Chapter 2: The Truth and a Little Hiding
Aaric frantically claws at the stranger's arm, choking out the last of his precious oxygen. The mesmerizing twinkle of silver reflects in his deep auburn eyes, heart giving a double-dutching leap of terror. In the camouflaging opaqueness of this street alley Aaric can't even catch sight of the figure intent on killing him: which seems highly unfair. His parents had warned him about New York.
"It's too dangerous," his mother had crooned, shaking her head miserably with a glass of sherry in her hand.
"It'll be good for him, Diane. Build some character, just like it did to his old man!" his father boasted.
Aaric senses the humid breath of the delinquent creeping up his neck, arousing a somewhat puzzled cocking of his eyebrows. Not only was he going to be killed, but he was going to be killed by a psychotic vampire-wannabe.
"Scor!" an equally cold voice snaps just as Aaric feels the thug's disgusting lips trailing his skin. His flesh crawls, anxiously leaping from his bones to escape the scarring embrace. The attacker pauses, then releasing a short sigh of anger as they square their shoulders. A buzzing light attached to the brick wall behind them flickers momentarily, almost casting a strobe light like affect on the two of them. Eventually it settles long enough to properly illuminate his opponent.
The hood once shielding their face falls innocently onto their shoulders, revealing the attacker. He is no more than a simple teen. The boy looks to be in his late teens, though, perhaps 18 or 19 years old. His dirty blonde hair is simply doused with numerous black highlights. Though apparently straight at the top of his head, his locks show obvious signs of unconquered voluminous waves near the edges which seem to want to tuck into the nape of his neck.
The boy heaves another sigh, jerking his head to the side. "What?" he shouts, two fangs capturing a slight glint of the overhead light.
Another single figure steps into the circle of light, yellow illumination showering their all black ensemble. The only minute sense of color is a deep red and black insignia sewn over the new figure's breast pocket.
"We aren't here for meals! We're here to find the VINIC. This bastard doesn't have it…"
This Scor character pauses, contemplating. "But—"
"Scor, god damn it! No!" the figure barks. Aaric struggles to muffle his harsh breathing, eyes anxiously darting from figure to figure. Scor sighs and scratches his cheek, other hand fiddling with something on the other side of his pants.
"Fine," he sighs, nonchalantly rising a freezing pistol barrel to Aaric's cheek.
"Whoa! Whoa, whoa!" Aaric stutters, finger nails digging into the bricks behind him. "Please! Please, wait! Please!"
"Repetitive, aren't we?" Scor muses, shoving the barrel further into Aaric's cheek bone.
"Please! I—you don't need to kill me!" he begs, swallowing hard. "I didn't see anything, anyway!"
Scor sniggers, tonguing his lip ring. "Of course you didn't. But we can't take that chance, now can we?" Aaric feels his cheeks grow warm, just now realizing that a boy had called him cute.
"Wait! Wait, you said I was cute! You're gay then? Right?" Aaric struggles to retain his life.
"I'm sorry, I forgot how that's your business," Scor hisses, grinning.
"Scor! Get the job done—!" the figure orders trailing off as a faint buzzing distracts him. He calmly reaches into his pocket and recovers a slim cell phone. Pressing the button he rests it against his ear and mumbles softly. Aaric watches in dismay, still clawing vaguely at Scor's arm. The phone call lasts no longer than 30 seconds. "Scor, I have to go back. Get the job done, alright?" the figure requests more soothingly this time, tucking the phone back in its rightful place and vanishing in an opaque mist. Aaric watches in absolute fascination at the smoke cast away in the eerie breeze but Scor only refocuses his attention on the matters at hand as he shoves the barrel deeper again.
"Gah!" he chokes. He hears the barrel cock. "No! No, please! Please! I—I'm gay too, right? We're birds of a feather!"
"You're ridiculous," Scor taunts. "Why would I even care? There are plenty of men much cuter than you. Vampires too."
"Let—let me help you! If you have a mortal on the inside you can find this VINIC faster!"
He pauses, barrel withdrawing slightly. "You think so, eh?" Aaric nods vigorously. "So you'll give yourself to me in order to find it?" Another assuring nod. "Mind, body, and soul?" Scor whispers with a demented jeer. Aaric screws his eyes shut and nods one more time.
"Sounds like a good deal," he snickers. Just as the barrel eases from his cheek, a blunt object cracks against his face. He yelps loudly as the stinging sets in, pain pulsing violently throughout his cheek. A slippery trail of blood leaks down his face.
"What the fuck was that for?" Aaric screeches, voice cracking.
"Just to let you get a taste of what you've gotten yourself in to," Scor sneers, pulling his hood back over his head. "I'll make sure to come for you when I need you, Aaric. Have a nice night." Now it's Scor who vanishes in a cloud of darkness, leaving Aaric paralyzed with fear on the alley street.
"I—I never said my name…" he breathes, looking around frantically. Timidly getting to his feet he bolts to his car, fishing the keys out of his pocket. His shift had barely started but he couldn't go back to work after what had just happened. He shoves the key into the lock and gets in, slamming the door shut behind him. After wedging the key into the ignition and locking all the doors he rests his head on the car wheel to collect his breaths. He isn't sure what's the worse thing that happened: the fact that now he's sworn his life over to a psychotic or that he admitted he was gay. At first, he supposed, it was just reflex to agree with the opponent. Tell him what he wants to hear. The only thing he didn't count on was accidently letting the truth seep through.
So embarrassing! Although he had to admit to himself, Scor wasn't half bad. Lip rings drove him crazy. He had convinced Cole out of getting one for the selfish purpose of avoiding an impending crush on his best friend. This had luckily been avoided. That was half of the reason behind being sent half way across the country to New York. In New York, none of daddy's friends would find out about his "faggy" son.
"Oh, god," he mumbles as he fingers the ugly gash scarring his cheek. "What have I gotten myself in to?"