before her and she keeps thinking back to his offer.
When the call comes fifteen minutes later, her answer has already been made.
A/N: This is a teaser for what might become a future story. 'Till I get there myself, anyone who wishes to branch off from this snippet is free to do so. Credit would be appreciated, so would a link to your story (I love to read, oh so much!)