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"Well, there are worse things than a bionic tummy" said Tom, sitting on his briefcase. "But yeah, I could use some antacid. Or some vodka. Or a therapist. Or tell you what, put the antacid in the vodka and give it to the therapist, maybe he'll be too drunk to charge."

The conversation was going in an unpleasant direction for Tom, and it only aggravated him to know that he was the one steering it that way. I thought the first phase was supposed to be denial. Whatever happened to that?

He was getting tired of the vampire's head cracking over and over in his mind. It may have been morbid, but it was also getting old. Drumming his fingers on the table, he searched for a new topic.

However, a tired mind is also an uncoordinated mind, and what Tom said next didn't so much come to him as slip by before he could stop it.

"You uh, dislike pine?"

In a flash, Hotchkins had spun around, leveling the needlegun at the guard. His finger half-pressed the trigger before the good doctor realized that he was under no immediate threat.

"Oh! Terribly sorry." He said, lifting his arm so that the gun was not in danger of hitting anyone. "It is good to see you, officer. To answer your question - No, I shall not be pressing any charges against the three men who accosted me. You see, it was a case of temporary insanity induced by acute illness, they should be all better in a few hours. There's no need to thank me; I'm a doctor, it's my civic duty. Will that be all, or do you need to write up a report of some sort?"

Meanwhile...

Mack exited the North Gate customs building, whistling A Nameless Tune*. An observant bystander would have considered this impressive for two reasons -- first, because after having spent over an hour being questioned by city guards in a small, hot room that smelled like the inside of a mouth at three am, he was coming away in high spirits, and second, because he was eating a sandwich.

He rounded a corner and entered a market square, or at least what had been a market square earlier and would be again tomorrow -- at the moment, it was just bench space for the homeless.

Mack pulled back a glove and peeked at his watch.

He whistled, singular this time. "That long, huh?"

Finding an unoccupied bench, he lay down on it lengthwise and pulled his hat over his eyes. The markets would reopen tomorrow, and with the new day would come business. But for now, there was nothing to do but relax. Sandwich in mouth, Mack dozed off quietly.






*A Nameless Tune, first performed by Wilfred Punchduck, had lost popularity years ago in Third Street, but since it was catchy like an outfielder covered in electrical tape, nobody had been able to stop whistling it.

((That didn't work either, I guess I'll just have to deal with it, and I really can't reply until Sweet Cat and Aya reply, my characters are kinda stuck with theirs at the time being, so sorry for the pause, it seems everyone is having writers block in the girl section it seems. lol.))

Kit yawned and stretched out his arms, he, in his lost thoughts, almost forgot about Tom until he started to drum his fingers against the table. "Don't do that, it hurts my ears..." he said in a polite tone, yet the words had a little bite to them.

((Sorry, I was kinda waiting for Aya, so I could put all my characters in one post. .... I think I have quite a few.... maybe too many.... That could be fixed soon.))


"Pine?" Valice asked, tilting her head. "No, nothing's wrong with pine." But there was something horrible about that man's scent... He actually smelled worse after the bath.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Report? You'd be willing to give one?" the guard asked, seeming friendly now. "Well that's a refreshing change." The other guards seemed impressed as well. "Most people in this city choose to keep their mouths shut, lest they offend someone. Well, come with us. We'll take you to the post so you can file your report." The guards turned and started heading the direction they'd come, while the first one waited for the doctor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Good idea," Sherry said immediately, and Sen nodded, leaping over the bar in one shot and following Kitara.

"Well, it's only proper. We do not want to make a fool of due process, after all." Hotchkins said, retrieving his satchel and placing his needle gun inside. He zipped it up and opend his coat, slipping the bag inside where it somewhat inexplicably disappeared into the folds beneath. "You also may want to take the three men in, at least for the night, for their own safety. They will probably be quite irritable in the morning; a side effect of a massive rush of natural blood is a heightened, excitable state for a few hours until it is all properly equalized throughout the body." The doctor explained as he absentmindedly buttoned his trenchcoat up, following a few steps behind the officers.

"It's really quite fascinating, the re-humanization process. I mean, sure, when vampirism first popped up everyone was in awe of the idea of coming back from the dead, but in the end all it is, in essence, just a continuation of mental processes while the rest of the body loses its functionality. It's less 'undeath' than it is 'half-death.' But the idea of resurrecting that dead tissue into a wholly living form...That, my friends, is a medical miracle." The constables probably didn't catch it, but there was an unmistakable Third Street pride in Hotchkins' voice. "Functions which vampirism callously rendered useless - The filtering of unnecessary waste products by the kidneys, the breaking down of food by the intestines, and other such things - are jump-started in a way which no self-respecting expert would have ever thought possible until it was actually created, actually in their hands." The good doctor scratched at a bit of exposed neck between his mask and his coif. "Speaking of useless vampiric functions, it's quite nasty, in fact. Have you ever seen the insides of a vampire? They are generally full to bursting with excess excrement, and their kidneys are bulbous and swollen with unfiltered liquids, not to mention the terrible smell of dead flesh. You have to be careful when you are performing an autopsy on one of them. One errant twitch and you could have the whole room covered in an explosion of gut-confetti." He shook his head, obviously having some humorously unfortunate memories he deigned not to relate. "But I'm sure you know all about that." He added.

"Sorry about that buddy, didn't know you weren't a percussion fan. You must have some sensitive equipment up there, I'm pretty sure tapping on wood doesn't reach the hundred decibel range." Tom stopped drumming and stuck his hand in his jacket pocket.

"But yeah, back to the pine thing. You know, I suspected it wasn't the deodorant that was making you try and suck your nose back into your face. Think I read about this once in Science Yesterday By the Time We Print This. It's your blood reacting. Or I guess it's more like your vampirism is making your blood react. Making his blood react, that is." He indicated the guard at the other table. "Sort of an olfactory warning signal, only more extraphysical or mage-o-technical or whatever it is you call it. Anyway, I think the more blood you have in your system, the worse an active phase human is going to smell. Here, let's switch chairs, might help with the draft effect."

He stood up and grabbed his briefcase. "Course, I wouldn't know firsthand. We don't really get vampires over in Third Street. Not anymore, at least."

"Oh my!" The scholarly man said. He stopped in the middle of the road to drop to his knees and inspect the ground. "Cobblestone streets! How delightfully antiquated!" He maneuvered so that he was in a sitting position, legs crossed, and laid the large book he had been carrying under his arm across his lap. There was writing halfway down the page, where the rest was blank. Taking the pen from the crease in the book that had been serving as a bookmarker, he began to transcribe.

The Notes of Professor Rice...

My earlier suspicions, I now believe, were incorrect. I had first assumed was an attempt to recreate a neo-Gothic style of architecture to fit into the theme that seems to rule their lifestyles, but I now think that it possibly is more deeply ingrained than that. I have inspected the ground on which they have paved streets, and was surprised to find that it is wholly cobblestone - not even thematically designed villages would forego the more modern and safer asphalt for such antiquity. I think, instead, that this entire kingdom may be locked in an earlier time as the world spins around it. It certainly would explain their desire to cling to the idea of an absolute monarchy. I will have to investigate further before I can come to a final conclusion, however.

The professor finished writing and - after allowing the ink some time to dry - shut the book and stuck it under his arm. He stood up, dusting off his corduroy pants, and continued on down the road.

A hand nudged Mack, waking him from probably dreams. There isn't all that much else to do while sleeping.

"Hat's down for a reason, guy." Mack shifted a leg and started to doze off again.

"L-listen stranger," a nervous voice replied, "I don't know if you're from here but you need to get inside. Night's no good around here. No good. You need to get inside."

Mack propped his hat up with a finger and looked the man over.

Mid thirties, dirty clothes.

Bum.

"Is zat so."

The hat went down again.

"Please, I'm trying to do you a favor--"

"You're trying to get my bench. Shove off, pal."

The man was fidgeting now. "You don't understand. They don't come after us homeless, we're no fun to them. We're safe. It's different with you, you're in serious danger. Please, get to shelter."

Mack gave in; the hat went up. "Yeah? And who's them?"

"Them. Vampires. Demons."

"Clowns?"

"No."

"Then shove off."

Mack turned over and shut his eyes.

"Please, I'm begging you--"

Mack pushed himself off the bench and pulled a coin from his suit pocket. "Look kid, here's a fiver, go buy yourself a sandwich. You don't seem like a bad guy, but you've said your piece. If I want to stick around out here, that's my business, alright? So let me get some shuteye." He dropped the coin in the man's hand and then dropped himself back on the bench.

The man stared in disbelief. "Y-you're crazy. Do you realize what I'm saying? Don't you care about getting killed?"

Mack scratched his chin. "Wouldn't go that far, but if I don't then you're sure doing a good job of filling that gap for me. Hey, you don't like the man-mosquitoes going around murdering people, you deal with it. Not my city. Not my problem."

The man almost laughed. "Deal with it? How am I-- how are any of us supposed to deal with it, they're practically invincible! Mortals can't even break through their flesh!"

"Well that's your problem right there, guy. Calling humans the damn M word. That and you're dead wrong on the flesh thing."

"No, no I'm not. Their skin is like meta--"

There was a groaning sound as Mack ripped a piece of iron framework from the bench. He held it up for the man to see.

And kneaded it.

"Yeah. Yeah you are."

"How did you..."

"Any human can. Least any human who knows the trick and isn't a complete waste of organs."

"But how--"

"Hey, I'm not your damn life coach, you figure it out. I gave you a fiver, now scram."

The man hesitated for a few moments, then turned and walked away in a mixture of confusion and fear.

Lying back, Mack positioned his hat once more and began to drift.