#o: d.dömötör

[reidhalstead]

He's aware he's terrible company, and she's picked it. Picked him off the ground after he admitted he'd like her very dusty and gone. In their world of complex, this almost seems like the more bitter way Reid has made himself another acquaintance he'd want dead. Not the first of her kind, not the last either. He's not hiding his intentions because he never has. It's on them that they want him to prod and poke for their own amusement.

He'll find an opening to kill each of them, eventually. He won't waste it like they do.

"You murdered a man thirty minutes ago." He reminds her, with disinterest lacing his tone. He won't forget it, even if she does. Murder on his mind, isn't the same as hers.

Reid's hesitant in touching his drink even as she makes work on hers. He instead slowly spins it in his grasp, the cool of the glass is dark against his hands. A gentle clink where the silver of his rings graze the bottle. "You barely know the people," he tells her. Because he suddenly knows better. Wolves are pack creatures, they don't welcome vampires into their territory because they're just minding themselves. "You're delusional to think none of them are so forgiving to let you swan into their retreat, unscathed."

Reid has to scoff when she details human bars, vampires — she's from another realm entirely than the one of his. Almost eight years among the dead hasn't changed that he knows where not to stick his fucking neck. Now, he avoids hunters, whereas before he'd find comfort in them as allies. He still avoids monsters, unless he can get the drop on them. He knows it's creatures like Daniella that can get themselves killed all on their own, without a stake to the heart.

She's not safer here, with him, or wolves. Or whatever madness she thinks she has in her head about being safe at all.

It's enough to make Reid lift that beer he's been so apprehensive about to his lips, and drown his insults before they get to surface. Swallowing, he stays in the corner of the booth, with his gaze facing the exit, able to see the edge of the table in case any of the wolves get funny ideas to approach. He doesn't hold Daniella's confidence in being welcome.

"You'd do better with the stalkers," a beat, to continue snarking: "You just throw them in dumpsters anyway, don't you?" It's hard to let that go.

She offers murmur as rude as his own as way of answer a simple, wouldn’t want to piss off his majesty as she settles a pretty woman bringing their drinks over after a small bought of silence, she greets the blonde getting a kind one as well in return before the waitress makes her leave. “Sure dumbass, I was behind the bar pouring a verbena drought, just for you. God, you’re fucking paranoid, not everyone has murder on their mind.” she rolls her eyes and brings the beer to her lips taking a healthy gulp.

She watches him for a moment or two, silent, observing. He looks sickly in better lighting and it makes her mouth settle in a displeased line. Emily would tell her that he needed help. Emily isn’t here and she doubts he wants to hear any actual advice. Would probably have him causing a scene. She likes the people here, even if they are wary about having a vampire in their space. But again, there is a silent understanding, she makes no trouble, they let her live and don’t display any trouble. She remembers her first night, explaining loudly that the moon was up and if she acted up they were open to doing what they must.

Nothing had happened that night, or the next. And by now, though she knows she has to smell putrid to them, the regulars hardly bat an eye when she comes. The owner, Joseph, made sure the drinks kept coming because what was a vampire with a few centuries but a pile of wealth?

For all her grandiose in the alley it’s clear that she’s younger than Reid, in looks at least, and though tall she sits in a manner that doesn’t quite show it off. Blue is focused on her drink when he speaks, she doesn’t expect conversation, or anything out of him really. But at the question they flicker back up to him. “I like this place, the people are kind. I don’t trust a lot of human bars, people stalk you there. And vampire spaces…put a bad taste in my mouth.” she gives a shrug and takes another drink. “Sometimes it’s just safer amongst wolves.”

[reidhalstead]

He expects the silence to be tense and unending. An uncomfortable irritation gnawing at him, reminding him that this is a shit idea and no beer is going to make him feel better for any of this. Not her. Not for letting her live. Not for thinking about the disregarded soul in the dumpster. Even healed, he knows the hunger is tugging at his internal restraints. And despite her former injuries, she's a lot less pale — she doesn't struggle with swallowing down the gravel in her throat in absolute silence.

The only inkling she even gives to note the other is beside them is when Daniella shoulder barges him through the door and he's muttering a profanity beneath his breath about how she can simply just fucking tell him to go inside without the aggro. There's plenty of that, in the way his senses prickle at the wolves in the bar; he's never noticed the forest or the pine clicking their skin when he was busy burrowing silver and wolfsbane into their chests. Daniella certainly presents more at home, than Reid does when he meets her at the booth.

He wonders how much aggravation Daniella can handle, if he comments about the odour; the wet leaves of panting dog and debris. Maybe he would get lucky if one comes along and bites her (or him, for that matter).

He sits, sliding into the corner. "You going to poison it?" She'd ordered, after all. Reid could only assume her apprehension would be the same, had he been the one to throw fingers up and make an order. Leave me to the wolves? He sinks back into the booth, eyes on the figures in the bar. His tongue prods at his teeth as he shoves down his questions. Reid's watching her next, scanning her like a hawk for a tell, or a reason to what type she is. He's made acquaintances of the dead, since being among them; liking them, is very fucking rare. "Why here?"

’Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll stop being nice to you,’  she thinks, letting him bite like the child he is, throwing his pissy little temper tantrum, she bets if she called him out on it he might even cross his arms and stomp his foot. Like a little boy who hasn’t gotten his way. Like her actually having survival instinct had ruined his night. But wasn’t that just the way of a man?

The walk to the bar is quiet, she doesn’t even bother to fake breathing, he knew she didn’t need to do it any more than he did. She all but rams into him to turn into the door when they get there, not holding it open from him as she enters and holds up two fingers at the bartender who despite looking displeased with the sudden scent of the undead doesn’t gripe about their entry.

There had been another place she tried, much nicer than this, nothing bad had happened per se, about upon entry all eyes had been on her and what she presumed was the owner gave her a simple ‘get out’ she’d turned and left. No need to antagonize after all.

Sitting in her normal booth, she barely glances at the skulking man when he joins her, the smell of dog strong throughout the place. It’s become something she’s used to. And she knows that maybe she isn’t the most conventional of vampires, but her life works. “One drink, then we can pretend we never met.”

[reidhalstead]

"Will you shut up?" He wants to put a hand around her throat again and squeeze until it pops off her shoulders. He's not interested in being schooled in vampirism, or whatever lesson she thinks she's giving. Hell, he's regretting this impromptu beer and he's not even got a bottle in his hand yet. Somehow, the hunter in him — as she so bitterly says — doesn't think she's about to lunge and tear his unbeating organ from his chest. Apparently, that's reserved for only the living. Reid doesn't hold himself to that expectation. He'll still kill them all if given half a chance.

And her uprooting old wounds, just to rub salt in them isn't something he's particularly taken by.

Reid's ahead of her when she corrects him. Irritable, hateful — hating himself, for the pettiness. Had he sunk any lower, he would have bared fangs and hissed like a cobra who's been chanted out of a wicker basket in the streets of Cairo.

He disregards the idea that he's about to walk among wolves. It's his turn to snark, as she catches up to be beside him. He's not dragging, but he's half tempted to just for having another vampire bark an order at him:

"Maybe if I'm lucky, one of them will kill you."

She can see the hatred clear on his face as he stands, her hand slipping into her pocket. God he was already exhausting, why was she putting up with this shit.

’Because you were just as bad once, you’re just as bad now with your crusade.’  she reminds herself.

“Potential to keep your annoying ass alive if you’re going to keep picking fights without in clarity of what you are getting into. But that’s just the Hunter in you. The superiority complex. Probably how you got yourself killed, it’s how your type always gets their asses handed to them.” she lets out in boredom and when he keeps talking she scoffs at his words. Watches him start walking like he is guiding her, like she is meant to follow him.

“Going the wrong way pretty boy, we’re hitting wolf territory, they don’t give two fucks about our type as long as we don’t make trouble.” she turns on her heel and starts heading in the direction of her preferred bar to go. And maybe it was stupid to hang around a bunch of wolves, but they were way better company than most of the other inhabitants of Port Liery.

And it was true, don’t make trouble for them, they didn’t make trouble for you. And maybe there was some peace in being surrounded by other supernaturals, somewhere she didn’t have to hide what she was. But not having to deal with the politics of the vampire clans. Just stick to herself and her own devices. “Hurry up or I’ll bust your face in again for dragging me down.”

[reidhalstead]

There’s no instance where Reid wants to bite her again and leave her still standing. It’s dust, or never. Choking on dust, as a last resort. He wants to ask her about something — but his teeth puncture his tongue before he dares sate curiosity with a stranger. A vampiric stranger at that.

She reminds him that he’d made a wise choice in silence when her bullshit continues to split her lips. “Potential? For what—?” He might try to kill her again, just for that.

Halstead doesn’t shake the outstretched hand. And maybe it’s nonexistent pride that somehow keeps his hands away from her. Daniella (as a name) doesn’t seem to suit as much as bitch does. But he’s got someone else reserved under that name.

“Least the filthy bloodsucker is catching on,” he shoots back, spitting a mouthful of blood to the ground beside him when he tastes the dark blood on his tongue. “You haven’t earned shit." And it's childish when he shoves by her — he doesn't know what bar she wants a beer in, but he's god some faith she'll ever put him out of his misery with her fist, or she'll catch up and he'll drink a beer faster than he ever has before.

She’s unsuccessfully trying to clean herself off, huffing as she gives up on the idea. The bar is seedy enough, she doubts anyone will blink an eye in their direction. “You bite me again and you’ll learn that our teeth don’t grow back.” she snarks back as she watches him drag himself off of the ground. Her nose tingles a moment more before the sensation lifts and she knows it’s healed. It isn’t her first broken one and she knows it won’t be her last, especially if she stays around this loser. But he’d thrown a good fight, even if she could tell he was weaker than he was meant to be.

The hunter instinct still resides in that thick skull though, if he harnesses it he’ll survive if he keeps picking fights with people older than him, probably not. The way he looks at her as if she’d asked him something obscene makes her roll her eyes.

“Maybe I am, I just like to reward potential. Plus I did just bust your balls. It’s the least I can do.” she shrugs. She chuckles as he asks her name, holding out a tentative hand. “Daniella. I’ll decide if you get to call me anything else in time.” she waits for a beat. “Does the pretty boy have a name, or am I too much of a filthy bloodsucker to earn that?”

[reidhalstead]

Reid's skull throbs as he feels the disorientation of being wrenched back and forth. At the woman's release, he stumbles away, glad to hear the cursing; it hurt. Good. As it fucking should.

"You didn't leave me much choice, bitch. Fuck." It's practically childish when he hisses at her, like they're in the playground, biting and scratching. Reid's still wincing at the healing from his crotch, to his head. Grateful for the relief when it finally comes. It's overshadowed by the scraping of the back of his legs when he skids along the concrete at the force of her shove. "So I'll give you notice, next time. Right." There's probably a badly executed consent joke in there, somewhere.

He'd like to kill her and be done with it. He grunts when her foot collides with his shin, and he retracts inwards, drawing it towards his chest. Bitterly defeated on the ground as he glares up at her, "You fucking tried,"

And he's not entertaining a conversation about just deserved.

Reid's surprise is palpable, her attitude shift has him quietly wondering if this is a joke. She wants to go for beers, after that? Imagine. He's looking right at her, eyes narrowing, jaw twitching. Debating how desperately he wants a drink, to lick his wounds and find an opening to turn her into dust for the bar floor.

"You're crazy," Fact. He's decided. Halstead gets himself up, staring at the brick debris that licks at her skin and stains her clothes. He figures he doesn't look much different. Fresh off a building sight, if anyone might catch a look at them. (More like, climbing out of a building collapse) He cannot believe he's entertaining this bitch, but he's damn ready for a beer. "Does crazy have a name?"

She’s panting unneeded air, teeth grit as she grips harder under his jaw, ready to tear tendons and flesh from shoulders. It loosens slightly when his head thrashes back into her own. “Fuck!” she bites out when the back of it smashes into her nose, blood leaking from it as she’s blinded for a moment. Holding on to his head like a lifeline as she blinks away the darkness. The both of them were covered in grime, in chalky mortar dust, and redbrick powder. Coated in blood as they heal.

“You didn’t have to bite into my fucking throat like a feral dog.” she bites back, grips finally loosening and letting go before shoving him forward onto the dirty asphalt of the alley. “I don’t appreciate being bitten without warning, pretty boy.” she kicks his healing leg for good measure moving toward where her coat is lying while wiping at the blood leaking from her nose, as it heals, on the back of her sleeve.

“Did I actually bust your balls? because you deserved it.” she bites, scooping up the material. “Either way you don’t look dead so get up. The first round is on me,” she replies dismissively. But she had gone a bit low so a beer as an apology was good enough, she’ll consider his last words an act of conceding, and well if he did attack again she’d make sure the next kick ensured him neutered. “Seriously, get up. I know a good place in neutral territory. The beer is shit, but it gets the job done.”

[reidhalstead]

Various protesting sounds bounce off either side of the bricked walls between them. It almost feels like they're caving in, closing on them, inch by inch with every fast-jerked movement. Dust blows out between them, caping from behind the women, curving around Reid, and dirtying them in concrete debris.

Her blood is better than any rat, or hare. It laces his mouth in one swift gulp; brutally tearing at flesh and it's nothing like he's experienced in the past where there's a dual-pleasure in the act. He's glad for it, it's sobering; he wants her to crumble to ash in his mouth, as unpleasant as that may taste. Where he hears the whimper, it alerts him to the idea that they've both left marks. Even if they're healing rapidly.

And then pain ricochets across his entire body, and heat explodes between his legs. And it's far from a comfortable warmth. Reid's mouth opens to cry out, desperate to contain the sound and muffle it with an agonised grunt. His hands let go and he stumbles back, crippled as he winces like she's entirely incapacitated him. Fucking hell. Women and their crotch shots.

He grits his teeth and seethes, aware that he's pulling at his pants, clutching his front like he's making sure everything's still in one piece, if not almost sent blown to somewhere it shouldn't be.

Before he can even think about recovering — he's protecting his sweet spot from another strike. And he's staring up at her, upside down. Hissing when she speaks a language he doesn't understand. Reid's other hand reaches up, throwing his head backwards in an act to smack against hers. It radiates across his skull but it's still less than the burning between his legs. It's more frustration, and pain than it is threat now when he spits at her: "Let fucking go, shit." beat, "You didn't need to go so low,"

But they both know that.

She wasn’t like this normally, it wasn’t her M.O. to fight random vampires in an alley all because they got mouthy. Even if they got violent. Disarm and leave unless it’s towards someone else. Helping through violence, what a fucked up way to think you are doing good. What a fucked up way to alight in bloodshed and brutality. But she tells herself, her conscience that she’s better. She isn’t like the cruel woman who sired her. She won’t turn anyone into a never-ending blood bag. Gorging them on innocent women until they were ready to bleed. A never-ending source of livestock. She nearly shudders at the thought.

This unlocking memories thing is fucking awful. It’s throwing her off her game. Making her words sound crueler than she wants. But he had started this, and she was willing to finish. She’s lasted – nearly five? – centuries on her own, some punk with his righteous cause isn’t about to end that, even as discomfort and pain are still burning in her chest as it resets. As it mends itself. His pained cry tells her all she needs to know as he crumples to one knee, she had hit well. His vicious hissing as he looks up at her. Yes, fight, live. You stupid fucking man, fight to live.

Her wrist might as well sound like a twig snapped for an oven when he pulls it away to disarm her. A sharp cry left her lips, because no matter the pain she’s endured, she’s learned there is no need to remain quiet, even if they think they have the upper hand in your anguish. And suddenly she’s smashing into brick again, the wall crumbling and dusting at her frame as she is all but embedded into it, a dull groan leaves her lips. No breaks in her bones, but obvious cracking. Her wrist is still resetting, his blow hits hard and she gasps out as non-existent air is pushed from her lungs, old habits even she can’t forget.

And then she feels it, the needle-like precision of razor-sharp fangs as they embed in her throat. Warning, she’s no stranger to this, ghost pain from times past flickering through her mind and she can only let out a whimper like all those times sewn mouth only let out the most pitiful of muffled sound.

She’s drowning in the memory, the only difference is this time she’s the elder. This time she can fight. She doesn’t mind the ripping pain of flesh as she does the most basic of defense. Booted foot pulling up and landing a blow between his legs and when he is incapacitated she’s suddenly behind him, arm wrapped strongly around his neck tight as it pulls him back. Whispering death threats in a tongue she doesn’t realize she’s speaking as she arches him back further, his neck straining in her hold.

[reidhalstead]

There's no doubt she's too proud to see herself anywhere below him. And it's a ghoulish sight, to watch the way their bones shift like living entities in the springy flesh of the undead. Reid goads because he wants to see the monster; it makes it easier when he does this — justifying the twisted use of his suppressed abilities.

It isn't about survival or revenge. It's punishment, really. He'll never atone for his crimes or his sins by ashing this woman. But it will make the blood spilt taste a little better on his tongue when he inevitably has to cave to basal urges. Maybe it's spite that fuels the insanity that he might remember how to be a hunter, in the body of something else. He's danced this routine before and it doesn't always end in his favour; a broken neck and a long day witnessing the devious eyes of his sire; they still forever haunt the back of his gaze.

The other creature recovers in another fast flash, Reid has to focus intensely to be able to track the movements. His senses prickle, locking onto the awareness that he needs to use them and not neglect them. Spending so long pretending they aren't there, has done him no favours.

Another snap echoes in the alleyway when his cheek cracks under the weight of her blow. Then, as he goes to step back, his knee goes too — shatttering. It's impossible not to cry out in pain that reverberates louder in the confined space. He drops onto his good knee and the one that's in fragments trembles with spent energy as it slowly begins its healing process; resetting the nerves around the ivory within. Fuck. You. He wants to say it, but he fears if he opens his mouth, he might just release agonised noise in pissed off plight that she's hit well.

Teeth gritting, her words are a sword in themselves. Cutting at his resolve, adding to the frustration that burns in his body as he stays knelt at her feet. Any passerby might take the scene as something else entirely — on one knee, head nearly bowed to fight the too-long felt sensation of discomfort. It feels like forever before he might be able to stand again.

Head wrenched back to look at her, he hisses, bending into her grasp to ease the pulling on his hair.

"Are we done already?" He spits the words at her, right before he grabs her wrist and twists it sharply with a snap. Reid forces her to loosen the vice of a hand she has on him so when he dives forward and slams her back against the dilapidated bricks. He burrows a fist in her stomach with a jagged undercut and his mouth sharply darts to tear and bury in her throat —

The way he nearly goes down is satisfying, a rush of adrenaline pumping through her veins like the warmth of blood from the man she had just drained. But this guy? This fledgling with a big mouth and a pathetic game? He won’t go down so easily, he offers more distraction. More fight, and she can see the flame of it in his eyes. Vampires never went down easily.

They’d fight and fight no matter how hard you hit. Fight until they crumble to ash as their head detached or their heart was ripped from their body. How a heart could still hold so much weight when it no longer beats is a fascinating fact. Maybe she’d do his sire a favor and crush his, leaving the traces of him blowing in the autumn wind. Fist raises back like a well-oiled engine, ready to strike a third time. He catches it this time though, prepared for another blow, his block enough to catch her at a miss.

The sudden burst of pain at a boot to the chest, she feels something crack as she smacks into the wall of the other side of the alley. She breathes through it as it heals as fast as it has cracked and blue eyes narrow as he tells her to get up. ’Fucking death wish’ she thinks to herself as she does just that and nearly rips her coat off to loosen her movements more.

“Gladly,” she grits out, moving as if she is about to swing at his jaw again only to uppercut with the opposite fist into his side, snarling in her anger as her foot is pulled back and reconnects with his knee in a shattering blow. “A self-loathing vampire, how fucking original.” she bites out. It feels good, hitting something with resistance, exhilarating. It makes her feel alive, the violence of it. The way it makes her forget when it is, what is coming. The way it sparks a joy she should be scared of. Something she’ll wonder about later. Wonder if she’s truly broken at this point, She grabs a handful of his hair and yanks his head to the side. “Fucking pathetic.”

[reidhalstead]

He doesn’t care to hear the cackle of a corpse drawing its last breath. Because she is a beast justifying a murder through the skin of her teeth. It couldn’t be proven one way or the other — because their witness is dead; no words to disparage the claims of a woman speaking so foul.

Reid hardly wonders what they could possibly say that might paint the creature as anything else. But he knows this isn’t some self-gratification in reliving glory days. Because he could never be that, like this. Hungering for justice, in a way that’s feral and wanton. A dead, infectious thing that claws and scratches until he bathes it in blood — til he feeds his body’s anguish, in the only thing a creature like them could.

Halstead almost dares to pick up the pace when she turns, he braces for her to move in a way only the rapidity of dark gazes could follow. But he should have known she would never run.

She desires to chase blood in the same way he does. He can repress their nature, but he knows the rewiring of his mind is agonisingly deep. It has melded to more than his mind and his soul; it festers beneath every ounce of flesh, screaming for him to use what it can offer.

In this, he might. Morals, and pride — gone.

Reid captures the smirk in a flash but the sight is suddenly snatched from his vision. Her fist shatters the side of his jaw, and he groans in protest to the pain that erupts across his face. He stumbles, made off balance. It’s a quick blow — almost as fast as the healing process. He goes to rise, but another blow cracks as if she’s trying to put him down, and his knee tempts him to cave under the sheer tenacity.

But he won’t fall.

And he won't let her strike a third time when a rapid hand flies up to block her assault — his leg lifts in retaliation and he harshly lands a sharp boot to the woman’s chest to send her throttling backwards.

Even he knows when his combats land against a rib that her strength carries every promise she’s made him. He’s not surprised, given she’s freshly murdered a man. She's fuelled on human life and he's thinking about the last rat he disgustingly drank from.

Reid rubs his jaw, testing the bone again; it’s numb, but the sensation is there. Enough of it repaired that he can hiss at her. He’s straightening again, battling with the part of him that he refuses to like. But it’s instinct that follows with the power. “No I don’t mind,” he mutters, darting forward to meet her in the shadows again. “Get up,” he urges, as if she can’t do it in a blink. “Show me my place.”

Arrogant, a liar, she can sense it in the body language. His sire had gotten the better of him and that fact hurts him. His pride. And his very will to live. But something holds him back from ending things himself. Something pulls him to remain, perhaps someone. Or an unwillingness to bend a knee to loss altogether. His eye roll is frustrating.

Pigheaded. He’ll learn as time goes by, it’s hardly her business to turn his mind, to help a dead Hunter learn more past his skewed morals. Daniella squares her jaw and lets out a humorless laugh at his attempt at a comeback. Clearly, he hadn’t been much of a conversationalist, probably a stab-and-run kind of guy. All brute, no brain. It explains the way he clings to his past. He thinks he was honorable for putting monsters down. People like her. And she supposes for some Hunters she had become somewhat of a boogieman.

Something that lurks in their shadow, a curse, something to attempt to vanquish. She can only hope so at least. The bloody stain on a generational vendetta. But her word is her will and how close she is to being finished. She’s ready to turn and leave, let him wallow in his own pity and shame over not having been able to stop her before she’d killed the one that had started this whole conversation.

His words, make her turn back to him though, catching him advancing. A small smirk catches her lips. So this is where he wanted this to go. She meets him, fist already balled and not hesitating to swing, reflexes faster than the human eye as it collides with the side of his jaw in a sickening crack. “Mind your elders fledgling.” she hisses, another cracking hit. “Learn your place.”

[reidhalstead]

Often, monsters quickly find the weakness to drive a dagger into; the magicless mark that stains his hand and exactly what it used to represent. Reid hasn't yet come up with a good comeback, or excuse that tells someone differently. Yes. He's beyond upset, furious— bitter, a tome of unspilt wrath that has its pages set only to eradicate curses like this one. Better served as fertiliser for some strain of parasitical plants — he imagines Kiri would have something witty to say about that. If death didn't take that from her too.

"Not before I watched them crumble to dust," He utters back — a terrible lie, that he knows his sire would laugh at him for. Reid's hand brushes over the tattoo on his hand, like it itches; an old tic that sometimes has him believing the phantom sensation that it prickles with magic again. Wanting to warn him, to be wary — to be smart on this. But it's not magic or the faded swirl of a hunter's mark.

It's all the other senses he's denying are there. Recognising power in a different way than before. The woman spins a story —

"You can tell yourself whatever you want, if it helps you sleep," He'll assume the lie. Because that's easier too. Liars. The pair of them. Vampires. Full of monstrous traits that Halstead bitterly represses. He's still spitting his assertions, as noble as ever: "The answer still remains to be, you."

A pair of vigilantes in an alley, bickering over morals. Reid hates himself enough as it is. He doesn't want this to be all its mercies if that is what she is biting for.

I've known men like you for centuries. She hasn't even finished talking, and Reid's rolling his eyes into oblivion — Puffs his chest, once, at her speech. He doesn't have one so well prepared, as apparently she does.

"Were you once a budding-poet?" It's frank, dismissive. She can think what she likes. "You're terrible at it." Political speeches of hierarchical divides, of monsters and men. He is done with the memories of what he once was, is, and the former life he's trying to remember for its fractured parts. "You're slow with this dirt beneath your boot stuff, because if I'm not going to be that. Then you will be." And he's closing the distance between them.

His bark of laughter would startle her if she weren’t so focused on his every move, she wasn’t looking for this tonight. She never really does, despite her charm and willingness to socialize, she wants to go home. This time of year is always hard. A deep sadness in her aching for the loss of true connection. This bastard with his vicious, loathing words. The way he looks at her. It’s then that it clicks, she knows what it is. Knows what he is. At least what he was, perhaps one day he’ll pick up his flag of hatred once more. Maybe he’ll take a stroll in the sun. Whatever it is, she hopes it serves him well. It’s clear he isn’t happy, that he is pushing past judgments on others. that he thinks the corpse in the trash would have stood by him if he confronted her and marked her as the villain.

Hunters…they’re all the same at the end of it. No, not all, there was a difference between protecting and taking care of one another and mindless violence. An honor to a true soldier. This man is just a reckless thrill junkie who had thought himself better because he had a heartbeat and pulse. Because he was normal. Her eyes dance with delight as she looks at him, lips turning up in a mocking smirk. “Upset because someone got the better of you, Hunter?” she sneers the title, he’s less than shit beneath her shoe. He sees the other side and yet clings to a life of bloodthirsty violence. He doesn’t know her, and yet like them all he passes judgment. Assumes. Thinks he knows better because just like anyone in any walk of life there were bad ones.

“His name was Aaron Miller, he had a bad drinking habit. Would get real violent with his girlfriend after a bottle of scotch. The witch in question, Amelia Greene, daycare teacher. Makes healing potions in her free time. Tell me, who deserved to die tonight?” she asks him, watching him, daring him to pick one because of who they are.

“You never think of anything but yourself, even when you are on the other side. So don’t pretend to know anything about me or what I do. I’ve known men like you for centuries. Thinking you’re above anyone else because you have a knife, a gun, an axe and a vendetta against anything you decide is unnatural. I’ve watched your kind burn houses and villages. Watched you hang innocent women. All for what? Your great crusade? So yes, this hunter pissed me off. For beating a human. For stalking innocent witches like they��re lambs to slaughter. He got his. What he deserved, Treated like trash, shit beneath my heel. That’s the reality of where you come from. I will tell you there are Hunters who aren’t addicted to the hunt. But the kind like you? The ones who think they are above it all, well ask yourself who the true villains of the stories are.”

[reidhalstead]

Baby, is a moniker that falls off of him with disdain. In a past life, he would have acted by now, less talk, more wood and ash. But he's still denying relearning all his former qualities, with newfound capability. It feels like if he accepts he can, then he complies with the idea that he has become just the same as the ones he once prided himself on hunting.

Reid's bark of a laugh is genuine if only because she strikes close to the mark that he could only dream of. If he could solve all his issues by running, he would have done that on day one. But he doesn't run, (he might hide, and bide his time) but his cowardice is not for monsters stalking the night. His gutlessness has always come hand-in-hand with his self-loathing and all the things he will never commit to.

"Ask them, why don't you?" Why would he care about the sire that is plague enough in his life? Vampires and their sirely bonds and loyalties. Halstead would spit on it all if he thought that the woman across from him would know the depth of his hatred. "You've got your wires crossed." He says, moving into the lane, so the shadows keep the pair of them a little more hidden. Reid won't let innocent collateral on the street behind him get in the middle of their spat. "I bet it wasn't that hunter that pissed you off, was it? But another, you're having a grudge match," It's a guess because Reid knows what it's like to smear an entire world with the same brush. And she speaks so certainly of hunter-kind that it sounds like him, a decade ago. All confidence and assurance that he was the most dangerous thing in the dark.

Where one does something beastly, it suddenly means the whole lot of them are capable of foul deeds. So he's always preached the act of putting a stop to them before they have the chance to maim their next victim. Undeath shows him the grey-world, instead of the black and white.

But this vampire, with her attitude and her vengeful tone. She's one of those with the black souls, and better served as ashy fodder for the earth to devour.

Whoever he belongs to needs to teach him manners, she gives him a bored expression as he riles himself further, as his eyes trail the blood on the cement. Maybe he was just hangry, maybe he has a death wish. Whichever it is she really doesn’t like the tone coming from the man's mouth. The accusation that this Hunter was doing a service to the people of this city. The way he looks at her as if she’s a bloodthirsty criminal when the actual murderer is in the dumpster he had belonged in all along. What kind of lowlife paints the victim as the one in the wrong, and who was he to question her judgment when he’d just happened along at the end of her work? He smells fresh, new-age fucking kids thinking they knew better.

“It’s none of your business what I do, and if you have any sense you’ll keep walking, baby,” the usual pet name is spit out like an insult, maybe Hunter wouldn’t be the only thing on the menu tonight. She may have had a soft spot for witches, werewolves, and on occasion vampires. But she has no soft spot for insolent pricks with a superiority complex.

“Or you can stay here, join your godly Hunter in the trash. Another stain removed from the planet. I’m sure your sire would thank me, or did the piss baby run away from them too?” she bites out, eyes darkening. “You have a lot to learn, and this isn’t some bullshit lesson about pecking order and the circle of life. Listen really closely, big guy. Mind your own fucking business.”

[reidhalstead]

The rattle of an industrial bin opens — a weighty thing is dumped inside, crushing and crinkling the trash inside — and it closes. Just like that. A life, gone. Infuriating that he sees the carelessness of the act on her features, even when offering up an explanation like they were old friends; educating him on the finer details of murder and bloodletting. He finds himself scoffing with disdain.

Hunter. She says it as a foul thing on her tongue. It provokes him to bend the fingers of his tattooed hand — knowing the intricacy of the faded ink; magicless and shaming as his thumb rubs the side of his index finger, a tic he hasn't kicked yet. She doesn't see him as that — and rightly so, because he isn't. Why would she?

It still causes the stabbing pain in his chest, nonetheless.

"Maybe that witch deserved it." Who was she to decide the dealings of a hunter, as a vampire? "Perhaps that witch is planning on doing something foul, and you just aided in something sick."

Maybe even, the vampire wouldn't give a shit. Holding such bitten animosity for hunters implies she knows that witches are the last maimed in the pecking order, for their usefulness; their mortal closeness. The rest of them? Fair game.

Reid follows the path of blood that's carved into the concrete, staining the pale of the napkin in her grasp, washing away the life she's stolen. It makes him nauseous, to know he's the same as that, in monster-biology. Unforgettable, in the way that he roots himself to the spot, for fear of getting closer and chasing the scent of drying blood; he will not let loose the chains on his repressed hunger.

Halstead nods his head in her direction, circling back to the derision he reserves for his incredibly bitter moments: "And yeah, take offence, I meant it that way."

He speaks again and she rolls her eyes, going about to start cleaning up the mess, leaving bodies out in the open isn’t really her thing. What a prick though, questioning her as if he were better than her, like they weren’t the same species. The body is hoisted up easily and deposited in the nearby dumpster. It seems a suitable enough grave for the piece of shit that dared to stain her shoe. At least he had been useful in satisfying her hunger for the night.

She glances back at Mr. Mysterious in his hoodie, looking like he’s about to mug a lady's purse. “Cute, you might want to watch who you talk to that way. I could have taken offense.” she bites. Body cleaned she turns fully to look at him again, taking him in fully. He really does look like a mugger.

“He’s been stalking a witch for the evening, hunter. Looking for an easy kill, unlucky for him I was around,” she answers, not that it is really any of his business. “He made his choice to act like scum, so he was treated as such. Not that it’s any of your business why I did it. But there it is. Is there a reason you are so concerned, pretty boy?” she asks, because it is interesting why another vampire would even care.

Pulling out a handkerchief from her inner pocket she starts going about finishing wiping blood from herself, he’d been a messy meal. Someone she’s been watching for a while, she isn’t blind to the disappearance of witches in the city as of late. She figures the only other species to give her kindness can use the help. She pushes away the idea that the witch in question had reminded her of Emily.

[reidhalstead]

It’s difficult to keep walking, when every fibre of Reid’s being screams at him to pursue. A hoodie isn’t enough to block out the scent, even as he draws it up past his mouth, like a mask of citrus cotton might ease the sudden desire that erupts from the depths of his blackened soul. The way his teeth ache yearningly for something other than rodent, or hare has him cursing his intermittent bouts of fasting.

Even the hunter part of him is telling him he cannot simply walk by when blood seeps into the concrete, and a finger-width’s of a stream waters by his boot. He’s standing right there, and there’s hardly a drop left that isn’t devoured or wastefully staining the ground.

Reid has a bad habit of putting himself in complicated scenarios of — whose side are you on?

Whoever’s it is, it’s not on hers.

“What would be really helpful, is if you fell on a stake,” Save him the job of taking anything on, filled with stale animal blood and a terrible bout of refusing to embrace a shred of vampiric power. Reid can stand there and play the reasonable; You didn’t have to kill them. But not once has that ever worked in his favour. He doubts it will now.

Halstead steps forward into the shadows of the lane where she stands, querying his irritation at the maimed individual: “What’d they do that deserved that?” And he doesn’t want bullshit on the circle of life, or the eat or be eaten chain. Not when Reid’s evident struggle to temper himself is visible in the way his jaw locks.

@reidhalstead - [ CAUGHT ] for one muse to discover the other in the act of killing someone.

She stands back up fully, fingers coming to her mouth, blood-coated digits slipping between her lips briefly to clean them. It’s then she realizes his presence, head turning to take in the male, eyes still draining of the deep crimson they had been. “Got a staring problem, bud?” she asks him as the body slumps further down the alley wall, chest cavity split open. Turning to him fully she tilts her head a bit, sizing him up, vampire. She’d known it since before even acknowledging him. “Really baby, can I help you with something?”