Rey hadn't seen it coming, and maybe that was the most humiliating thing of all. She'd kept a close eye on Snoke as of late. He'd been watching, waiting, lurking at just about every turn. His death-like stench was bad even for a vampire's standards, at least in Rey's opinion, and it'd been gagging her for months now. It was everywhere it seemed, save for far and few between safe havens: Her rooms, the roof of Palpatine Manor, and anywhere a servant should be and therefore a 'proper' vampire wouldn't be. Even in those places the fowl stench had begun to seep in over the last few weeks, leaving her on edge and afraid at all hours.
The last straw, the one right before everything went to shit, or perhaps was the signal that such an even had already happened, had been when her truest of true safe havens, her bed chamber, was finally breached by that gagging cloy.
She'd screamed at what she saw that night, because of course she would-- retching, heaving, and finally emptying her stomach onto the ancient hardwoods. How could she not have, at the sight of it all?
Everything after that was a complete blur. Hands like claws, nails like daggers, sharp teeth and leathery skin, and that voice, and that stench.
Apparently keeping an eye on Snoke had been the wrong thing to do. The dog in charge never did the dirty work after all. She'd escaped only barely, and only barely undead for that matter, creating a path of corpses more lifeless than before as she went. Palpatine Manor had been her home for 120 years, but even as her mind struggled to do anything more than flap tiny, batty wings in a pathetic bid for survival, she knew it never would be again. Not like it had been anyways.
Countless hours later, an eternity in her delirious and fearful perception, Rey's wings finally gave out. Lungs burning, sandpaper rough and hot like the deserts, she tried to glide her way down into one of the trees down below her. Everything was bright, far too bright for so late at night. Why was it so bright? But in this patch of trees it was nice and dark. Rey reached out and grabbed for the branch in front of her, instead grazing it by a hair. She rolled into the leafy twigs and branches beyond. Tiny bat fingers grasped for something, anything, flailing and tumbling to no avail until she dropped back out of the darker, safer patch of greenery with a mass of loose debris. Down she fluttered, too tired and weak to try and stop herself, and onto the grass below the Palpatine heiress crumpled.
. . . . . .
Ben Solo, one of the America's most prolific Hunstmen, heir to the Old Blood Organa Clan, and personal pain in the ass to Downworld renowned Scholar Luke Skywalker, stumbled down the sidewalk drunk off his ass. Another nest cleared, another town safe, and another night he could finally kick back, relax, and drink till he'd nearly dropped as a reward. Maybe it wasn't healthy, but neither was his profession. For a night he could pretend to be something other than a man who might not make it to his 40s—like an alcoholic.
'Wait...'
Ben stumbled to a halt. That didn't seem right. Maybe he should pick a new hobby.
'I could go to therapy and pretend to be a healthy person for once.' He snorted to himself and shuffled on. What therapist would take him? "Hello yes— Goblins, ghouls, and devils are real. Wanna hear me tell you all about how I kill them for a living?"
'Yea, no.' And he wasn't about to go to any of the work provided counselors either.
Somewhere along fifth he turned off into the park, away from the glaring street lights and what few brilliant neon 'open' signs were left at this hour. It was better in the park anyways, quieter. Both a beloved and well used short cut, most commonly on these very drunk, very late nights. Or was it morning yet? Ben didn't know, and he didn't really care either. He just wanted to get home, shower away the filth and grime without slipping and cracking his skull open, then pass out anywhere between the bathroom and his bed.
Maybe he should invest in a therapist….
Ben struggled to keep his thoughts from muddling too much, succeeding off and on. Everything was slowly turning to mush, and that shower began to sound far too hazardous a venture. He was still lost in the fog when he stumbled a little too hard. He tripped over something in his path and didn't quite fall flat on his face, but it was close enough to feel it in his pride. It was a wonder he could even get up after that, but he managed, spitting out flecks of dirt and leaves as he did. Behind him on the path a clump of twigs and a leaves sat. Shadows cast it into oblivion unless you were looking for it. He'd tripped over a bunch of twigs.
Ben grumbled and grunted, moving to throw the branches back off the path. His hand closed around the pile, and he may have been drunk, but even drunk people generally knew twigs didn't have fur. He really knew they didn't scream. But this one did, and so did Ben, flinging the handful back down again and scrambling back away from it.
'What the fuck?'
With shaky, fuzzy feeling fingers he pulled his phone out and turned on the light.
It was a bat. Tangled among the twigs, leaves, and whatever the fuck else there was out here, was a tiny scraggly looking bat.
He shuffled over, crouching down to get a better look.
It's hurt.'
It was covered in dark brown and red patches, some blood more dried than others. Some cuts he could see clearly through the fur, deep and welling again because of new movement. It 'eeked' and squealed, something he'd only ever heard vampires in their bat forms do. This seemed different. Felt different. For half a dozen seconds he just sat there, watching the thing squirm and try to wake up. It looked less aware than him, and he was about to pass out.
"Poor thing." The words were quiet, maybe a bit slurred. Without attention, the animal would definitely get picked up by a predator during the night or die. Ben wasn't sure how it hadn't yet already. If he left it alone, it would be dead by morning.
His legs were starting to go numb from crouching so long. Ben was drunk. He wasn't at his top game. He wasn't even at his middle game. Maybe that's why at 2:15 at night he picked it up, no gloves or protection whatsoever, and began stumbling back home again. For work purposes he has a few mice at home. Bats ate mice, right?
'Or is that snakes?'
It was chilly, mid-August breeze rolling in through Chandrilla nearly every night. So Ben had a light jacket on. It wasn't anything serious, but it had pockets, and carefully he slipped the Bat down into one. The pitiful creature still squeaked and clicks from time to time, but at some point between the park and home, it quieted down to a low mutter, then nothing.
'Probably passed out again... Or died.'
The deadbolts on Ben's front door gave him a run for his money, swerving away from his keys at every attempt. He managed wrangled the things in the end though, and locked them all back again behind himself. His house, totalitarian as it was, still held a few junk drawers and totes here and there. He managed to scrounge up an old shoe box full of scrap material (Emergency bandages), and emptied it out onto his living room floor. He prepped it with some of the older, perhaps less useful scraps in the pile. After that it just needed a few holes poked in the box's lid and it was 'guest ready.'
Ben was too drunk to try and clean the poor thing up now, near his limit as it was. No one would take his request to help a bat of all things at such an unearthly hour either. So he pulled the animal gently from his pocket, and settled it down into its new bed. The box could stay on his bedside table tonight. If it survived the night more could be done in the morning.
'Until then….'
Ben retrieved a mouse from his stash. He never much liked the things but they came in handy at times. This would be one of those. The animal went in with the bat, scrabbling and shuffling away from the thing as far as it could get.
Ben didn't even bother with a shower after that-- Just washed his hands, stripped, and crashed down onto the bedcovers with a low groan.