I'm baaaaaaack, with new fic as well.
Aug. 5th, 2004 01:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessOK, I've done a disappearing act... but my computer was being snotty... and Amazon dropped as load of booky goodness on me.
And my muses wouldn't play. No, worse than that, they went away, on holiday. I was THIS close to doing a dramatic 'I have lost my muses!' (hey, don't laugh, it's surprisingly depressing) artsy angst (and then, I'm afraid, someone really wuld have had to prepare the boiling oil).
But here it is, at last, some fic. But not Spark in Darkness *kicks Darren* wake up, you!
Some Predator, Wow, it's been an age since I wrote this fic. No wonder even Ian thought I was neglecting him!
The previous fic to this can be found back in the mists of time (and the depths of my memories section) here
Father Michaels collected every detail he could from Kieran, his aged yet strong voice pulling out facts that even Kieran had thought he had forgotten. Not that the truth was anything the old priest had not expected. Young men driven by poverty and desperation to lives that clashed all too frequently with the law. Young men who joined gangs as much for protection and simply to be part of the community as for any power or income. Young men who were utterly uninvolved but who struggled to live in the same poor neighbourhoods. Young men who had made bad choices, young men who never had chance to make any choices, young men who had fought luck and chance and adversity and still not gained before death. Young men who didn’t matter. Young men who were ignored. Young men who were born to be victims, whether of the more violent clashes between the relatively stable local gangs, whether from overdose or alcoholism, whether from crime or hunger or exhaustion or simple desperation. Young men towards whom justice was ever blind, blind to the point of uncaring. Young men who were born to die, unlamented, before they ever got old.
Young men who did not deserve this. Young men who already fought against everything the mortal world could throw at them now and ever more frequently falling prey to supernatural predators. Young men for whom there is no help - not society or the police who at best view them as irrelevant and at worst view them as target statistics. Always the target statistics - reduce drugs, reduce crime, reduce poverty, reduce teenage pregnancy. The list goes on, but the only action is ever increasing demonisation of people who already have to face so much.
Father Michaels could do little to alleviate the constant battles they had to fight every day, but by God, he would do all he could to stop the extra burden of supernatural predation. He gestured to Kieran to sit and wait while he hauled himself to his feet and went to find Ian. At least the child had managed some sleep. The old priest tried to remember the last time he had managed a full night’s sleep. He discarded the thought, angry at his weakness. There was too much to do for him to allow himself to falter. He allowed himself the luxury of a murmured prayer for strength before pushing open the heavy oak door.
Of course, it had been too much to hope that the child would still be asleep. At least he had slept, the pallet was in disarray, but Ian seemed increasingly unable to sleep more than a few hours at a time. Maybe he too had seen too much to trust to the oblivion of sleep. The room was a simple one, made even simpler under Father Matthew’s tenure. Richly adorned churches quickly raised the old priest’s ire - he would see no funds spent on decoration while there was a hungry mouth within his power to feed! This room was more barren than even Father Matthew’s kept. Religious images never failed to anger and sadden Ian.
Ian sat motionless, silent, seeming not even to breathe. It was incredibly unnerving, but Father Michaels had seen far worse in his time. The boy moved only to bring an apple to his mouth, the crunch sounding unnaturally loud in the eerie silence. Ian grimaced.
“Import?” He asked, still rolling the pieces of apple round his mouth.
“It is becoming increasingly difficult to find a good English apple these days. Or even a half decent French one.” Father Michaels sympathised gravely.
Ian grudgingly finished the apple, “a South African Cox!” He exclaimed in disgust, “I don’t suppose a vampire is behind the destruction of the English orchards?”
Father Michaels chuckled roughly, “no lad, simple greed. Cheap foreign imports, and government subsidies go to farmers with arable land rather than it does to those with apple trees. Actually pays more to rip up the trees and keep the land fallow than to have any kind of orchard.”
Ian sighed, wistfully. “Can I pretend they’re vampires and kill them anyway?”
The old priest grinned at him, maybe he shouldn’t encourage such inappropriate humour, but it was a relief to get any kind of humour out of the child. “No, I think not.” He took a deep breath, “the people who stole away your precious apples aren’t vampires. But the ones killing Kieran’s friends very well might be.”
The tiny smile that dragged up the edges of Ian’s mouth faded. He put down the second apple he had reached for. His eyes hardened to cruel emotionless jewels. “Tell me.”
Father Michaels related the details in a heavy flat voice, watching with weary eyes as the child in front of him hardened just a little more. Watched as the child in front of him lost a little more humanity. Watched as the child in front of him lost yet more ground to the anger and hate within. Ian made him repeat the names over and over until he was sure of them and the names of the families now grieving. He pulled himself up to speak to Kieran himself, asking for details of the victims. Not details that could help solve their disappearances - but details about them. Details that only a good friend would know. Details enough that he could picture them in his head and mourn that they were dead. Details enough that their deaths hurt.
“Dear God forgive me.” The old priest murmured as Ian forced Kieran through all the details again, using the man’s words like a whip to scourge himself with. To harden himself with. Father Michaels didn’t think he would ever be able to forgive himself for aiding in the destruction of the boy.
Abruptly it was over. With a grace almost as unnatural as the creatures he hunted, Ian rose and flowed towards the exit.
“Ian?” Father Michael’s voice caught him on the threshold of the old church’s battered doors.
“Mary.” One word, and the boy was gone.
****************************************************************
Dr. Mary Chin coolly worked her way down yet another form. Most people would complain about the Byzantine paperwork that faced the pathologist every day. Mary was not most people. With quiet efficiency she tackled her paperwork to scrupulous perfection, frustrating even the most bureaucratic and corrupt manager’s attempts to neutralise her relentless, searching investigations. No amount of distracting chaff could ever distract her from her cold, efficient search for the truth. Even if she did have to efficiently bend the rules occasionally.
She carefully finished another unnecessary copy of her report and set it delicately to one side. This extra work was her own doing, occasionally, very occasionally, she found police officers who weren’t content to allow themselves to remain in blissful ignorance. Even a few still rarer who weren’t content to allow themselves to remain in the ecstatic ignorance that large payoffs could bring. And, to her quiet pleasure, even some who would not lay in the terrified ignorance that came when life, limb and family were threatened by the figures in the shadows. These people deserved her full, unsullied reports. Not the ones that had been filtered through uncountable censors of corrupt and bought bureaucracy.
“Mary?” The word was barely a question, so cold and lacking in inflection that it barely sounded human. Mary carefully laid down her pen, taking time to adjust her severe glasses to her satisfaction before looking up to her visitor. Most people would have been scared by a sudden voice from inches away in a deserted morgue. But Mary Chin could never be counted among most people.
“Ian. There is food in the cupboard, if you’re hungry.” She watched as Ian fished out a Granny Smith from the cupboard biting into the scrupulously perfect English apple with simple glee. “Father Michaels has appraised me of the situation. I have prepared a written report containing all the details you normally require,” the pathologist easily passed over Ian’s masochistic habits that worried Father Michael’s so. “But as a brief summation: 8 men, between the ages of 15 and 24. All poor. 6 from ethnic minorities. All with known gang connections. Cause of death varied; I cannot say that all, or even any, were the result of supernatural intervention - the deaths were prolonged and certainly involved a sustained, concerted effort on the part of the murderer or murderers to create as much suffering as possible. There is no indication of information extraction, and given the victims, I find it unlikely they were tortured for information they had, and given the successful suppression of the information, I doubt they were so treated to convey a message of fear to others. I surmise, therefore, that they were tortured simply because their murderer or murderers took pleasure in their pain. I remind you that such sadism is by no means limited to the undead.” Dr. Chin’s voice was clinical and empty, her efficient tones pure and untouched by the information she conveyed.
“On the supernatural indication side, several of the murders and preliminary torture indicates great strength. Despite the prolonged suffering, there are no defensive wounds nor any great sign of restraint ligatures; though the conditions of the bodies makes it impossible for me to say that with complete certainty. They were free to struggle, but the indication is that they did not or were bound some other way. Or their struggles were so easily overpowered that their tormentor could do so without restraints and without the battle that could cause a defensive wound. All the bodies were exsanguiniated. I have seen humans do this in the past, vampire cults or the like. even some other supernatural beings may resort to such an act. But the indication is this was done by an actual vampire, given that the corpses were completely exsanguiniated. Humans rarely know how or are willing to take the effort to remove this quantity of blood.” Mary pulled a manila envelope from the ordered stacks on her desk and handed her full report to Ian.
“You mentioned a cover up.”
Mary nodded. “The bodies were all removed at the express directions of various important officials without any input from relatives. The bodies were then cremated extremely quickly, sometimes cremation was attempted before I had finished my investigations.” The slight emphasis in her voice made it clear that such futile attempts were neither appreciated nor ever likely to be greeted with success. “I believe a rather dubious public health justification was used. I have already challenged it and ensured that friends in the hospital do the same. Certain sensitive papers have been acquired by members of the press. Their editors will not allow time to print them, but several journalists will now be faced with some important re-evaluations of the world. I have also helpfully supplied several officials with copies of my report after my previous submissions were lost in transit.” Mary smiled thinly. The vast machinery of the vampire’s corrupt influence had never faced such an implacably dangerous challenge as Mary’s quiet efficiency.
“Sounds big. You can feel the vampire’s shadows behind it. A powerful one.” Ian glanced up from the papers at Mary for confirmation.
“That would be an assumption I am unwilling to make.” Mary’s voice held the tiniest edge of disapproval. “It indicates vampire involvement, certainly. But if it is a human cult or organisation, there is no reason why it could not also have powerful friends. Also, if it were a mortal cult, a vampire may feel driven to cover it up to prevent any investigation or media furore that may also lead to real vampires. The same is true if the murderer is a weak or young vampire, with more powerful vampires moving to protect their collective secrecy.”
Ian nodded sharply, turned and left. Leaving Dr. Chin in her empty morgue to prepare for tomorrow’s efficient search for the truth and its dissemination.
Regardless of Dr. Mary Chin’s reluctance to make a less than perfect assumption, there was no daunt in Ian’s mind that the murderer was a vampire.
Ian stalked out of the morgue, and onto the hunt.
And my muses wouldn't play. No, worse than that, they went away, on holiday. I was THIS close to doing a dramatic 'I have lost my muses!' (hey, don't laugh, it's surprisingly depressing) artsy angst (and then, I'm afraid, someone really wuld have had to prepare the boiling oil).
But here it is, at last, some fic. But not Spark in Darkness *kicks Darren* wake up, you!
Some Predator, Wow, it's been an age since I wrote this fic. No wonder even Ian thought I was neglecting him!
The previous fic to this can be found back in the mists of time (and the depths of my memories section) here
Father Michaels collected every detail he could from Kieran, his aged yet strong voice pulling out facts that even Kieran had thought he had forgotten. Not that the truth was anything the old priest had not expected. Young men driven by poverty and desperation to lives that clashed all too frequently with the law. Young men who joined gangs as much for protection and simply to be part of the community as for any power or income. Young men who were utterly uninvolved but who struggled to live in the same poor neighbourhoods. Young men who had made bad choices, young men who never had chance to make any choices, young men who had fought luck and chance and adversity and still not gained before death. Young men who didn’t matter. Young men who were ignored. Young men who were born to be victims, whether of the more violent clashes between the relatively stable local gangs, whether from overdose or alcoholism, whether from crime or hunger or exhaustion or simple desperation. Young men towards whom justice was ever blind, blind to the point of uncaring. Young men who were born to die, unlamented, before they ever got old.
Young men who did not deserve this. Young men who already fought against everything the mortal world could throw at them now and ever more frequently falling prey to supernatural predators. Young men for whom there is no help - not society or the police who at best view them as irrelevant and at worst view them as target statistics. Always the target statistics - reduce drugs, reduce crime, reduce poverty, reduce teenage pregnancy. The list goes on, but the only action is ever increasing demonisation of people who already have to face so much.
Father Michaels could do little to alleviate the constant battles they had to fight every day, but by God, he would do all he could to stop the extra burden of supernatural predation. He gestured to Kieran to sit and wait while he hauled himself to his feet and went to find Ian. At least the child had managed some sleep. The old priest tried to remember the last time he had managed a full night’s sleep. He discarded the thought, angry at his weakness. There was too much to do for him to allow himself to falter. He allowed himself the luxury of a murmured prayer for strength before pushing open the heavy oak door.
Of course, it had been too much to hope that the child would still be asleep. At least he had slept, the pallet was in disarray, but Ian seemed increasingly unable to sleep more than a few hours at a time. Maybe he too had seen too much to trust to the oblivion of sleep. The room was a simple one, made even simpler under Father Matthew’s tenure. Richly adorned churches quickly raised the old priest’s ire - he would see no funds spent on decoration while there was a hungry mouth within his power to feed! This room was more barren than even Father Matthew’s kept. Religious images never failed to anger and sadden Ian.
Ian sat motionless, silent, seeming not even to breathe. It was incredibly unnerving, but Father Michaels had seen far worse in his time. The boy moved only to bring an apple to his mouth, the crunch sounding unnaturally loud in the eerie silence. Ian grimaced.
“Import?” He asked, still rolling the pieces of apple round his mouth.
“It is becoming increasingly difficult to find a good English apple these days. Or even a half decent French one.” Father Michaels sympathised gravely.
Ian grudgingly finished the apple, “a South African Cox!” He exclaimed in disgust, “I don’t suppose a vampire is behind the destruction of the English orchards?”
Father Michaels chuckled roughly, “no lad, simple greed. Cheap foreign imports, and government subsidies go to farmers with arable land rather than it does to those with apple trees. Actually pays more to rip up the trees and keep the land fallow than to have any kind of orchard.”
Ian sighed, wistfully. “Can I pretend they’re vampires and kill them anyway?”
The old priest grinned at him, maybe he shouldn’t encourage such inappropriate humour, but it was a relief to get any kind of humour out of the child. “No, I think not.” He took a deep breath, “the people who stole away your precious apples aren’t vampires. But the ones killing Kieran’s friends very well might be.”
The tiny smile that dragged up the edges of Ian’s mouth faded. He put down the second apple he had reached for. His eyes hardened to cruel emotionless jewels. “Tell me.”
Father Michaels related the details in a heavy flat voice, watching with weary eyes as the child in front of him hardened just a little more. Watched as the child in front of him lost a little more humanity. Watched as the child in front of him lost yet more ground to the anger and hate within. Ian made him repeat the names over and over until he was sure of them and the names of the families now grieving. He pulled himself up to speak to Kieran himself, asking for details of the victims. Not details that could help solve their disappearances - but details about them. Details that only a good friend would know. Details enough that he could picture them in his head and mourn that they were dead. Details enough that their deaths hurt.
“Dear God forgive me.” The old priest murmured as Ian forced Kieran through all the details again, using the man’s words like a whip to scourge himself with. To harden himself with. Father Michaels didn’t think he would ever be able to forgive himself for aiding in the destruction of the boy.
Abruptly it was over. With a grace almost as unnatural as the creatures he hunted, Ian rose and flowed towards the exit.
“Ian?” Father Michael’s voice caught him on the threshold of the old church’s battered doors.
“Mary.” One word, and the boy was gone.
****************************************************************
Dr. Mary Chin coolly worked her way down yet another form. Most people would complain about the Byzantine paperwork that faced the pathologist every day. Mary was not most people. With quiet efficiency she tackled her paperwork to scrupulous perfection, frustrating even the most bureaucratic and corrupt manager’s attempts to neutralise her relentless, searching investigations. No amount of distracting chaff could ever distract her from her cold, efficient search for the truth. Even if she did have to efficiently bend the rules occasionally.
She carefully finished another unnecessary copy of her report and set it delicately to one side. This extra work was her own doing, occasionally, very occasionally, she found police officers who weren’t content to allow themselves to remain in blissful ignorance. Even a few still rarer who weren’t content to allow themselves to remain in the ecstatic ignorance that large payoffs could bring. And, to her quiet pleasure, even some who would not lay in the terrified ignorance that came when life, limb and family were threatened by the figures in the shadows. These people deserved her full, unsullied reports. Not the ones that had been filtered through uncountable censors of corrupt and bought bureaucracy.
“Mary?” The word was barely a question, so cold and lacking in inflection that it barely sounded human. Mary carefully laid down her pen, taking time to adjust her severe glasses to her satisfaction before looking up to her visitor. Most people would have been scared by a sudden voice from inches away in a deserted morgue. But Mary Chin could never be counted among most people.
“Ian. There is food in the cupboard, if you’re hungry.” She watched as Ian fished out a Granny Smith from the cupboard biting into the scrupulously perfect English apple with simple glee. “Father Michaels has appraised me of the situation. I have prepared a written report containing all the details you normally require,” the pathologist easily passed over Ian’s masochistic habits that worried Father Michael’s so. “But as a brief summation: 8 men, between the ages of 15 and 24. All poor. 6 from ethnic minorities. All with known gang connections. Cause of death varied; I cannot say that all, or even any, were the result of supernatural intervention - the deaths were prolonged and certainly involved a sustained, concerted effort on the part of the murderer or murderers to create as much suffering as possible. There is no indication of information extraction, and given the victims, I find it unlikely they were tortured for information they had, and given the successful suppression of the information, I doubt they were so treated to convey a message of fear to others. I surmise, therefore, that they were tortured simply because their murderer or murderers took pleasure in their pain. I remind you that such sadism is by no means limited to the undead.” Dr. Chin’s voice was clinical and empty, her efficient tones pure and untouched by the information she conveyed.
“On the supernatural indication side, several of the murders and preliminary torture indicates great strength. Despite the prolonged suffering, there are no defensive wounds nor any great sign of restraint ligatures; though the conditions of the bodies makes it impossible for me to say that with complete certainty. They were free to struggle, but the indication is that they did not or were bound some other way. Or their struggles were so easily overpowered that their tormentor could do so without restraints and without the battle that could cause a defensive wound. All the bodies were exsanguiniated. I have seen humans do this in the past, vampire cults or the like. even some other supernatural beings may resort to such an act. But the indication is this was done by an actual vampire, given that the corpses were completely exsanguiniated. Humans rarely know how or are willing to take the effort to remove this quantity of blood.” Mary pulled a manila envelope from the ordered stacks on her desk and handed her full report to Ian.
“You mentioned a cover up.”
Mary nodded. “The bodies were all removed at the express directions of various important officials without any input from relatives. The bodies were then cremated extremely quickly, sometimes cremation was attempted before I had finished my investigations.” The slight emphasis in her voice made it clear that such futile attempts were neither appreciated nor ever likely to be greeted with success. “I believe a rather dubious public health justification was used. I have already challenged it and ensured that friends in the hospital do the same. Certain sensitive papers have been acquired by members of the press. Their editors will not allow time to print them, but several journalists will now be faced with some important re-evaluations of the world. I have also helpfully supplied several officials with copies of my report after my previous submissions were lost in transit.” Mary smiled thinly. The vast machinery of the vampire’s corrupt influence had never faced such an implacably dangerous challenge as Mary’s quiet efficiency.
“Sounds big. You can feel the vampire’s shadows behind it. A powerful one.” Ian glanced up from the papers at Mary for confirmation.
“That would be an assumption I am unwilling to make.” Mary’s voice held the tiniest edge of disapproval. “It indicates vampire involvement, certainly. But if it is a human cult or organisation, there is no reason why it could not also have powerful friends. Also, if it were a mortal cult, a vampire may feel driven to cover it up to prevent any investigation or media furore that may also lead to real vampires. The same is true if the murderer is a weak or young vampire, with more powerful vampires moving to protect their collective secrecy.”
Ian nodded sharply, turned and left. Leaving Dr. Chin in her empty morgue to prepare for tomorrow’s efficient search for the truth and its dissemination.
Regardless of Dr. Mary Chin’s reluctance to make a less than perfect assumption, there was no daunt in Ian’s mind that the murderer was a vampire.
Ian stalked out of the morgue, and onto the hunt.