This little bunny is dedicated to IronMaidenMouse, since it was one of our late-night chats that gave birth to the idea.
The man was gasping for breath as he ran down the street. In dark jeans, sweater and knitted cap he could have been anything from night-shift worker returning home to burglar heading to a mark. Except, that is, for the expression of abject fear on his face as he almost sobbed and picked up his pace. Behind him tinkling laughter echoed down the empty faces of the brick buildings lining the street. "P-please!" he yelled over his shoulder, "I didn't know!" A snarl sounded ahead of him and he skidded to a halt, finally losing his balance and landing face first before a heavy pair of caterpillar boots. Large, rough hands lifted him up and started dusting him off, though he was oblivious for anything save the impossibly wide smile that beamed at him. "But friend! That's the fun part! They never know until it's too late!" The man boomed out, seeming to make proclamations instead of merely speaking. "People voice hun," a second voice, feminine yet somehow different, murmured right next to his ear. He made a whining noise in his throat as his bowels loosened. "Of course love, I forgot again," the man holding him upright replied, the maniacal smile never leaving his face. "You know dear," he said when the screams and slurping noises that ended them had stopped; "We haven't been on holiday in ages. Don't you think it's time for that second honeymoon we always threaten to have?" A woman of below-average height with deathly pale skin and hair the colour of dried blood tilted her head as she considered his words while absently using a napkin to wipe her mouth. "We've had four second honeymoons already mi'la, but I think you're right. We DO deserve a holiday. I mean, there are hardly any bad men left anywhere in the country now!"
The door squeaked as the man strode through it. His tweed jacket rustling softly as he walked down the long hallway, odd symbols adorning the wall at intervals flashing as he passed them. "Staker," he nodded to a ham inside an office busily working at an old, mechanical typewriter. The man barely waved a hand, apparently engrossed in whatever he was writing. Around the corner the man in the out-dated clothes greeted a seemingly identical man standing next to a coffee machine chatting with a blonde woman who looked up and nodded as well. Finally reaching an unassuming wooden door with no name plaque the man knocked and entered at the acknowledgement. "Ah! Renfield, come in come in!" the large man sitting behind the battered state-issue desk said jovially, waving at a similarly battered chair in front of his desk, which was covered with papers and files. "You sent for me sir?" The man, Renfield, said in a soft, measured voice.
"I did," the man said in a now-serious voice. "I have received a report from our man in the department; crime rates have dropped drastically the last few days, to the point where we haven't had a death due to anything other than accidents, age, sickness or chems in two days." Renfield sighed and put a hand to his face. "Please tell me he isn't coming here for one of his 'walks'?" He asked his superior. "No, luckily not," the man said with relief clear in his voice, "Your former master is staying in England where he belongs, I understand with his former employer near death he's mellowed out somewhat, even mentioning moving back to Buckingham with that big-titted police girl of his." Renfield looked up, puzzlement on his normally impassive face. "Then what?" He asked. The other man slipped a piece of paper at him, indicating a date and time. "I need you to try and go meet them at the airport, the Bertrams are on holiday…"
