Big city

How does it feel to be alive as your body is dying?
How does it feel to be awake when it happens?
It does not stop all together. First that great drum of heart slows its beat and then it ceases. Feels so... unreal. To hark your ears and hear it...stop. And then it begins. Blood just doesn't go around any more. The usual heat inside a body vanishes. Not fast, of course. Slow enough to torture.
But it wasn't just it. No. First Xavier lost control over his bladder and soon enough he was lying in a puddle of his own shit and piss. He could still think, and he thought of all those writers and artists who'd described or painted death as something noble, even beautiful. Of course, they'd all been alive when they'd written those scenes or painted those pictures. He wondered for a moment if any vampire artists described it differently. After all, they were supposed to know. But he was damn sure none of them had been left dying while bound down by chains. Like some monstrous beast, lying inside his own body fluids. No longer his.
Then the everlasting circle of blood ceased.
It was cold. It was so cold. Worst was that he didn't feel it with his body, but with his...soul? Since when did you become fuckin' spiritual, Xavier Ford?
He could think and feel.
Such was the torture. Hours passed. He could grasp the meaning of eternity.
He was afraid.
He cried softly.
He called out for God.
He cursed him. He cursed everyone. He begged anyone. He was still alone.
All the while his beautiful perfectly functional body was dying more and more.
Something happened to his muscles and nerves. He couldn't feel himself. He became a thing. But the thing had thoughts in it. Trapped. He felt trapped inside this dying cell.
He wept like a little kid.
Somehow he knew it was morning. He was alive. He was dead. Yes, dead, but still there. No breath, no movement. He was a corpse. He wished to scream and he couldn't. His mind rattled but he was caged.
Now he knew that dying was no the worst thing that could happen to a life loving man. The worst was dying and surviving it.
Finally there was a change so sudden that he did cry out. A ravenous fire in his chest and he tore the chains. He could move! Oh gods he could really move? He closed his eyes. He could do it. He opened them. He saw. He heard the House around him moving. The only two things he could not hear was his heartbeat and his breath. There was none. He was cold. He was dead.
He knew the laws about the dead.
Dead people cannot receive insurance, inheritance, or social security. Dead people do not have to pay taxes, although the next family member must cover any debts. Dead people also cannot hold a job, or be paid a salary, unless their identity can somehow be proven. Nor can they own an apartment, or do any process requiring verification of identity. Dead people cannot vote. Dead people are classified as vagrants, although the law likely has no means to arrest the dead.
There was yet another thing he suddenly knew.
He was hungry.
Luckily or unluckily he also knew his only possible diet now.
Blood of his fellow men.
Wait a minute, Xavier. They are not your fellow men any more. You're a vampire.
No I'm not. I'm not some fuckin' bloodsucker.
Yes you are, Xavier. Yes you are.
You are a vampire. Nosferatu. Living dead. Child of the Night. Call it whatever you like, but you are.
He roared, but very quietly. And he wept. There were no tears, just his body heaved and shuddered.
Xavier Ford mourned himself.

**

The Old House was big. Alright, that was a clear understatement. It was huge. It was fucking enormous. In good old days it had been some sort of a factory. Industrial areas were wide districts in the outskirts of towns. M106 was no different. There were loads of warehouses and abandoned industries. But the biggest of them all was the Old House, base (as the government called it) and castle (as the vampires did) of the Aristocrats.
Logan was already a bit dizzy from the blood loss and soaking rain, and the future forced upon him, so when he saw that dark building looming before himself, he nearly fainted. Enoch grinned.
“Welcome home, Logan. Welcome to my home. I must tell you that not many mortals have entered inside these walls. Old House is for vampires and sometimes for those about to be made vampires. There are about five hundred vampires living here. And I am Master of the Old House.
Now, come.”
And with these introductory words he lead the young lad inside.
There were metal stairs upon metal stairs, some curving upwards, some downwards. Windows upon windows and huge barred doors. It was stone, concrete, cement. All huge, fat, solid, firm. Permanent. The stairs chimed as they walked up. The narrow yet high corridors seemed to go on for ever and ever. There were tapestries and torches, but it was still so... cold. Hostile. Alien. And yet somehow very welcoming. It had this boyish excitement in it. Made you want to explore further, see what secrets this building withheld. What stories it could tell.
Logan felt a rush of curiosity surge through his veins. His heart beat loudly.
Enoch smirked. “You seem enthralled with my home. Everyone is. These places are castles. They are more than castles. They are poetry made of metal and stone. Urban poetry.”
Logan stopped. The vampire seemed almost... sad? Nostalgic? Or just – sweet. Couldn't he just...
“Let me go, please,” he whispered.
Enoch gazed at him and sighed. “Haven't you had enough already? I am man of my word. I shall have you, or if you resist too much, I will wring the location of your boyfriend from your mind as I have already seen his image, and take and make him. He is beautiful, too, perhaps even prettier than you. Is this what you want? Shall I set you free and take him in your stead? At which cost would you buy your freedom?”
Logan bit his lip.
“Leave Jerome out of this,” he hissed. “You leave him out of this or I fuckin' kill you, I swear!”
Enoch laughed. “My my, little mortal shows he has some character – or balls, as you say it nowadays. Very well. As I said – the decision is mine, but it is also yours. I chose the result, but you can decide the path which takes you there. I can make it very enjoyable or I can make it hellish. I can hold you in my arms and soothe you while your body is dying, or I can chain you up in a cell and listen to your mad screeching and crying.
You can say green or you can say red.
You can be my lover or you can be my slave. Choice is yours truly.”

**

Alice, run! RUN! ALICE!
Mommy!
Alice, run! Run away! Run away, Alice!
She hesitated. Then she ran a dozen steps and halted. She could hear engine outside, and then people running to the door. Her mother stood in the hallway with her gun drawn, pointing it at the front door. She yelled at her to run, save herself.
The door was heavy and bolted, but then... they were shooting at it. One of the bullets came through and grazed her mother. She cried out her name.
She ran. She could hear naught but silence, and then gunshots and a woman's high pitched scream.
And then – more silence. Silence and rain. Wipe off the blood, wipe off her tears. She fell down to a puddle of mud and water, beat it with her little fists and cried her heart out.
They'd killed mother. They'd killed her mommy. They'd killed her and she'd ran away.
She would never again run away, she swore. Never.

Alice woke, panting heavily, hair and skin moist.
Would there ever come a night when she wouldn't see her mother being shot down by the mob and herself running away from her home? Like a constant reminder of why she became what she was.
Assassin, cyborg, codename Justice, Alice Meyers.
Her heart steadied fast and she rose, brushing fingers through her short hair. White. They'd been strawberry blond, but once they improved her, blond turned into snowy white. All color bleached out of her hair. Gone, along with a part of her. But she would never have to run away again. The price was fair.
She walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Some cold orange juice. She downed half a liter and wandered to the balcony. The night wind was cold and clear. It was beautiful outside. All the lights, and the sky lit with stars above. She belonged here. Now she could.
She took care of this town. They didn't know, but it didn't matter, either. She was their Justice. They were her children as she could have none of her own. She needed none. No man in her life. No one.
Only her quest. To vanish the evil from this town.
Her quest.

**

“Wolf Princess! Wolf Princess! Wolf, wolf, wolf princess!”
The crowd was cheering, jubilant, ecstatic. They were calling her name. Paige flung her braid over her shoulder and sneered. She clicked with her metal claws and the crowd went mad. Half of them had a hard on and wished to fuck her. All of them loved her. Because she was beautiful. Because she was sexy. Because she won.
Her opponent was already exhausted. Humans just didn't have the stamina of a werewolf. Not the strength or the speed. None of it. And yet it had been hard. This one had put up a fair fight and she bore quite some bloody marks from his sword.
She made a half circle on the arena, deaf to the cheers and drew nearer to her opponent.
She did not hate him. Neither did she feel sorry. It had been a fair fight. She was better, she won. May the best win, they said. And she did.
Don't beg mercy, she whispered in her mind. Don't fall on your knees, my opponent. Be worthy and I shall grant you a worthy death.
Daniel. His name was Daniel, she recalled.
The man was a bloody mess already. But he still tried to fence her off. But she was too agile and with a quick gash disarmed him. The crowd roared and clapped, whistled and jeered.
She caught a glimpse of his green eyes.
“Good night, Daniel,” she whispered and slit his throat.
Thump!
She heard this, and a thunder of applaud when she bowed to all of them and yet none of them as ever.
She could still see those green eyes.
What had this man or any of these men ever done to deserve such death?
They were but amusement. They were all but entertainment to their fellow men.
A man died, sometimes a woman, and everyone was happy, they went home to their families, kissed their kids goodnight and fucked their wives – or their men. Sometimes they fantasized about screwing her. And that was it.
All there ever was and had been. Nothing more.
She took a cool shower and enjoyed it. All the sweat and blood flowing down into the sewer.
Daniel. Alexandro. Marc. Griffith. John. James. Alucard.
She could have recalled them all, just the way her memory worked. But it didn't matter. By midnight they were all but blood on her skin washing away into the sewer of M106.
The midnight story of this town, the story of human life.