Disclaimer:I do not own the rights to the Underworld films or books, nor do I claim any rights to its characters. These aspects are, and will always be, licensed to their respective owners. However, the non-canonical characters and the plot are of my own creation. Please do not duplicate my work in any manner, as I have put many hours of research and editing into this story. I would extend the same courtesy to you.
"One day, men will look back and say that I gave birth to the 20th Century."
-From Hell
Static. It's what he hears before anything else, static as a dull throb, a disjointed fever that pulls the blinds over his eyes. His feet carry him toward an unknown destination, gait aimless yet sure, as though the tendency to walk among the city's poorest low-lifes is a pastime common enough to occur without need for questioning-without suspicion.
The glittering billboards and neon advertisements he passes do not stir his fancy, their appeal long since dulled to his keen senses. Now they are little else but muddled colors and sounds within the endless torrent of his life, a rather drab reminder that appreciating the finer details in life truly doesn't matter-not when time goes on and withers away the things one holds dear.
Another era, another identity, these details mean nothing to him. Not when he remembers who he is, where his origins lie.
Over the years, some speculated that he had a background in a medical profession, others, in journalism. Some said he was a woman, enraged by the free immorality of prostitution or perhaps by her husband's fornication with a whore. Others called him Leather Apron-who could be more to blame than the strange and rapacious nature of a Jew?
Yet others once believed that something greater than a simple, blood-thirsty lunatic could commit such unspeakable acts upon those five women. They believed perhaps they sought a monster, whose existence typically never ventured far from the blot of ink contained within the bindings of a sensation novel. There came talk of a man monster who took victims when and where he pleased. There came rumors of black magic, and of vampires.
Finally, there came talk of the name by which most people know him:
Jack the Ripper.
The Twenty-First Century: an age of decadence and sensationalism, known for endless fascination with the macabre and all things in overabundance.
He pauses along his way, making note of the heavy trafficking that happens little more than a hundred yards further. Ahead, where undoubtedly countless bills and drops of bodily fluids have been exchanged, women dip their breasts into the open windows of stopped cars, press their exposed shoulders against alley walls and arch their backs in greeting.
Even from his distance, the stench of cheap perfume and sweat permeates his nostrils. Sickening...but necessary for the dangerous job required of a whore: instant gratification that doesn't come cheap. After a moment's hesitation, he feigns a nervous double-take, then steps off the curb and half-jogs across the street. As he trains his gaze upon the activity along the street, he keeps his hands tucked within his pockets, shoulders hunched, pace hurried.
"What's the rush, Sugar?"
A woman emerges from the shadows, bold and conveniently alone. She balances a cigarette between slender fingers, her eyes gaunt and glittering, skin smooth and delectably untainted from the same stench of chemicals and perfume as her companions across the street. The track marks on her arms pepper her skin with blemishes. Not ideal-but she'll do just fine.
Within the coat, his gloved fingers clench. He takes little enjoyment in small talk.
She smiles. Her teeth are yellow, stained by years of smoking and drug use. She is repulsive. Imagine the number of cocks she's had in that mouth, the obscenities that have been stained into her lips, rolled from that ulcerous tongue and dripped onto the skin of those tainted in filth.
"Looking for a little company tonight?"
He wets his lips, tongue flicking back against his fangs. Though the gesture appears nervous, it is not apprehension that drives him-but anticipation. "H-how much?"
Her hand extends, brushes along his shoulder, flexing through his coat to feel the toned bicep beneath. Ironic, that the gaze with which she looks upon him now is ravenous, as though she wishes to devour him right where he stands. "For you? One-fifty."
A wad of bills is withdrawn from his pocket, and he flicks through them until three crisp bills are pressed within her hand. "M-my wife-she expects me back at the hotel..." He lies easily. And why shouldn't he? He's been lying for over three hundred years.
She tugs, gently but firmly, at the crook of his elbow. "This way, Sugar. We'll get you home in time for supper."
Deeper into the alleyway, he glances around. No one, no coworkers, no homeless, not even a stray cat, lingers anywhere this far. It must be her territory, then, considering the way she leads and pushes him back against the grimy wall. She wastes no time in plunging a single hand within his pants, fingertips finding what they grope for.
He'll have to bathe five times to get her filth to wash off.
As she sinks to her bare knees, the sound of a zipper hissing is the only noise about them, before a stuttering gasp passes his mouth. His hands find her hair-
"Wait!"
The whore pauses, mouth inches from his flesh, eyes flashing impatiently. "There ain't any refunds."
He licks his lips, no longer bothering to hide the dangerous flash of his gaze in the darkness. In a moment, this facade will not matter. Just a few seconds more. "I just wanted to know your name."
She laughs. "Don't hear that one every day. Don't think it matters, do you?"
For once, he doesn't lie. There is no point. Her time is up. And so is his patience. "No, it doesn't."
In one swift, violent motion, his hands lower. No time to evade, no time to scream. His hands wrap around her throat, squeezing easily-almost too easily-as her face darkens. Red, purple. The eyes bulge, tongue waggles, like a worm at the ready, past those cracked and yellowed lips. Her breathing slows, hand falling away from his cock as her whole body falls backward. Quick to catch and lower her to the ground face first.
A blade is drawn-thick and sharp enough to slice through the entire spinal cord, if desired.
It sinks into the throat easily, so soft, like heated metal through butter. A slash, left to right. Watching the arc of blood that follows. It spurts out and across the pavement, desperately trying to replenish what is lost. The pressure slows, then burbles, and she is turned onto her back. Nameless, filthy.
Whore.
Clothes rip and fall away. Her breasts bounce down without constraint, and the dark pubic hair is his target as the knife lifts-and slices, just as easily, through the mons. Up, up, up, just like she had unzipped the pants, she is now the one unzipped. A science experiment, a showcase. On display for all to see.
They will write about this for years to come, the greatest copycat of Jack the Ripper, a harbinger of morality in light of this new age. This will be my legacy.
Her body gurgles with blood and pieces of ripped viscera, overflowing into the street like a clogged drain. The body will still be warm by the time it's found.
But for now, he smiles, still kneeling carefully beside the butchered carcass and running a palm through its matted and tangled hair. Blood stains his gloves, the pavement at his feet, but his clothes and shoes remain spotless as before. Careful is all he's ever been, from the moment of his inevitable turning to the rather fascinating cat-and-mouse game once played with a Death Dealer, beautiful and ruthless as he.
Yet in one bold move, the empire of his deception and secrecy lays as a butchered corpse before him. His assimilation into mortal society had been meticulously planned and ceaselessly delicate, like the neck of a woman who begged for his kiss. With centuries of work and of cowering undone in minutes, he should be disappointed, afraid.
Instead, his smile only grows wider.
No one will know of this whore's true murderer. No one will suspect he is anything but a psychopath-at best, a copycat-who will evade the authorities just as before.
But she will know. Somewhere, perhaps somewhere close by, she waits, watching ever so carefully for another trend to surface. She would recognize his signature, even after all this time. And she will come to finish what they began so many years ago in the cold streets of London.
"Hush now," he whispers, gaze searching past the gelatin of the corpse's unblinking stare, "We have so much to do."
Withdrawing his hand with the reluctance of a departing lover, he inhales a second time and rises to his feet.
Selene will find him. He'll be ready.
Let the games begin.
Author's Note: By the persistence of my good friend and Beta Reader, vicvic221, I have reluctantly ventured into writing fan-fiction again. Please bear with me if my updates seem slow, as I am currently involved with two internships, a full university schedule, as well as extracurricular obligations. On that note, I hope you enjoy this little story, and I hope you stick around for the next chapter!