AN: First Conrad-centric chapter of the story! Woot! I love this guy, he's got so many problems. And if there's one thing I love in my fictional boys, it's problems. BRING ON THE ANGST.

Can someone tell me if I'm completely butchering Worth's accent? Because something's wrong with me...I can't actually hear it as an Australian accent in my head, no matter how hard I try. I hear it as Southern, so I'm basically flying with that and I just know I'm fucking it up. Please feel free to horribly rip me apart about that.

Also, that guy at the end? Totally got eaten by a T-Rex. But it's okay, because on the way to Worth's he burnt down an orphanage...full of kittens. Think of all the poor, dead kitten-orphans! Feel bad for ever feeling bad for him!

HiNaBN (c) Tessa Stone, definitely not me.

"You know, I'm just going to leave when the sun sets," Conrad said to Worth's retreating back. There was nothing keeping him here, after all, and the man was so thin there was no way he could match the vampire in strength. He wondered if the supposed doctor had thought of that when he set his terms – terms that Conrad had never actually agreed to! He didn't seem like the intelligent sort, so he doubted it.

Still, it was a nuisance to be stuck in one place for the whole day. Especially in a place so grimy and ill-kept. The crate he was sitting on was probably the cleanest thing in the room, and he still found himself on the very edge to avoid touching it overmuch. Sure, it was better than being trapped in that coffin, but a prison was a prison.

Well, at least this prison had food.

Conrad pushed himself to his feet and began exploring, careful not to touch the walls. The room he was in was fairly large, with a high ceiling full of sturdy-looking metal beams. Everything else was concrete, cold and hard and lifeless, with a few ripped posters thrown up on the walls in some sad attempt to make the place less gloomy. Medical posters…one about anatomy, and another about handwashing that looked like it had been ripped down and put back up several times.

He glanced through the open doorway into the room beyond, finding a crude sort of operation room. One metal table in the middle of the same cold concrete, with a high desk filled to the brim with surgeon's tools that looked like they could use a good once-over (or five-times-over) with rubbing alcohol. Or acid. Or whatever would get that gunk that looked suspiciously like old blood off them.

Beyond the room he spotted another doorway. He took a step toward it, then hesitated. He distinctly remembered the other man had gone that way, and didn't particularly want to follow him. He was probably back in bed now, and disturbing him didn't seem like the best idea. He made his way back to where he was before, feeling something that was akin to security fall over him as he put his back to the dingy wall.

He glanced at the small refrigerator in the corner with a scrutinizing gaze. At the time, the bagged blood had been like nectar from the gods themselves, so satisfying to his empty stomach that he felt he could have drank it for days. But that was just the starvation talking. Now that he was past the danger mark, he recalled how cold and mottled the blood had really been. There was no spark of life in the disappointing substitute. The beating of the heart that made the blood flow so easily into his waiting mouth was woefully absent.

It was like giving a man a sandwich with stale, moldy bread. It was edible, sure, and might ease his hunger, but it wasn't something he would eat willingly.

A sharp growl from his stomach made him wonder if he had a choice. Maybe he wouldn't starve, but he knew he was weak, and he couldn't hunt until night. It might not be good, but it would give him the energy he needed to get what he really wanted. He had just decided to gulp down as much as he could manage and try not to taste it when the hot, overwhelming scent of fresh blood attacked his nose.

A small part of his brain that wasn't needbloodnow flashed briefly with concern. Had the other man hurt himself in some way? Was he lying on the floor somewhere in a crumpled mess? Even if he was a prick, he didn't deserve to die. But then the hunger overrode everything, and he was soon following the scent through the operation room and through to the winding hallway.

He found Worth in what probably passed as his bedroom (though the bed was really only a sunken mattress in the corner without any sheets and only one thin blanket) reclining quite comfortably against the wall with a cigarette in one hand and a scalpel in the other. Conrad could barely focus on his mocking leer when he caught sight of the man's arm, jagged gash torn wide open and dripping blood onto the soiled mattress.

"Took ya long enough," Worth said, beckoning him closer. Conrad obeyed with the air of a man in a trance, one knee lowered onto the mattress before he fully grasped the situation.

"I-I can't!" he snapped, jerking himself back with one hand over his mouth and nose. The scent of blood was so thick and heady in the air, turning his brain into a fog. But one thought pierced through it and shone above all: if he drank from him, Worth would die. He was too hungry, and the other man was far from a healthy weight. The situation could not end well.

"Course ya can. 'M givin' you a treat." The grin might have looked goofy on anyone else, but on Worth it was borderline terrifying. "Figured I'd start trainin' ya now, seein' as yer such a stubborn little fuck."

"What?" Anger rose above his hunger for a brief moment. "I am not your pet!"

"Course ya are. Thought you understood that, Fagula." He held up his bleeding arm pointedly. "Now, ya gonna do somethin' about this, or does all that pretty red stuff have to go to waste?"

Conrad usually had more willpower, really. But put a borderline-starving vampire in a room with a bleeding man, even if that man also happened to be the most vile and infuriating thing on the planet, and willpower became a moot issue. He seemed to watch himself from outside his body as he practically dove onto the bed and snatched Worth's arm, almost ripping it off in his enthusiasm to gulp the delicious liquid down.

Warm, fresh, living, flowing down his throat and filling his stomach as fast as he could drink. Conrad's fingers gripped the other man's bleeding arm so tightly he could practically feel the bruises forming. All concern for anyone else's well-being evaporated as the carnal part of his brain took over and turned him into a greedy, blood-sucking monster.

Worth's blood tasted faintly of cinnamon, with a strong aftertaste of cigarette smoke; unsurprising, considering the other man had a cancer stick clenched between his lips even now. It had a sharp, almost bitter undertone, which Conrad had come across several times in recent years, which indicated the man was no stranger to oxycodone. Luckily, it seemed he had last taken it several days ago. One of the bad things about having to survive on others' blood was that he was subject to whatever influence his food happened to be under at the time.

He could feel the heartbeat, surprisingly strong as he drank even as he knew he had to be reaching the bottom of the man's metaphorical barrel. Even as this thought hit him, he knew he wouldn't stop…couldn't stop. He hadn't killed since he was a fledgling, but deep inside he knew that he was going to kill this man. Nothing could wrest him away from the sweet taste of his blood.

And why shouldn't he? He was a predator of the night, a hunter in every sense of the word. He had only been captured in the first place because he was too weak to defend himself. Normal vampires killed their food. Normal vampires were strong. He wanted to be strong, too. Something wild seemed to activate in his brain, making him tear at the gash to make more sweet blood dribble out into his waiting mouth. No longer was this about food, but about pride. His pride as a vampire.

Conrad heard a moan from the man above him, and reason pierced through his bloodlust. He was actually…killing this man. He was taking a life with his own hands when it wasn't his to take. He remembered back to the night he had been sired, the vow he'd made to himself that he would never kill another living thing as long as his immortal life lasted. He wasn't going to be like his master, killing all before her without so much as a blink of remorse. He wasn't about to break a four-hundred year vow now just because he didn't have any willpower. He forced himself to release the man's arm and sit up, unbloodied hand covering his nose and mouth to try and block the smell.

"Why'd ya stop?" the man slurred, his voice sounding rough and sleepy. Conrad knew that look; he should probably find the man something to eat. Or maybe a hospital.

"I could have killed you," he said evenly, trying not to breathe in the scent and start the whole process over again. "I still could."

"What, this? S'just a little scratch." He grunted in an almost impatient fashion. "Now come on, I ain't finished yet."

Conrad frowned, until he realized the man was sporting a rather large bulge in his pants, free hand wrapped around it and stroking quickly. It looked more idle than anything, the bored expression on his face revealing he wasn't having nearly as much fun as downstairs suggested.

It took Conrad a full minute to react.

"What the fuck!" he jumped from the man's mattress and found himself on the completely opposite wall. For once, the grime didn't bother him so much. "You're…you're…" fucking crazy came to mind, but Worth cackled before he could say it.

"Lotsa' blood in 'ere, Connie. Why doncha have a bite?"

"You're sick!" Conrad felt repulsion spread throughout his body, even with the smell of blood still so prominent in the air. He made a dash for the door, despite Worth yelling at him to "Get back 'ere, Fagula, and finish what ya started!" He dashed through the hallway and the two rooms until he got to the door he came in through and yanked it open.

He heard himself hiss at the sight of daylight. The sunlight couldn't actually reach him here, but a quick glance both ways revealed that his options were to scale a building and be burned to a crisp, or to walk straight out and be burned to a crisp. He didn't have anything to protect himself with, and the sun was high and strong enough by now that he wouldn't last five minutes. He wasn't too keen on dying so, with some reluctance, he shut the door.

He glanced around the room, trying to find a good place to hole up until the sun went down. There was a small closet, but he doubted he would fit and he would be too easily found. Maybe one of the storage rooms he'd passed on the way to Worth's room? But that would mean going back and Conrad didn't much like the sound of that. His eyes roamed until they landed on the beams high above his head. They would be perfect to hang from, an out of the way place where he could get a good day's rest with hopefully minimal disturbance.

Turning into a bat was seamless by now. He could barely even feel the transformation anymore. One minute, he wanted to be up on the ceiling, and the next he was. It made him wonder sometimes how humans got around without it; there was nothing quite so convenient as a pair of wings. Then again, they also didn't need to drink blood, so maybe that was its own consolation.

He wasn't surprised to find that he couldn't really remember what it was like to be human. It had been four hundred years, after all, and it hadn't exactly been a fun time being food. He only lived through that time because his master had taken a liking to him. Lord knew why; he was just a scrawny kid that wasn't much good for anything. But maybe that was a reason in itself; she knew he would never try to rise up against her, even after his own blooding. He was a coward, a wimp, always doing as he was told and never straying from the orders of those stronger than him. He was the perfect candidate for a servant. Or, more accurately, a puppet.

Now that he wasn't starving, he could feel the exhaustion creeping in. Conrad yawned wide and wrapped his wings around himself in a comfortable, leathery cocoon that blocked out whatever dim light the bulb in the ceiling produced and muffled any sounds that might have reached his sharp little ears. Sleeping was also something that only became better when he became a vampire. Even the softest bed had nothing on this feeling of complete security and warmth.

Conrad woke, he could only assume, several hours later. He stretched out his little wings and gripped the beam to swing himself on top. Normally, he would be like other bats: i.e., barely able to see anything without his echolocation. Luckily for him, his glasses he'd taken to wearing after he realized that no, everything in the world was not just insanely blurry, transformed with him. They sat on his small nose, giving him a clear view of the room below and its single occupant.

The vampire wondered if the man had slept at all after he ran out. The dark circles under his eyes didn't seem any less prominent, though Worth certainly didn't look any worse for wear. Then again, it was hard to gauge the health of someone who looked like he survived on heroine and oxygen alone, with the oxygen being questionable.

He'd heard of people who got off on pain, but he'd never actually met any before. Of course he'd heard all the horror stories of people seeking release through more and more dangerous means, who accidentally hanged themselves or lost too much blood, but like a naïve child he hadn't believed there were people with so little self-preservation in the world. Now he could see that it was very, very real; if he hadn't stopped himself, Worth would have let Conrad drink him dry in pursuit of an orgasm.

A dark part of his mind wondered if he could have killed the man before he got off, like some sort of sick and twisted race. He shuddered, feeling the fur on his spine ruffle. That was something he never wanted to find out.

"I can feel yer beady little eyes drillin' a hole in my head," Worth's voice said from below. Conrad jumped and looked down at the man's sprawled form. He was reclining in his chair, feet up on the desk that seemed to serve no purpose other than to make the room not seem quite so empty. A tattered old book with a green cover held together at the spine with several strips of duct tape rested on his legs. The other man looked completely engrossed in it. Surely he wasn't talking to him?

"Oi, Fagula, mind answerin' when Ahm talkin' to ya?"

Conrad squeaked. "D-don't talk to me you…weirdo!" He had tried to sound threatening, but that damn stutter caught him. Well, if it wasn't the stutter, it would be the high voice that made him sound like he'd been a little too close to a helium factory explosion.

Worth let out a cackle that was not doing much to make him look any saner. "Aw, ain't that precious? Little batty's scared o' the big bad doctor." Conrad felt his ears go flat on his head and bit his tongue to keep from throwing insults at the other man. He wasn't worth it, he told himself. He only had to put up with it until sunset, and then he was out of there.

Speaking of which, he had no idea what time it was.

Conrad glanced at the door. He could fly down, transform, and check. But that would take up too much time, enough for Worth to grab him or do something equally horrible. Too risky.

Damn this place for not having any windows.

"What time is it?" he asked, thinking he might at least get a sarcastic answer that would give him an idea of how long he'd have to wait.

"Night," Worth answered shortly, his attention once again focused on his book.

"Night?" Conrad's ears perked up hopefully. "As in, the sun's gone?"

"Tha's usually wha' happens at night, Bat-face."

With the definite promise of sunless freedom firmly in mind, Conrad began a slow and noiseless climb down a nearby pipe. If he could make it to the door, he could get out before the other man even knew what had happened and make a run for it.

"Aye know what yer up to," Worth said in a bored tone without even so much as a glance in the frozen bat's direction. "Door's right there, Fagula. Just fuckin' walk."

Conrad felt himself transform before he'd made a conscious decision to do so, landing with a small "oof" when he miscalculated and his feet hit the ground too soon. He glared at the man lounging behind the desk as he inched his way to the door, as if expecting him to suddenly jump up and attack him. When the man only continued to stare, he dashed to the door and threw it open…

And promptly received the worst electrical shock in his…well, unlife.

Conrad fell back on the floor, skin and bones abuzz with the effects of the shock. Worth's cackling laugh rang in his ears as he tried to make his vision stop swimming.

"Oh, did I forget to mention that? Pity, I heard it hurts somethin' fierce." Worth snickered loudly as Conrad tried to stand, his traitorous, jelly-like limbs sending him tumbling to the ground once again.

"What…what did you do?" he groaned.

"Ya know, dem runes are a funny thing," Worth said, all cheery and conversational and what Conrad wouldn't give to punch him right in his stupid smug face. "Real useful fer lots o' things. Like takin' that handy little law 'bout vamps not bein' able to go somewhere without bein' invited and turnin' it right the fuck around."

"You…you…what?"

"See fer yerself." The doctor pointed to a small slip of paper taped to the door jamb, sporting some strange symbol Conrad had never seen before. The vampire stood on shaky legs and reached out to grab it, to rip it off and shove it down Worth's stupid throat. But just as his fingers touched it, it moved. He blinked, reached for it again. It moved again. Frustrated, he jumped for it and received another shock when his foot went through the doorway.

"Ugh…wh-where'd you even get this?" he asked when his brain returned to his head. He ignored Worth's laughter this time, though the man certainly seemed to be enjoying himself, if the sheer volume was anything to go by.

"Hanna," he said simply.

"Who?"

"Ginger zombie."

"Oh, yeah." Conrad's glare darkened as he remembered he was the one to get him in this predicament in the first place. "So what, you're just going to trap me in here? That's not going to work forever, you know. What do you even want with me? Besides aiding your twisted jackoff sessions…which I'm not doing again, by the way, let's get that clear right now."

A leery grin spread across Worth's face, but before he could explain just what was making that expression possible, Conrad was practically pushed out of the way by two burly-looking men in cheap suits.

"Doc Worth?" one of them asked, hoisting his companion's arm up onto his shoulder a little higher. It was then that Conrad noticed the man was bleeding…a lot. He had been so engrossed in the argument, he hadn't even smelled it, but he did now, and it reminded him that he still wasn't completely full even if he wasn't exactly starving anymore.

He glanced toward Worth and found the man startlingly serious, throwing his book down on the desk and leading the two men back to the operation room with long, purposeful strides. Conrad followed, curious enough about this drastic personality change to see the results.

"'Ow many bullets?" he heard Worth asking as he peeked inside the room. The bleeding man was laid out on the table already, and the doctor was cutting his shirt open to reveal a bloody and mangled stomach.

"Three still inside, I think," the other man said. "One grazed him on the arm and another exited through the back but I don't think it hit anything important."

"There's a fourth one in my leg," the man on the table slurred. Worth cursed.

"Damnit, I though' you was passed out!" The doctor's gaze whirled around, catching sight of his lurking form. "You! Go get some anesthetic from tha' closet in the other room!"

Conrad blinked in surprised. "Wha…me?"

"Yer a piss-poor nurse, Confag. Yes, you! Get going!"

Conrad nearly tripped over himself getting to the small storage closet. Anesthetic…anesthetic…there! He grabbed the bottle, and what he hoped was a clean syringe, and headed back to Worth.

"Finally." The doctor snatched the items from him and turned back to the patient, setting to work immediately. Conrad watched in something resembling awe. He hadn't really believed the man was a doctor before, but now he seemed...competent. Maybe even able to do the job well, if he was being generous. Of course, there were little details, like the lack of gloves or even evidence of any washed hands as he cut into the man's stomach or the fact that even now he still had a cigarette in his mouth, that threw doubt into the whole scenario. But Conrad could tell he was serious about what he did, for whatever reason, where it counted.

A piss-poor nurse…

Huh.

Well.

It was definitely a step up from pet.