one
Wesley Windham Pryce had faced many dangers in his life; nightmarish demons, blood sucking vampires, an apocalyptic event or three - all without asking for much in return. Here in Los Angeles he'd found himself forced to subside on a slight monetary compensation (quite unwillingly, of course), and no man could go without a slight stroke to his ego (a simple "thank you" was often enough to suffice), yet he'd trade a king's ransom and hordes of adoring, attractive female admirers for an immediate, warm bath.
"That," remarked his companion, flicking a bit of greenish-black goo from his bare head, "was disgusting."
Wesley wiped one hand across his face, effectively moving the mulch from his eyes to his cheeks. "If you had listened to me in the first place, Gunn, you would have remembered that Gylkr'pch explode upon death."
"I'm sorry. I'll be sure to remember the next time a smelly, sharp-toothed demon comes at me mouth first."
"Well, we should be leaving before the local authorities arrive."
Regret darkened the triumph that had lit Gunn's face. Tall, strong, and once the sworn protector of the Los Angeles underground from the seedier blood-suckers of the night, he never failed to mourn those that he'd failed to save, even down to the lowliest human rat. The drug dealer and his unfortunate companion were among the dregs of society, but Gunn was hard-pressed to not pity the fact that they'd been disemboweled and then fed upon while they stilled breathed.
"Yeah," he muttered, unable to tear his eyes away from the gruesome scene, "guess so."
The walk back to their base of operations, a formerly unoccupied, "haunted" hotel, would take nearly three quarters of an hour, however Wesley wasn't about to let either of them into his car ("Gylkr'pch innards all over my upholstery? I think not.") and neither of them gave much thought to be accosted by muggers.
"We look like two D&D rejects gone wrong," Gunn remarked, his home-made ax-like blade swung over one shoulder.
Wesley switched his sword to his left hand and stretched cramped fingers. "It could be worse."
"Yeah. We could be covered in smelly goop. Oops, guess that's already happened."
Wesley's retort was cut off by a piercing cry for help. Across the street (where the scarce number of the night's wanderers had decided to go after taking a whiff of the pair) a young woman in heels and fur was bolting madly away from a thickly-wrapped pursuer. By the brevity of her wear she appeared to be a prostitute, but the rather non-descript clothing of the man behind her gave no indication of a possible identity. Gunn and Wesley looked at one another and the taller, black man shrugged.
"Don't ever let it be said that we never helped the little man," he said, taking off in pursuit.
"Or scantily clad woman," Wesley remarked, following.
The chase was brief, as the woman took a turn into an alley and was confronted. Cautiously the two men waited behind the corner, thankful for the absence of pedestrians at this section of town. The woman, Asian and pretty, was being held up against the wall by her coat, feet dangling below, and was shaking her head violently back and forth while spitting hoarse phrases in her native tongue. Wesley's brow furrowed in confusion; they hadn't been that far behind the two for the assailant to have gotten him and the girl so far back into the alley and into such a compromising position.
"Chinese?" whispered Gunn.
"Japanese," Wesley corrected.
They watched for a little, assessing the man and the situation. A gun was not uncommon for such thugs and could be just as fatal as any demon's arsenal of natural weaponry. Between the woman's panicked utterings the man delivered a question. Whatever her response was it was not to her assailant's liking. He swiftly delivered her a backhanded slap from a gloved hand and then changed his grip from her lapels to her neck.
"We done watching?" Gunn snarled.
"Definitely."
Though he was jet-lagged and emotionally weary, having been plagued throughout the flight with bad memories, Kusanagi Mamoru found his quarry within two hours of landing at Los Angeles International. It was easy enough to pick her out from the other streetwalkers, and solicited her under false pretenses. However, she'd sniffed him out for what he was sooner than he'd hope and had instinctively bolted.
After cursing himself he'd followed, grateful for apparent lack of concern that was normal for denizens of the more squalid parts of such big cities, and waited for her to make a mistake. Heading down a section where she'd probably hoped to slip among the shadows gave him just the opportunity to use his unnatural speed to accost her. A gush of babble followed, including the usual "I don't knows" and "What do you want from mes?" that he'd grown accustomed to after having embarked upon his current crusade.
"Cut the crap, Masako," he snarled. "You know why I'm here. Where is he?"
"I don't know anything! You have the wrong woman! Somebody help!"
Regretting having to resort to such measures, Kusanagi wrapped his hands around her neck. Though it wouldn't have been fatal to a creature like Masako, it was painful nonetheless and he'd had really no other leads on this particular mission. They either broke or died sooner or later, especially once they discovered that he was just as unappetizing as he was deadly.
He caught the smell of something just plain foul before a fist smashed into the side of his head.
The man staggered and fell to his side, and the woman fell against the wall gasping and massaging her neck. She turned tear-stained eyes towards Wesley who gave her a warm, comforting smile. "Not to worry now, you'll be all right."
"Pickin' on ladies ain't very nice," said Gunn with a smirk. "Guess big tough guys like you - AH!"
Angrily the man had whipped off the hood of his jacket, revealing dark green hair that was swept back from a handsome, Oriental face. Doubled eyebrows skewed his features, each angling down towards a circular mark in the middle of his brow. Cat-like eyes were narrowed in his fury, and despite the blow he was crouched much like a tiger about to spring.
"Bakayarou!" yelled the green-haired man, exposing a somewhat feral set of teeth, "Kyuuketsuki da!!"
"What?" asked a baffled Gunn.
At Gunn's cry Wesley had turned away from the woman who still quivering from her ordeal. He shared the same degree of astonishment as his companion, however he registered who and what the man was almost immediately.
Slower, though, was his realization that they'd just made a mistake.
"He said -" Wesley's translation ended in a gasp as a lady's well-manicured hand snaked out and wrapped an unnaturally strong grip around his neck.
"He said," repeated the streetwalker as her brow and teeth became recognizably prominent, "that I am a vampire."
Stupid stupid stupid! Kusanagi chastised himself, shaking his head clear of the blow that had sent stars rippling in front of his eyes. If he'd been more diligent, as well as more rested, he would have distinguished the pair's pungent aroma from the rest of the alley's refuse. Far from being as recovered as Gunn had thought, he desperately had to stop the two, ill-timed good Samaritans before they got themselves served as a vamp's late-night snack. Staggering to his feet, he berated himself again; after all, he'd taken stabs in the back, blades in the belly, and a lost arm or two. A simple, human-powered fist shouldn't have made such a difference, but damn it all, the guy had one hell of a right hook.
Complicating matters was the thin space that Masako had fled to. Strewn with garbage and blocked in on one side by a brick wall meant that maneuvering without seriously harming anyone was going to be difficult. The more he watched, however, the more he realized that he had a more pressing problem.
These guys were good. Very good. Not only that, but upon the vampire's exposure of her true, demonic self the two had barely batted an eye. It was apparent that this was not an unfamiliar situation to them, and that they were very quickly going to undo the work of three, sleepless nights.
Upon realization that his companion was in danger, the black man had unshouldered his axe and plunged the back tip at Masako's head in one, smooth motion. The impact caused her to release her victim, whose neck had been moments away from being acquainted with her teeth. From inside of his jacket, the sword-wielding one pulled a wooden stake. Kusanagi's furious warning came too late and in the wrong language; a moment later the vampiress was nothing but a pile of supernatural dust.
Gunn reholstered his treasured weapon into the crook of his shoulder and turned to confront the carrot-colored man who, it seemed, was no longer where he'd been floored. The obvious question died on his lips as a gloved fist slammed into the side of his head. He let out a simple, "Shit!" and stumbled to hold himself upright against a wall. A flow of invectives followed, or at least what Gunn assumed were disparaging remarks. Having never been accomplished at the finer points of foreign languages (other than a few, choice profanities), he missed the details but gained the gist. When I can see straight, I'm gonna whoop your green ass, he promised.
Wesley, however, understood most of it, and took a moment to wonder at Kusanagi's perverse imagination. Once the green-haired man paused to take a breath (after having made comparative speculation over Gunn's sexual deviancies and those of a diseased, lice-ridden, legless whore) the former Watcher interrupted in imperfect Japanese. "Sumimasen, Kusanagi-san." A short, formal bow followed, his hands at his sides and his head inclined towards the now silent young man.
Eyes narrowed again, Kusanagi critically, and warily assessed the square-jawed, brown-haired swordsman. "How do you know my name?" came the response, formed slowly, but fluently in the same language.
"I am Wesley Wyndham Pryce, this is Charles Gunn. More formal introductions are better done indoors and in cleanliness." The well-educated Englishman racked his brain for phrases in a language barely used. "Follow us?"
Wrinkling his nose in disgust, the exertion having enhanced the unique stench from the gore now drying on the human's clothing and heads, Kusanagi immediately abandoned the offer. Having spent his insults for the day, he felt a scathing glare was a polite enough farewell, and without another word he was gone.
His speedy departure left the duo in a slight daze. One moment he was there, and the next he simply wasn't. Feeling beleaguered enough for one night they resumed their trek home followed unknowingly by a youthful half-demon who knew all too easily how not to be seen.