Episode Two: Rock All Night
Chapter One: Showcase For Matisse
"Darla was stuck in a no-win situation. Struggling with everything she had been responsible for, she clung at the thought of power and control, thus making her act hastily and without judgment. Hence The Brethren."
"She loved to have them in her clutches, at her mercy, them fearing her. Not to mention the adoration she subtly picked up as she was assigned as a substitute matriarch for those orphans of the night."
"It is ineluctable Darla was to have a return to The Master enough to give the Prodigal Son something to blush about. Then when and why? And what about The Brethren? Did it survive? ... Of course not."
o o o
As always, the vampires roam London freely, much like everywhere else on the planet when the sun has set. It's all about desire for them. What they like and nothing else. Apart from this, the wind outside blew chilly, consequently not enough passers-by to snack on. Driven into the depth and rather echoic institution where visual arts were prone - The English Museum - as the noble blood came by gallons.
Spike: The Brethren, eh? Nice! Am I the only one who reads the mislead; Brethrens supposed to be "of Brothers." God knows Darla's looks are of the boyish, but...
Drusilla: Well, I like it.
Tombstone: Me too.
Darla steps around the ceramic column, intruding on the conversation. She mind not her vampire subordinates, pacing moderately and gazing at the oily paintings suspended on the walls all around. Art is a hobby of hers. Contemplating what the human mind can achieve when profoundly astute always seems to surprise her for what they truly are – mediocre. The painters, she means.
Darla: Not much like you have a choice.
Spike: Funny you say that--
Darla: I found something appealing on this woman... An invitation to Hansbridge Manor. I'd be good to go, and you too, Tombstone. You will pass as my companion slave for the night. It's tomorrow, so we--
Tombstone: I AM NO SLAVE!!
Drusilla: Be quiet, roaring beastie. Obey the blond one's idle demand.
Spike: Learn it now; with her, s'all about giving.
Darla: I can redeem myself by giving you a damn good beating.
Spike: (Insolent... as always) Please, mamma, no! I'll be a good Spike.
Drusilla: He'll be a good Spike!
They go round the column Darla had just came by and march on to the exit altogether. The corridor is vast and frigid, with a few light here and there. The velvet red ropes by their sides stood by the paintings to keep off the brash onlookers. As they go on, they shamelessly bashed on skulls, tottering on the dead bodies spread around all across the floor whilst maintaining casual conversation. The red carpet had reached other tones of red...
Spike: Say Darla, what the hell got up with you last night? Why the sudden rush of fear? I know you got some loose screws up the noodle, but s'not like you to be afraid.
Darla: (Surprised by her own words) I agree! That guy had this thing-- I don't know. He made me doubt myself. Very Holtz-ish.
Drusilla: Missy gone soft.
Darla: There are two things in this world that scare me. One you found out about; congratulations. Yes, they wouldn't be called vampire hunters if they didn't professionally dismembered bunnies. As for the second one, there's no chance in hell you'll ever know. Understand that I'm not easily afrai-- AH!
His head was positioned looking beyond their carcasses, mechanically having placed himself to behold this make-believe world of veracious colors, usurping the fine line between this realm and the next. With elegant beauty, he stood with his hands locked behind him.
If ever she were to be of the living, her heart would have sustained a furious heartbeat, her breasts moving, throbbing, thundering in a frenzy following this unwanted surprise. She regained self-control and immediately let out her anger.
Darla: Christ!! You?!
He answered with a crooked smile. All knew he was not to respond easily. Gautier had this way about him which resembled a superiority complex. Maybe this was all a crafty illusion, a wily web of lies which he had fabricated as a psychological front to avoid any trouble upon himself. None knew...
With his ageless beaming, he strolled down the carpet, examining paint massacred canvases – the laughable human artwork.
Awestruck and ever stagnant, they - The Brethren - observed the observer, waiting for who knows what. They just stood there, not panicked, but rather annoyed. Easily could they have walked out, but he had lured them in his mysteriousness.
Gautier: I like art.
Darla: No you don't, numskull! You get off peeping at a painted boob or two.
Gautier: Harsh! Manners, Darla, manners.
Darla: Get some first, then we'll bitch.
The devil's bride lined with the door to get away from this goofing idiot, but he obstructed her with all of himself. The following dialogue paced down rapidly...
Spike: Hey!
Tombstone: Get out of Mistress's way.
Gautier: Shut up, Tombstone.
Tombstone: Yes, Master.
Darla: (To Tombstone) Hey! ... (To Gautier) You, get out of my way!
Gautier: Not until you give me what I want.
(Darla pauses for an instant, intrigued)
Darla: I don't take orders very well, however I'm peeked; what's of mine that could possibly interest you?
On his face, the crooked smile widened to something awfully deviant. Bringing it far opposite her, he raised his index and pointed... those. Those luscious, inviting, sinuous, voluptuous curves of firm pleasure which he gazed upon with lascivious curiosity; Darla's breasts, her inborn artillery.
Darla: Look all you want pervert, you're not close to having playtime with the Darla juniors.
(He was taken aback by her response, frowning wildly.)
Gautier: No-o-o-oh...
He made her realize what she was thinking of what he had in mind, wasn't. What did he had in mind!? He wavered up his finger, going around something invisible, to point again at… those, but this movement made her notice he was aiming something else. Something white and carton-made which a hint of its corner had unsuccessfully been tucked into her plunging neckline, inside her brassiere. Something like... the Hansbridge Ball invitation.
Gautier: I want that.
Darla: Really? I thought you might want this instead...!
Cheeky Darla outreached his shirt which she twisted under her palms whilst turning vampy. With a similar impulse, she pulled him towards her, a meeting of their eyes, two of which were offended, the other ones showing something beyond indifference. She played the thought of little dive in the neck, but the coldness of the blood in him basically turned her off. How she wished she could wipe that silly grin off his face.
Still crippling him firmly, she let go when she sent him flying sideways against the wall. Not an uncalculated throw this was, no, even though executed with a quick brazen motion on her part. It was all meant for him to smash his head first onto the hard concrete. Unfortunately, she knew this wouldn't put him out forever, and not even at the very least put him unconscious.
When he had slid off along with a painting, he just sat up, leaning his back to the wall with his legs buckled. Like hyped on something strong, his head tilted back and his glance had become scatty. Most of them shared the same thought; if only they could take out that damn smirk of his. In the end, it's more a matter of "would" than "could." They loved whacking him around.
Unperturbed by this little "attack," The Brethren made way to the exit.
Gautier: Hey, traitor! (...) HEY, TOMBSTONE!!!
Surprising us with a rare angry look across his face, distorting his smirk to something so vile, he was about to speak his mind to his former henchman.
Tombstone paused before turning around, not scared, just... Tombstone-like. If there's something very hard to comprehend and difficult to process, it's Tombstone. That drone whose intellect had been chased away by self-loathe. The Brethren stopped, waiting, expecting something to come down.
Gautier: Yeah! Mr. Bigshot! Backstabbing your friends like (Finger snap) that. Yeah... Tommy would be so proud. You worked wonders with the boy. Cause that's what you did, you know; kill him.
Like a maddened bull, he stomped down to the man whose garments fell into his animal-like clench, lifting him up with much more ease then Darla ever did. He took a swing with the body in his arms, then began pounding him against the wall with unnatural, brutal rhythm. The might of the dark thing fell into the will of a god, his eyes were blood red and wide; he slipped into his trademark berserk state of mind again.
The wall began to fail with pieces and dust busting out at mad speed. In all the contusion, Gautier, impressive to sustain the blows, never tried to fight back the vampire's outburst.
Gautier: Is that how you treat me? Is that how you treat your own sire?!
He came to a dead stop, the drum-like mauling stopping faster then it began. Gautier opened up his arms and forced Tombstone to let go. The gang leader's power was still a mystery, considering Tombstone was in a state of confusion that could have been easily broken out of. But then again, he had to be somewhat stronger if he truly was his sire. Those are all maybes.
God to his gang, he was merely a nuisance to those who were watching at him just now. What he looked like definitely did not resemble charming on this night: he looked rather despicable, vindictive, villainous... hurt. However not so much physically since there didn't seem to have one darn bruise on him.
Gautier: You go and think about that, with your Brethren. Doesn't matter, we'll win the war.
o o o
We cut off to The Brethren walking down the street. It all seems clear in their mind what they think of Gautier...
Spike: What war?!?!
Darla: The man's losing it.
Tombstone: Loony crank...
Drusilla: Insane!
Dru expressed moderate satisfaction - judging by her widespread smile - unbeknownst in her mind that they were all staring at their daffy friend, completely aghast by the irony in her comment.