Back with a new chapter :D
Hope ya'll enjoy.
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Two
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Ten months back, in a room buried miles beneath a decaying, decrepit church build centuries before by a man in a town too wicked for its own good - harsh yellow light flooded behind a one-way mirrored wall.
A woman - confident, sly - shuddered, rocking half a step backwards at the sight she was blindfolded and dragged to remain and study for the remaining future, "He should be dead."
"Oh I assure you doctor," Director Fury stables a hand behind her. "To this thing, death is simply a minor setback."
"You know this for certain?"
The Director gave a stiff-lipped smile, "Too certain for my own liking, Doctor."
And to that the woman turned speechless, taking a wary step towards the glass. Hand pressing against its cold touch - she gazed in awe at the creature that should, by all natural means and purposes, be fictitious.
"Oh, Fitz would love this."
The vampire's skin was as white as bleached bone, face sculptured and behind matted, black hair, bandages covered the eyes. If it weren't for her partner back home she would have been weak in the knees and somewhat inclined to ignore the blood drying around its mouth - past its neck and to its chest. Staining the mandatory hospital gown SHIELD had dressed it in like a good little guinea pig. Looking closer, she could spot signs of a fresh massacre tinting pristine white walls.
She also noticed that the Vampire was, of all things, whistling.
"Is…that the Backstreet Boys?"
Fury turned to calmly address the agent guarding the door behind them, "Where's its goddamned muzzle, Agent Jon?
"We ran out, sir - and I'll think you find Doctor Simmons," Jon adds helpfully, "it's Everybody he's whistling."
"I say, fan of Backstreet Boys, Agent Jon?"
"Partial fan, si -" Agent Jon stared through the one-way mirror where the Vampire now sat, not whistling, but rather paying particular attention to his general area. Or to be even more precise, right at him. "…O-h?"
The vampire grinned.
Director Fury eyed the glass as though expecting to find it had suddenly vanished.
"Amazing," Doctor Simmons said, moving even closer. "The Vampire can hear us."
"Obviously," it drawled through the speakers. Managing to sound perfectly contemptuous of his current living situation. "It would be a funny old world if I couldn't."
"Bravo. Good point."
The Vampire somehow managed to portray rolling his eyes without anybody actually witnessing it.
"Doctor," Fury paused ominously between his words, "Do refrain from making friendly with the creature."
"I'll get right on that, sir."
Skip to ten months when Doctor Simmons gets a bit too comfortable around starved creature - weakened, pathetic, fragile - and risks a curious peek behind the bandages.
Its brilliant blue eyes held hers.
She couldn't have looked away, couldn't have blinked, she was utterly tranquillised.
Security cameras picked up the terrible sounds of chains rattling, fists of bone cracking in head of hair - fingers tearing into flesh like a piece of delicious fruit and the raw, guttural groans as blood dribbling through the vampire's muzzle and down its dry throat.
Doctor Jemma Simmons death certificate was the most gruesome one to look at, Steve decided as he sat in the Quinjet. Twenty minutes after debrief.
Wondering when exactly the world stopped making sense.
. .
After having changed into the barman's grey dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. baggy black pants and a pair of fairly bigger than he'd prefer sneakers - Damon was currently humming a merry little tune of his own creation while scavenging as much blood as he could get in a rudimentary plastic flask that he pops back into his top pocket.
After being cooped up in that dreadfully white room for what he'd gather to be at least almost a year and starved of blood, it makes one grateful for the simple things.
One; drinking.
He snags a bottle of bourbon off the shelf and dangles the neck of it between his fingers.
Two; driving.
Reaching into one wealthy looking woman's purse, he dug out a snazzy looking car key and shoved it into his newly acquired pant pocket. Gently brushing back the curly auburn hair of the girl lying slackened against the pool table, he gives a smile and pats her cheek in thanks.
Three; sunlight.
Damon stares mournfully at his hand.
Assholes took his ring.
Through the window's shades, Damon peeks through to spot the sun rising bit by bit in the distance. Glowing sickeningly yellow through thick, dark clouds.
"Peachy."
If there was one thing Damon didn't have, it was patience.
He also wasn't one to be a sitting duck.
With a resigned scowl and vicious yank of tattered window blinds, Damon drapes the awful bloodstained thing over himself, kicks the door down and taps the car keys.
'Beep-boop'
. .