Blade: The Return
He remembered being alive. The way food tasted, the way a good wine tickled his tongue and slid down his throat in the most pleasurable way. But he remembered being dead as well. But not the kind of dead everyone associated with when they spoke and though of that word. His memories were of being dead, but being alive too. He remembered having blood in veins, but it never flowed. The blood wasn't his, but other humans. And he killed them. Killed them for the warmth that flowed through their body, warmth that absorbed him as his throat swallowed and convulsed in the absolute pleasure of the blood that filled his mouth almost too fast to handle. But he knew he couldn't suffocate, he knew he wouldn't get a headache because he couldn't die, and he couldn't feel anymore. Only the warmth that filled him when he fed.
And, as his mind slowly returned to him, he remembered Blade. La Magra. How he had become the strongest vampire in the world, a "fucking hurricane," and Blade. Blade, the Daywalker, the half man, half vampire that had ruined his plans. He thought he had won, thought that the Daywalker had been defeated, when Blade pulled some scientific trick, something blue in a syringe, and he had stabbed him with them, injected his immortal body with it .And he had laughed, laughed knowing that it wouldn't hurt him. But it did. His body had expanded and exploded, exploded in thousands of tiny little pieces.
But now, his body was coming back together, piece by piece. He felt like himself again, felt his body regroup and push back together. He was immortal, and although the explosion had put a damper on his plans, it had only slowed him down, not stopped him.
Suddenly, he could move his fingers, his toes. He lifted his arms, his legs, and realized that he was lying on the ground. The ground of the temple that he had died in. He let out a sharp, barking laugh and realized something that was even more sweeter than being able to move. Deacon Frost was back. And he was going to kill Blade.
Blade sat at the metal table, his palms flat against it, his eyes closed. He was trying to concentrate, but it wasn't working. Whistler was trying to tell him something, but for some reason today, he really didn't want to hear it. "....So I asked her what was wrong, and she just ran. I tell ya, there was something about that girl. Something that reminded me of someone else and I...." Whistler looked at Blade, noticing the complete blank look on his face. "Got something on yer mind kid?" Blade turned his head slowly to Whistler and gave him a slow, menacing grin. It didn't frighten the old man, for he'd seen it so many times before. "Nothing. I'd just rather go out and kill vampires then sit here and listen to you talk about your day.....old man." Whistler grabbed a bag off the floor and tossed towards the direction of the table. It slid across it, landing to the side of Blade's forearm. "And what's this?" "A bag of supplies. Knock yer self out." Whistler said and moved to go work on something, anything, he really didn't care. Blade grabbed the bag and stood, moving to his car.
Deacon could see, feel, think, move, all over again. He strolled down the street, wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a tank top he had stolen from some man off the street after feeding off him. He didn't like the style at all, and was moving towards a store to get it. But, something was troubling him. There was something pounding in his body, and he didn't know what it was. It was starting to bother him, but he decided to ignore it, going to find some better clothes for himself, and hoping to find a pair of shoes that would actually fit him. The man he had stolen from wore a size six. Tiny feet, Deacon thought, what else does that mean? He smirked and continue down the street.
Blade drove down the road, a bit faster than normal. The bag Whistler had given him rested on the seat next to him, and he gazed over at it. He hadn't even bothered to see what was inside yet, hopefully something useful. He looked back to the road, and something in a dark alley caught his eye. He saw movement, about four or five people doing something, something suspicious. He pulled up the side of the road, climbing out of his car and unzipping the bag. He saw a bunch of garlic syringes and raised an eyebrow, reaching down a bit farther, and grabbing a gun. He grinned when he saw it and held it in one hand, throwing the bag back into the car and shutting the door softly. He moved around, pressing himself close against the wall, bracing himself for a fight.
She lay in a fetal position on the ground, shuddering. Bite marks all along her body brought a tingling pain every few seconds. On her stomach, above her left breast, on her calves, and on her shoulder, they bleed profusely and throbbed like no other. The five men surrounding her were laughing, their intentions quite extreme, quite wrong. One reached down and gripped her shirt, yanking her upwards off the ground, his face close to her. His voice came out in a growl, his canine's extremely sharp, spackles of blood ruining the complete white of his teeth. Her blood. She struggled against his grip, shaking. "Listen here, girly. You have something we want, so, the logical solution to this problem is for you to give to it us." She kicked her legs, but her feet were at least 2 feet off the ground. "Please...I don't know what you want...I can't help you." They all laughed and the one holding her threw her against the wall. Her back, luckily, connected with wall before her head, absorbing the majority of the blow. It still hurt, but she wasn't unconscious. She winced in pain and opened her eyes slowly, looking at the men in front of her. "What do you want from me? What do I have?" "Frost." One said softly and she looked to him. "Frost? What....I...I don't know what you're talking about." She said in a frightened voice, shaking still. "Deacon Frost....his blood runs through your veins, girly." The big one hissed and her eyes went slightly wide. "That's....my...." She decided not to say it, shaking her head. "What? WHAT, GIRLY?" "My grandfather's name was Deacon Frost." She said softly, nibbling at her lip. When he lifted her head again, she saw the smiles that were on all the men's faces. "That's right, girly." He reached down and gripped her shirt again, lifting her head up and pushing her back against the wall. She winced when the bruises from her previous hit against the brick had caused. "And we need your blood. Deacon needs your blood." "You've already got my blood, and besides, he's dead." She said and they all laughed again.
"He's not dead. Only....in a rock and a hard place right now, that's all, chicky-poo." He smiled, but it slowly faded away. His mouth formed into the shape of an o, and his body slowly faded away to ashes, dropping to the ground in a pile. She fell to the ground, her tailbone smacking against the pavement. She let out a shriek of pain, wincing. She thought for sure it was broken, but wasn't going to say a word. The sound of gunshots rang around her, and every last one of the men disintegrated and fell to the ground.
She pressed herself against the wall, breathing hard, the pain of all her injuries rushing to her in an explosion of pain. She gasped out loudly and heard footsteps moving towards her. Slowly, she opened her eyes to see a man in front of her. He flashed a grim smile and lifted her, putting her over his shoulder.
She didn't have time to argue, this man had just saved her. She wasn't going to argue with him. But, even if she wanted to, it would have been impossible. She felt herself black out and slip into unconsciousness.
He remembered being alive. The way food tasted, the way a good wine tickled his tongue and slid down his throat in the most pleasurable way. But he remembered being dead as well. But not the kind of dead everyone associated with when they spoke and though of that word. His memories were of being dead, but being alive too. He remembered having blood in veins, but it never flowed. The blood wasn't his, but other humans. And he killed them. Killed them for the warmth that flowed through their body, warmth that absorbed him as his throat swallowed and convulsed in the absolute pleasure of the blood that filled his mouth almost too fast to handle. But he knew he couldn't suffocate, he knew he wouldn't get a headache because he couldn't die, and he couldn't feel anymore. Only the warmth that filled him when he fed.
And, as his mind slowly returned to him, he remembered Blade. La Magra. How he had become the strongest vampire in the world, a "fucking hurricane," and Blade. Blade, the Daywalker, the half man, half vampire that had ruined his plans. He thought he had won, thought that the Daywalker had been defeated, when Blade pulled some scientific trick, something blue in a syringe, and he had stabbed him with them, injected his immortal body with it .And he had laughed, laughed knowing that it wouldn't hurt him. But it did. His body had expanded and exploded, exploded in thousands of tiny little pieces.
But now, his body was coming back together, piece by piece. He felt like himself again, felt his body regroup and push back together. He was immortal, and although the explosion had put a damper on his plans, it had only slowed him down, not stopped him.
Suddenly, he could move his fingers, his toes. He lifted his arms, his legs, and realized that he was lying on the ground. The ground of the temple that he had died in. He let out a sharp, barking laugh and realized something that was even more sweeter than being able to move. Deacon Frost was back. And he was going to kill Blade.
Blade sat at the metal table, his palms flat against it, his eyes closed. He was trying to concentrate, but it wasn't working. Whistler was trying to tell him something, but for some reason today, he really didn't want to hear it. "....So I asked her what was wrong, and she just ran. I tell ya, there was something about that girl. Something that reminded me of someone else and I...." Whistler looked at Blade, noticing the complete blank look on his face. "Got something on yer mind kid?" Blade turned his head slowly to Whistler and gave him a slow, menacing grin. It didn't frighten the old man, for he'd seen it so many times before. "Nothing. I'd just rather go out and kill vampires then sit here and listen to you talk about your day.....old man." Whistler grabbed a bag off the floor and tossed towards the direction of the table. It slid across it, landing to the side of Blade's forearm. "And what's this?" "A bag of supplies. Knock yer self out." Whistler said and moved to go work on something, anything, he really didn't care. Blade grabbed the bag and stood, moving to his car.
Deacon could see, feel, think, move, all over again. He strolled down the street, wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a tank top he had stolen from some man off the street after feeding off him. He didn't like the style at all, and was moving towards a store to get it. But, something was troubling him. There was something pounding in his body, and he didn't know what it was. It was starting to bother him, but he decided to ignore it, going to find some better clothes for himself, and hoping to find a pair of shoes that would actually fit him. The man he had stolen from wore a size six. Tiny feet, Deacon thought, what else does that mean? He smirked and continue down the street.
Blade drove down the road, a bit faster than normal. The bag Whistler had given him rested on the seat next to him, and he gazed over at it. He hadn't even bothered to see what was inside yet, hopefully something useful. He looked back to the road, and something in a dark alley caught his eye. He saw movement, about four or five people doing something, something suspicious. He pulled up the side of the road, climbing out of his car and unzipping the bag. He saw a bunch of garlic syringes and raised an eyebrow, reaching down a bit farther, and grabbing a gun. He grinned when he saw it and held it in one hand, throwing the bag back into the car and shutting the door softly. He moved around, pressing himself close against the wall, bracing himself for a fight.
She lay in a fetal position on the ground, shuddering. Bite marks all along her body brought a tingling pain every few seconds. On her stomach, above her left breast, on her calves, and on her shoulder, they bleed profusely and throbbed like no other. The five men surrounding her were laughing, their intentions quite extreme, quite wrong. One reached down and gripped her shirt, yanking her upwards off the ground, his face close to her. His voice came out in a growl, his canine's extremely sharp, spackles of blood ruining the complete white of his teeth. Her blood. She struggled against his grip, shaking. "Listen here, girly. You have something we want, so, the logical solution to this problem is for you to give to it us." She kicked her legs, but her feet were at least 2 feet off the ground. "Please...I don't know what you want...I can't help you." They all laughed and the one holding her threw her against the wall. Her back, luckily, connected with wall before her head, absorbing the majority of the blow. It still hurt, but she wasn't unconscious. She winced in pain and opened her eyes slowly, looking at the men in front of her. "What do you want from me? What do I have?" "Frost." One said softly and she looked to him. "Frost? What....I...I don't know what you're talking about." She said in a frightened voice, shaking still. "Deacon Frost....his blood runs through your veins, girly." The big one hissed and her eyes went slightly wide. "That's....my...." She decided not to say it, shaking her head. "What? WHAT, GIRLY?" "My grandfather's name was Deacon Frost." She said softly, nibbling at her lip. When he lifted her head again, she saw the smiles that were on all the men's faces. "That's right, girly." He reached down and gripped her shirt again, lifting her head up and pushing her back against the wall. She winced when the bruises from her previous hit against the brick had caused. "And we need your blood. Deacon needs your blood." "You've already got my blood, and besides, he's dead." She said and they all laughed again.
"He's not dead. Only....in a rock and a hard place right now, that's all, chicky-poo." He smiled, but it slowly faded away. His mouth formed into the shape of an o, and his body slowly faded away to ashes, dropping to the ground in a pile. She fell to the ground, her tailbone smacking against the pavement. She let out a shriek of pain, wincing. She thought for sure it was broken, but wasn't going to say a word. The sound of gunshots rang around her, and every last one of the men disintegrated and fell to the ground.
She pressed herself against the wall, breathing hard, the pain of all her injuries rushing to her in an explosion of pain. She gasped out loudly and heard footsteps moving towards her. Slowly, she opened her eyes to see a man in front of her. He flashed a grim smile and lifted her, putting her over his shoulder.
She didn't have time to argue, this man had just saved her. She wasn't going to argue with him. But, even if she wanted to, it would have been impossible. She felt herself black out and slip into unconsciousness.