not happy. -.- rather grotesque, eventually. avoid if you dont have a strong stomach
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Perfect Blood part one
��� "I'd really like to go kill someone."
���
����� I talk and I talk, but they don't seem to hear me; they complain that I'm so silent, and all the while I'm screaming. It's not the quiet ones you have to watch; I'm not quiet. They just think I am.
���� The lights of the club spilled a riotous crowd of people into the street, neon snaking the name Purgatory in flickering red across the brick front. In the middle of downtown, the converted warehouse was the hottest spot in the city; the hottest spot for drugs, for sex, and one of the only places where aristocrats and army elite rubbed shoulders with whores and blue-collar workers.
������ I was already at the bar, pressed by sweating, shouting men and women crowded in three and four deep; I stayed very still, shot glass in hand, letting them flow around me, bodies touching me on all sides. My vodka was untouched; I drank in their warmth, reveling in the feel of skin against skin. They were all victims, and I viewed them with a predator's eyes.
����� "Yo! Trowa!" Duo shoved through the crowd, braid waving wildly in the sea of people; I stared at him coldly, not emotionally crippled as they seemed to think, but angry that I had been interrupted while hunting. Maxwell . . . he seemed at first glance to be the ideal victim, and yet . . . I remained cautious, some inner sense alerting me to Duo's true strength. This was before I knew he was a pilot; the shock I felt the day I realized what and who he was went unnoticed, though I knew at that moment he could beat me. With Heero, that had always been obvious; the perfect soldier was safe from even an attempt. Wufei . . . was an unknown factor, not one I cared to explore. Now, Quatre . . . there was the perfect victim. His core of inner strength was no match for my own; he would be easy to overpower, were it not for the Magnorac Corps.
������ Duo was babbling at me, something about an easy mission and where was Heero, but I had left him already, in my mind, scanning the crowd for the weakling, the loner, the beautiful girl or boy I could-
������ "Trowa!" That voice! A voice that always said my name in the same hopeful, pleading, glad tone; I turned to face Quatre, imagining what I could do to that pretty face with a pair of pliers and a cat. He seemed glad to see me, though he didn't try for a hug; it always puzzled me that, of all the pilots, he had the least sense where I was concerned. Didn't his "Space Heart" tell him what I was, how I felt? Why didn't that sense send him screaming, as it should have?
������ "Trowa, why are you here?" Quatre shouted above the noise of the bar; it was obvious just from watching me that I wasn't here to socialize; at least, not in the conventional way. I smiled inwardly, feeling rather vicious as I simply hefted my untouched glass as an excuse, not speaking to him, never speaking to him. If I got too attached, then one day he would die, pilot or no, Winner heir or no, his "friends" or no; he would be mine. I couldn't risk that.
�������� Duo was talking again; some days I wanted to cut off that damn braid and kill him with it. But, even if I could overpower the little bastard, his boyfriend Yuy would kill me faster than botulism. I must have narrowed my eyes, because both of them paused, looking at me strangely; I tried to lighten my expression, even though I just wanted them to go away. At least Heero wasn't here; he could read me better than most, and I think he suspected something, or knew something about me.
������� Quatre never gave up, but Duo eventually drifted out onto the dance floor, swaying that pert little ass of his in time with the pulsing music; that beat was infecting my blood, increasing my hunger, adding spice to the hunt. I would have to find someone, soon. Quatre was staring at me with those limpid blue eyes, not speaking, just basking in my presence. The fool thought he was in love.
�������� A movement a few feet down the bar caught my eye, and I strained forward, sensing a victim.
�������� She was blond, like him, though if she'd been born that way I'd gouge out my own eye and feed it to her; she filled out a tiny dress in a pleasing manner that had men hanging over her every haughty gesture. She was beautiful, and she knew it; my favorite kind.
��������� Quatre eventually allowed Duo to tug him out onto the dance floor, though he kept casting forlorn glances my way, pleading looks that tightened the crotch of my pants uncomfortably and made me sidle over to the bleach-bottle blonde as soon as he was out of sight. I subtley pushed through the crowd of men surrounding her, casually leaning my elbows on the bar, asking for another drink, though I hadn't touched the first one. Alcohol only dimmed the pleasure.
����������� My plan was to ignore her; her kind hate that most of all. Close enough to rub my hip against her shapely knee, and I didn't even glance her way. I could see her, though. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the miffed expression that wrinkled her cute little button nose. She leaned forward, trying to shout over the noise of the bar; it didn't matter, I could read her lips, though not with my eyes closed. I wasn't quite that perfect, not like Heero.
����������� "What's a handsome fella like you doin in a place like this?" She giggled drunkenly, draping one arm over my shoulders. I turned to look at her, nearly hitting her with my bangs; the damn things always got in my way, but my hair wouldn't do anything else. Like Heero's, it rebelled against combs and gel.
������������� I grinned at the girl, that tiny slice of a smile that makes Quatre's eyes light up every time he sees it; little does he know it's my hunting smile. She fluttered her eyelashes, and I leaned in to speak into her ear, brushing the lobe with my lips, I was that close.
������������ "Isn't that supposed to be my line?" She giggled again, and I fought down my revulsion; I never could stand gigglers. If it weren't for Heero, I'd have taken out the queen of the world long ago. She'd look lovely in chains . . .
����������� The rest of the conversation didn't matter; she'd approached me, been intrigued by me, would follow me home, when I asked. And I would ask. I always do.
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Perfect Blood part two
She was exquisite.
We were both staggerinly drunk when we reached my safehouse, or at least, she was very drunk, and I pretended to be, in a quiet way that wouldn't attract attention. No, anyone who saw us together would focus on her, the loud, brazen blonde, completely overlooking her darker-haired compainion. At times, I get bitter over this, even though I plan it that way.
My safehouse was, at the time, merely an anonymous apartment, most of which I'd soundproofed earlier for the job. The others thought I spent most of my time at the circus; Catherine thought I spent most of my time with the other pilots. It was something of a perfect arrangement . . .
"So, what do you do?" She asked, popping her bubble gum and staring at the near-blank walls of the pre-furnished apartment. Her bleach-blonde hair reminded me vaguely of Quatre's sun-pale locks; that was the only reason I didn't just snap her pitifully-stupid neck right then. No, I wanted this to last.
"Well, I spend most of my time cutting young men and women into bite-sized chunks and fucking their corpses, how about you?"
"Oh, I'm an accountant." She muttered, staring at a print of a Van Gough, no doubt wondering if it was real, the stupid bitch. It never fails. I've told everyone I know about my little . . . habit, in the most graphic ways possible. No one listens. It's rather vexing, when you think about it.
"Hey, listen, you got anything to drink?" She asked after a while. Now that her life was near its end, I no longer bothered to ease her nerves with idle chit-chat. The other pilots could tell you, I was never one to chat idly.
"I have beer." Actually, I had Guinness Stout, the only beer I'll drink. Anything else is too thin, too watered down, too bitter. Anything else just wouldn't be beer.
She nodded her acceptance listlessly, and I glided off to the kitchen, wondering briefly about the conjugation of the word 'glide.' Shouldn't there be a past perfect tense? Something irregular? Like 'glid.' Or 'glade.' Hmmm.
I made a brief detour into the bedroom, deciding I could take care of things in the living room tonight, picking up a wire coat-hanger and a set of hand-cuffs.
ok, I'm afraid to write the next part. It's already given me nightmares. I know, I'm a wimp. :p tbc