Tattoo 3.
A/N: thanks to all my reviewers, I really appreciate the comments. I hope you like where this is going…
One comment: I don't know if Angel knew about the Council and the Slayer lore, but I'm assuming he did. So let's go with that….
A few moments pass, and things begin to clear for him. He tests the bonds around his hands; the fools used regular rope. Almost too easy. He sureptitiously pops the ties around his wrists, but keeps his hands in front of his chest, listening to the four men arguing with each other.
"We need to contain him before he wakes," one was saying. The others didn't seem to be so sure.
"Look, Hennessy, just because your toy worked once doesn't mean it'll work again. I don't trust this guy. He's got too much of a rep. Besides, who cares if he has a soul? Doesn't mean he'll treat us any better. We shocked him for god's sake," replies one of the other men, a shorter, stockier one with blond hair. "I don't trust him, and I don't appreciate the council sending us on this errand without telling us who we were dealing with."
"Please, Markus. He hasn't been violent towards humans for a long time. The scourge days are long passed. Plus, you know the council. They're not ones for exactly explaining stuff."
Angel decides now is the time to get the drop on these guys, and before they can blink, he's up and has taken down two of the men without even breaking a sweat. Clonking their heads together works just fine.
He is on the man with the gun a second later. Face morphed, he bares his fangs and tells the stockier man, "So, I get your story or I become peckish. It's your choice. Your friend may not forgive you, so I would choose wisely."
The blond man, Markus, swallows and answers quickly. "Alright, please just let him go. Don't hurt us, Angelus. We're not here to harm you…"
Angel clocks the man with the gun in the temple, and he drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
"I don't go by that name any more. Or isn't the council up on me?"
Markus blanches, and replies. "Wait. You know about the council?"
Angel smirks, shaking his head. "Most vampires know about the Watcher's council. You're not exactly quiet about your existance. At least in the demon world anyway. What's with that? You'd think a covert group of researchers would want to be at least somewhat covert. Especially considering your connection to the slayer line."
The man gets whiter, if that's possible. "We're not researchers, or council members ourselves. We're just the hunt and gather team. Testing new weapons."
Angel stares the man down. "What the hell are you doing in Los Angeles?"
"There's been rumors you were here. And obviously the Watcher diaries aren't exactly up on your recent exploits. Plus we're looking at a possible Hellmouth up the coast, so…combining trips, basically," the man stammers, and suddenly becomes aware he's giving away too much information.
"That's all you're getting out of me, Angelus- I mean Angel. You can do what you want to us. I don't know anything else."
Angel grasps that the man is telling the truth. He can hear Markus' heartbeat, but it's racing rhythm is from fear, not from lying.
"So, I'm just a convienent target for you," he asks suspiciously, still not sure why they had found him so easily. How had they known where he was going? Or had it been just a coincidence?
"I just told you, we are interested in your story, but we really just happened to be out on weapons practice. You weren't being followed, I swear. Just let us go, I'll try to get the Council off your back."
Angel steps close to the man, so close he can smell his sweat, and the rancid odor of whatever the man had had for dinner. He feels a slight twinge of guilt as the man's fear overwhelms him, which quickly turns to disgust as Markus' bladder lets go.
"You won't try. You will get them to back off. Or they're going to hear about Angelus…personally. You get me?"
The man nods frenetically, blabbering out, "Yes, I will. No problem, you won't hear from us again."
Angel steps back, and notices the others are starting to stir. He doesn't want to have to hurt them again, so he melts into the trees and heads back for the area where he had parked his car.
The next night Angel sits silently in his room at the Hyperion. Brooding. Which is certainly a skill he's honed over the past 50 years or so.
The open bottle of blood next to him is almost empty, and as he contemplates the weirdness of the past day, he swigs from the bottle, not really noticing it.
Hungryletsogooutthiscoldshitisn'tenoughdon'tyouknowi'malwaysheremymarkisonyounowletsgotothebloodbankormaybejustouthunting
His head snaps up at this, and fear steals over his undead heart.
He wishes again for the thousandth time he could see the tattoo.
He looks at the bottle, and grimaces when he notices that it's almost empty. Didn't he just get this one?
What's with the Council, anyway? Had he really just been a convienent target, or was there some other agenda? Why couldn't they just go on up the coast, or deal with their current slayer, or whatever the hell it is they normally do? Why was he so interesting? He stands suddenly, and crosses the room, looking out the window at the city below.
Heythebankisonlyafewblocksawayletsgo
He shakes his head violently, and grips the frame of the window. He doensn't need human blood to survive, he knows, but…it's so much better. No nasty aftertaste. And so easy to get, he doesn't have to hurt anyone, and no one's the wiser.
Wait…did he just think that it was better? Since when did the taste come into play? His guilt complex had always made that part very easy to ignore. Why was it suddenly such a big deal? And why was his stomach feeling as if he hadn't eaten in days?
From his vantage point in the hotel, he watches as several young women cross the street below him, and he closes his eyes, reaching out to get a whiff of their scent. Perfume, sweat, and…pumping, warm, human blood. He takes a great sniff, and is overwhelmed with dizzyness and a longing he hasn't felt in decades.
His back throbs suddenly, and his hand flies upward, trying to figure out where the pain is coming from.
He encounters wetness, which is extremely odd. What's even odder is the red dripping mess that's on his hand when he brings it back around to look at it.
His tattoo is bleeding.
He can only stare at his hand in shock, as the liquid drip, drip, drips onto the threadbare hotel carpet, as the overhead fan turns in a mocking time with the noise.
TBC.