The following evening after midnight, Winkle found herself back in the Cold Storage room once again carting out jars for the Doktor to judge, then wheeling them back after the verdict. For the first time, however, she began to enjoy the menial chores thanks to the Dok's contribution. Tonight, the phonograph sat prominently in the middle of the infirmary blaring Weber's masterpiece, Der Freischütz.
As she pushed the cart back and forth throughout the night, Winkle sang unabashedly. The lyrics poured from her effortlessly. Every note, pause, and pulsating vibrato was ingrained in her soul, as though the music had been written for her alone. She only made an effort to be quiet in the laboratory and hummed along to the music leaking through the door.
If the noise bothered the Doktor, he gave no indication. Rather, he went on with work as usual, as though she nor the music were present, save for the moments his attention was required for her to finish a task. The night was uneventful; Winkle dared to call it pleasant even. Basking in the glory of the greatest opera ever created till dawn with a meal waiting afterward made the deal more ideal than she had ever considered. When daylight began to break, Dok presented her reward without a word.
Blood pack held between jagged teeth, Winkle left the infirmary with the phonograph in her arms. The door barely closed before something thick and strong looped around her neck. Immediately, Winkle made a grab for the noose, nearly dropping the player in the process. Instead of fiber, her nails dug into firm, dead flesh.
"Well, well, well, so this is where you've been flocking to," A horribly familiar voice muttered into her ear. "You know, all I have to do to find you is to follow the sound of your crowing. No one else but you plays that shit, Songbird."
Winkle choked as the unforgiving headlock tightened, pressing her black flat against a tall, muscled body. Zorin.
"And what's this…" the woman added, free hand coming to pull the bag of blood away from clamped, razor teeth. Plastic ripped and blood dripped down Winkle's lapel before splattering to the floor. Holding the pack between thumb and forefinger, she gave a snort of disgust, "Seriously?"
Winkle gurgled in reply. A flick of Zorin's wrist sent the blood pack flying across the empty hallway. The bag struck the opposite wall wetly and smeared a long, bloody trail to the floor as it fell.
"All this to avoid me," Zorin said, leaning into whisper in the shell of her ear. "It was a fun game, but I'm getting bored." Throat crushed between bicep and forearm, and head pinned against Zorin's collar bone, Winkle could only squirm as a hand began to worm past the buttons of her suit jacket. Balancing the phonograph precariously, she tried to swat the wayward touch away with a slap. Nothing.
"How'd you get Dok to give you a snack anyway?" Zorin mused, pushing the dark jacket flaps open. Fingers easily threaded past the buttons of her dress shirt, even as Winkle tried to yank the searching hand away by the wrist. "He's a staunch believer in the whole, 'work'll set you free' idea. Must have done something to earn it. If you were hurt'n for a bite that badly, we coulda worked something out."
Fingers suddenly fisted fabric and pulled. Buttons pinged against the floor as her dress shirt was ripped open. Winkle jumped, accidentally choking herself in the crook of Zorin's arm as the same hand palmed an exposed breast. Stomach clenching at the feeling, Winkle trembled. Her teeth gritted and eyes slide closed as the calloused, caressing hand brought her back to that day in the shower. Suddenly, the weight in her grip shifted.
Blue eyes snapped open in time to watch the phonograph slip from her hold. Her hands cut through the air in a desperate attempt to grab the player, but pulled flush against Zorin, failing arms missed, and the phonograph fell to the floor. Wood splintered on impact. A large crack zigzagged up the base of the player like a lightning bolt. Tears prickled her eyes at the sight. Zorin, however, seemed not to notice or care; rough fingers continued to knead into her tea-cup breast.
"You like making deals, right?" Zorin asked knowingly. "I'll feed you...but I want the first bite."
Winkle wheezed, and bloody tracks ran down speckled cheeks. She barely registered the words, too busy sorrowfully staring down at the beautiful, broken player until her vision blurred from the tears. Surely this would mean another scolding from the Doktor, but it also meant something more important, no more Der Freischütz.
When lips brushed her neck, Wrinkle jolted and forced her head down. Mouth opening wide, she dug razor teeth into the meaty forearm looped about her neck. The hoarse gasp that followed was so satisfying at that moment it nearly rivaled Weber's masterpiece. Teeth snapping together like puzzle pieces, she came away with an oozing chunk of flesh and spat it to the ground. It was only after she opened her maw to take another savage bite that Zorin let go.
Free of the choke-hold, Winkle made a dash for the nearest sanctuary: the infirmary. Throwing the door wide, she dared to glance back. Zorin gave a sharp, lopsided smile in return, mismatching eyes alight with something like amusement as she reached out to snare her again.
At full speed, Winkle dove past the threshold. Throwing her back flat against the door, she slammed closed with a bang. Just outside, jackboots slowly clicked against the floor and came to a stop directly behind her.
"If that's how you want to play, I'm game," Zorin said.
A mere door wouldn't stop Zorin, she was going to have to hide. Sprinting forward, Winkle suddenly stopped dead as her hair was snagged. Like a fish on a line, she was jerked backward by her long mane until her skull smashed against the metal door with a sickening crack. The force made round-rim glasses slip down her nose. Groping blindly behind her, Winkle gripped the taut ropes of hair. Oh no.
Feeling the silky strands feeding through the doorjamb her eyes grew round. Zorin had indeed managed to catch her and closing the door had only made matters far worse. As if to punctuate the realization, Zorin gave a harsh tug, forcing her head back against the door with another loud crack. The smarting pain made tears spring to her eyes again. Moaning in grief, Winkle sagged against the cold, metal entrance in humiliation.
In the distance, soft-soled shoes slapped the floor, and her watery eyes glanced toward the sound. In the din of the clinic, the Doktor's silhouette took shape, striding purposefully toward her. Stopping a pace away, Dok crossed his arms and offered only a sigh as his shrewd gaze took in her predicament. Magnified eyes trailed up the exposed clavicle and lingered on blood-stained lips before narrowing in annoyance. In desperation, Winkle pressed hands together in a silent plea. Unamused eyes rolled in response.
"Please…" she murmured.
"Little louder Songbird," Zorin's voice poured under the doorframe.
Winkle yelped as she was yanked backward again. Her head smashed against the door so hard the metal rattled against the frame. Glasses tinkled to the tiled floor. Blood-tinged tears freely rolled down pale cheeks as she closed her eyes at the throbbing pain. Another sigh issued from above.
Shink!
Blue eyes flew open as soft strands rained down the back of her bare neck. Without glasses, Winkle glanced up to see the blurred form of the Doktor holding a hazy scalpel in one hand and a fist full of long, black hair in the other. Pocketing the blade, he dropped the wad of hair and stepped away from the door. Standing with chin held high, Dok seemed to be pointedly ignoring her, until his head dipped in the direction of the Cold Storage room once.
Mouthing her thanks, Winkle quietly scampered into the clinic. Nearly blind, she tripped several times before slipping into the storage room. She was about to seal it shut when the infirmary door squeaked opened then closed. Winkle froze, hands holding the iron-bolted door open a crack. In the distance, jackboots clicked across the tile infirmary floor but stopped near the entrance. The sound of voices filtered into the storage room.
"Morning Doktor."
"Yes, is it, isn't is," he agreed, bored. " What brings you here, Blitz? You ought to be heading for your coffin; sunrise is in twenty minutes. "
Fabric rustled.
"Ohh, a songbird bit me."
Latex smoothed over skin before a squish sounded.
"To the bone," the Doktor hummed impressed. "But if you got close enough to get bitten, I would say the fault is your own. Let this serve as a reminder."
Zorin snorted, "Eh, more interested in paying her back for the souvenir. She fly away?"
There was a pause.
"As all birds are want to do when the farmer's scythe begins to clearcut the field," he chided, tongue clicking several times. "Aggressive as always."
Zorin laughed once at that, "Hey, the birdy bit back."
"That she did, that she did," Dok muttered with disapproval. "Still, you haven't any pressing medical reasons for being here, Blitz. I suggest you leave."
Another throaty laugh.
"If you don't like your lab being in the middle, you shouldn't have let her feather a nest here."
"My facility, my rules. I needn't explain myself to you," he defended. "Leave. I will not ask politely again."
"Ja, ja..." Zorin assured and jackboots tapped against the tile. The door squeaked open again, and the steps stopped. A low whistle sounded. "...Doing some spring cleaning?"
"Blitz," Dok ground tersely.
The woman gave a harsh, barking laugh at his annoyance.
"Ciao Dok," Blitz snickered, then called louder."Catch you later, Songbird."
Heels clicked together in a salute then the door creaked closed.
The tapping of boots faded down the hall, only to be replaced by the slap of soft-soled shoes walking across the infirmary. There was a tug on the iron-bolted door and Winkle let the handle go. The entrance swung open to reveal the Doktor's hazy form, but due to poor eyesight, she could read little from the man.
Winkle squinted as a bleary, latex hand came toward her face. Meal glinted on the white palm. She took the offered item, recognizing the spectacles by feel before placing them on the bridge of her nose. Dok's serious face came into clarity.
"Thank you," she mumbled, having difficulty holding the steely gaze.
The Doktor said nothing, upper lip curling in repugnance. Crooking a commanding finger in her direction, he turned and exited the Cold Storage room. After laying the dress shirt flaps over each other to hide her open chest and buttoning the suit jacket closed, Winkle hung her head and trailed after him.
Notes:
Winkle you got some splainin' to do.
1. About the whole choking thing: do bootleg vampires need air? No, but they like it. They wouldn't be able to use their sense of smell or talk otherwise. Oxygen deprivation might not kill them, but someone squeezing the hell outta ya hurts.
2. Zorin's bullying is dark, huh? If you thought this was rough, head up, it's gonna get way worse. Remember, Zorin's a sadistic psychopath who enjoys torturing others mentally and physically for kicks. Everyone's kinda an insect to her. What, you weren't expecting her to be a good person, right? Didn't think so. Zorin leaves and listens to Dok because one, he made her and can destroy her; two, he has a higher rank, but she toes the line; and lastly, the chase is part of the fun.
3. And Zorin just speaks in music-related puns all the fuck'n time. Hey, she thinks she's funny. Totally not thinking of Mr. Freeze at all, nono.
