บท 2: Chapter 2: The Game is the Game.
- Vampire Rule N°1: Sunlight will not make you sparkle.
…
Falling into a bloodlust induced frenzy and going to a frathouse party were oddly similar experiences.
You wake up in a stranger's bathtub, covered in another stranger's bodily fluids, your brain is a mess and you struggle to remember where you are, what you did, and who you did.
Luckily for one John Harker, vampirism was a gateway to abilities some might consider unnatural, and that included getting rid of supernatural hangovers.
'I messed up,' He thought, still immobile in the empty tub, 'I remember ripping off that man's throat, feasting on his blood before leaving for safety'
Safety was a relative term, he ended up back in this body's 'apartment', though it was in his humble opinion more of a crackhouse than anything else.
He, in that beastly state did not botherwith getting rid of the body either, he just threw it in the dumbster alongside those thug's other victim, a sort of poetic justice.
At least his thirst was sated for now, even if he wasted much of that man's blood, it was still enough to fill a good third of his reserves.
Still, it checking wouldn't work.
If he didn't use the more straining powers, he should be able to last two or three days before needing another meal, but he'd rather not risk it.
'Let's get moving,' With a single thought, his eyes burned red and his senses grew sharper, the sound of distant cars and voices and the occasional gunshot grew louder and louder, he could hear every bristle, every step taken by the fourty eights people who lived in this building.
Every word, every action and gesture were laid bare before his eyes.
More than that, he could see them, the blood in their veins, so warm and bountiful, so appetizing.
It would be so easy to break into the homes of his sleeping neighbours, savour their blood until not a single drop is left of them, he knew he could get away with it too.
'I doubt they're the type who's keen on neck washes though.' He thought, most of them were likely drug addicts anyway, and he knew better than to start feeding off the blood of junkies.
Now certain that he was truly alone in his new 'home', and that it was nighttime judging by the relative calm and quiet, he felt that it was safe to leave the safety of his gross bathroom and discover the marvels of his equally disgusting studio.
'Yeah, that's a crackhouse.' He noted drily.
The first thing he noticed was how utterly empty it was, sure he had only recently moved in, but it was supposed to be the room of a young man, not a ghost.
The walls were cracked, the paint had worn off years ago, and if he wasn't an undead he would worry about the risk of asbetos contamination.
The only decorations were the suspcious stains on the walls.
There were boxes upon boxes of wrapping, take-outs, chinese food, pizza boxes and soda cans his host body didn't bother throwing out, it formed a second floor, and he didn't need superhuman senses to see the many roaches roaming around, eating the rests.
'Guess that's what happens when you let a teenage high school drop-out live alone in the ghetto.' Jon thought, kicking a pizza box away and watching a swarm of bugs flee for their lives, 'Should I just burn it?'
Looking at those pests made his skin crawl, but the mere thought of fire was enough to put him on edge, so that was a bad idea for the moment.
'Anyway, let's see how much money I've saved up,' He thought, trying to repress images of him agonizing in an inferno, his regeneration only torturing him further until there was no more blood to spend.
He walked up to his 'bed', which happened to be the only piece of furniture in the entire house, it wasn't that good of a hiding place for his money stash, but the alternative was sticking it in the loo and hoping he wouldn't forget and take a shit.
John looked at the dirty mattress, covered with a thick layer of what seemed be plastic wrap, that was a pretty ingenious way not to touch whatever the hell those stains on the mattress were.
A single neatly folded bedshit rested above it; the only clean item in this whole house, including him.
He moved it, and did his best to ignore the family of roaches that scurried away, now wasn't the time to give a shit. He recovered a plastic bag he had shoved in a hole in the wall, and opened it to reveal a few crumpled bills, mostly tens and fives.
"45 dollars," He counted in disbelief, he might not have all the details of this body's life, but he remembered enough to know he was no slacker, nor was he a drugged addict, and he sure as hell didn't splurge money into stuff he didn't need. "This is bad."
Rend day was in a week, and this wasn't the kind of place where you can just ask the landlord to wait a couple days
The whole building was owned by the mob, and those who couldn't pay had a tendency to disapear, only for them to star in pornographic movies if they were lucky, or butchered up in some back alley if they were men.
Now he could decide to flip them off then eat them like the overgrown mosquito that he was, but that would attract the type of attention he didn't need.
Not to mention the odds of him being disturbed during the day, ending his new life by reenacting the witch burnings didn't sound so hot.
That, and vampire or not, being shot in the face with a shotgun would still result in having a very bad day.
So he'd either have to make an extra 255 dollars in one week, or somehow learn how to mesmerise people.
'And then there's this bullshit.' He thought, looking up to see the ever so strange red wall of text appearing in front of him.
[Vampire System fully integrated.]
[New Task Available: Know Thyself.]
It didn't take some absurdly high IQ and the collective wisdom Tony Stark, Reed Richards and Jerry from accounting to understand what was going on.
Eager to test out the real specs of this so called 'system', he tried to see if a mere thought was enough to use it, since physical contact wouldn't always work.
And work it did, much to his satisfaction.
[- Tasks:
- Know Thyself:
You have successfully integrated the Vampire System to your being, explore it's features and the rules which govern your blood or let ignorance drive you to your final death.
- Difficulty: F
- Reward: 1 EXP
- Progression: 1/3]
That was...informative.
Getting missions was expected, and some form of reward was also a given, that's what he signed up for after all.
But a single experience point? And only three features including the Tasks Interface?
John couldn't help but feel envious of the lucky bastard who got the Gamer System somewhere in the multiverse.
'Well, there's nothing I can do about it.'
The second feature he checked was the most obvious one.
'Status.'
[ Level: 1
- Name: Jonathan Harker.
- Age: 16
- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.
- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)
- Blood Points: 35/100
- Exp: 0/10]
'Talk about being minimalist.' John whistled, though it was a bit underwhelming.
He looked at the nearly empty pannel, no health points or mana reserves in sight. Level, name, race and age were all pretty straightforward, but the rest were a bit more confusing.
[Crackhouse Resident:
You are a not-so-proud resident of one of Gotham's many ultra-low income housing initiatives, and you certainly look the part...and smell it too.
Lower reputation with those of superior social standing, which is pretty much everyone.
Increased reputation with crackheads, hobos and the least fortunate.]
...He really needed a shower.
[Jailbait:
Through genetic superiority, supernatural changes and a high-stress life in the streets, your mind and body are much more mature than a sixteen years old ought to be.
Age is just a number, and jail is but a room.]
He had no comments.
No complaints.
But no comments either.
[Blood Points: 35/100
Nightly Consumption: 10 points. (The amount used to wake up each night.)
One sip of blood from a healthy prey is equivalent to five blood points, draining an adult to death would amount to fifty points, more if the quality is high.]
Waking up took blood, using his powers took blood and he was pretty sure popping a boner would also require spending some blood.
[Affirmative.]
'...Darn.'
[Experience: 0/10
Experience is the measure of your growth, which can be obtained through maturing and understanding the intricacies of your power, indulging the ambitions and desires of the beast within or consuming high quality blood.]
'So get used to my powers, complete the system tasks and be a power-hungry, blood drinking humanoid mosquito?'
He could do that!
[Task Progression: 2/3]
'Inventory.' He tried, hoping to get an answer even if he knew how unlikely it was.
'Team Interface? Infection?' He tried again.
[The Vampire System cannot be used by anyone but the host.]
John wasn't sure way, but he felt like thousands of people just sighed in relief, he did his best to quell his curiosity knowing nothing good would come out of this mess.
*Sigh*
'Abilities.'
[Abilities:
- Vampiric Physiology:
The user possesses the traits, attributes, characteristics and abilities of a vampire, a being who subsists by feeding on the life essence of living creatures.
This includes enhanced physical, mental and sensorial abilities in addition to an ageless lifespan. However, a deadly weakness to fire and sunlight is also applied.]
'Fair enough, I'm a good looking humanoid mosquito.'
[- Bloodbuff:
Consumes blood to further enhance your physical capabilites.]
'Can I use it in the bedroom?' Was his first question.
[Task Completed!]
[Reward: +1 Exp.]
And just like this, the red screen disapeared leaving him alone in his crackhouse with the most basic of plans and the ever present temptation of just going on a blood-drinking spree.
John changed his clothes to a relatively cleaner set, going out with a bloodstained shirt was bad enough, but the bullet-sized hole right in the middle would make people think that he stole it off some corpse.
Some might appreciate the hustle, but that's not the best look.
He opened the door, nearly breaking off the handle, every single part of that house was in ruin. But it was still in a better state than the hallway, Jon barely avoided the smelly puddles of piss, discarded needles and other trash accumulated all the way down the stairs.
'Next time, I'll jump off the window.' He took a deep breath when he finally left that junkyard of a building, once more thankful that he didn't need to breath on the way down.
The streets were dark and poorly lit, perks of living in the middle of the concrete maze that was Gotham's low income neighbourhoods.
There was barely a handful of people hanging out, smoking or playing a dice game after a tough day in a tough world . But he knew some random back alley wouldn't suit his needs.
No, if you want to observe the community, you need to spend the time in the corners.
A street corner was prime real estate for everyone looking to make a dollar.
Mainly because it was filled with people looking to lose a dollar.
Businesses of all kinds, from the mom and pops shop to the small time drug seller, prostitutes and panhandlers, everyone was in the corner trying to make ends meet.
Of course, not all corners are made equal, but John had a good enough grasp of his body's memories to know the best spots in Brideshead.
Why go there though? That would be a valid question, if he was looking to feed, targeting STD-ridden whores, perpetually high addicts, or twitchy kids with guns and an inferiority complex doesn't exactly sound like a smart idea.
But he wasn't hunting for blood.
No, John was hunting for opportunities.
"Hey kid! can you help me real quick?!" A sickly looking brown man with unkept hair, oversized clothes and the kind of untreated bruises, scars and overall appearance of the most important and vital part of the drug game; the american dopefiend.
Most people, including him, have learned to ignore their existence.
Just looking at them was asking to be hustled, and they were the very best at getting a dollar out of a man.
But this one was different.
Maybe it was that spark in his eyes, the conviction to survive another day in the streets, or the easy smile on his face in spite of his rotting teeth, or even the borderline endearing misery of this poor fella.
Or the fact that he was dragging up a whole fridge despite being in an uphill street, his arms and legs shaking and looking like they were about to give out.
Yeah, it was probably the fridge.
John shook his head grinning, that man barely had any meat on his bones, he was clearly biting off more than he could chew.
"Please?" The man insisted, chuckling uneasily.
Well, if he was asking so nicely.
He walked up to him and grabbed the out-of-place kitchen appliance, giving the stranger a second to steady himself before helping him push it up.
At least, that's what he intended.
What ended up happening was him easily pushing up the fridge and the man all but collapsing forward and nearly falling down face-first like some hood version of Quirinius Quirell
He'd try to stop his fall, but he was clearly not that good at holding back his strenght, and he might just end up breaking his ribs on accident.
Also, watching him fall down was too funny.
"I'm alright, I'm alright." The man said despite nobody asking, he managed to recover like only a homeless fiend could. "Thanks for helping me out, man, folks around here don't have no human decency."
"You're welcome," John smiled, amused, "Where do you wanna put it?"
"It's fine, kid, just give me a few seconds to catch my break and I'll move it myself." He said, waving his hand cooly, but his shaky legs betrayed him.
"Nonsense, you look like you're about to keel over," He said, his voice full of mirth, "You know what? I'll carry it for you, got nothing else to do anyway."
The man looked surprised, and more than a little suspicious.
Someone casually helping you out in Gotham was a strange occurrence, if not a welcomed one, but a stranger going out of his way and spending time and energy for a random junky...
Well, that's one way of ending up butchered by some psycho.
John realized it a bit too late, still somewhat unfamiliar with a gothamite's way of thinking, but quickly found a way to salvage the situation.
"You're planning on scrapping it, no? I'll help you out for twenty bucks." He mentioned offhandedly, smirking when the stranger relaxed.
Despite his talk of 'human decency', he answered kindness with suspicion and only felt at ease when a form of profiteering was involved.
John could almost respect it.
"Twenty, are you crazy? I'll barely make twenty bucks out of this old junk if I'm lucky!" He said, shaking his head, "Nah man, this aien't right."
"Do you think I'm stupid? This is full of good steel, you'd easily make forty dollars." He argued, raising an eyebrow.
"Let's get moving, the scrapyard's a good thirty minutes walk from here, and it would be nice to get some sleep while it's still dark," The wiry man said, his previous fatigue all but gone, "Name's Bubbles by the way, and there's no way in hell I'm paying you twenty bucks to move a fridge."
"Call me John," He said after debating wether or not he should use his real name, "And twenty's a good price, there's no way you could move it alone either."
"What about five bucks?" Bubbles said innocently, well, as innocent as a middle-aged junkie could sound.
"Five dollars? You're breaking my balls."
"Now you know how it feels! Kids these days, trying to hustle up their elders. Tsk." He shook his head, "Back in my day, we'd do this shit for free! And we'd be happy to get an attaboy or some candy."
"That's why you were some poor arse kids," John shot back, "Fifteen bucks, and no less."
"We might've been poor, but we had principles, you younglings be going rogue." He said morosely, before sighing deeply, "I'll go up to ten bucks, can't believe I'm letting you play me like that."
John smiled, they were finally going somewhere.
"Ten bucks, and you show me around the neighbourhood," He said, "Haven't been here for long, and I don't like being clueless about the streets."
"Deal." Bubbles smiled, the kind of smile one made after ripping off a sucker real nice, but that was fine.
John knew he could've pushed for more, but making money wasn't his main goal, or he wouldn't spend precious minutes of moonlight on some druggie.
"You new in town?"
"Nah, I was born here, left when I was a kid but ended up coming back anyway." He answered neutrally, he couldn't exactly explain the kind of mess his memories were right now.
"You're still a kid." Bubbles said drily.
"Piss off." He cursed, but only got a laugh out of the happy man.
"Why'd you come back to this shithole anyway? I mean, Gotham's nice for some folks, but they sure don't live in East End."
He couldn't be more right. If not for his vampirism benefitting from the smog, frequent rains, storms and snowy days and the overall depressingly dark atomosphere of the city, then he wouldn't bother staying.
His host body didn't know anything else, and calling the social services didn't even cross his mind.
"Well, you know how it is…" He said, pushing the refrigerator, "You can take a kid out of Gotham, but you can't take Gotham out of the kid."
"Yeah," Bubbles nodded grimly, "That's some gay ass shit you just said."
He almost dropped the fridge.
"Screw you, Bubbles." He said, repressing a smile, his drug-taking companion had no such reservations though, laughing wildly in the middle of the night with no regard for those who tried to get some sleep.
The Joker will probably appear in quite a few nightmare.
"So what do you wanna know?" John paused at the question, and couldn't help but smile.
It was an unnerving, hungry smile.
"Everything."
. . .
John watched a car stop right in front of an exceptionally fat young man, the window was pulled down, words were exchanged and money was given.
The horizontally challenged fellow raised two fingers, and a teenager came running to pass something to the driver who went off just as quickly.
'Ah, the polished art of drug dealing in the streets of Gotham, the money and the dope never get in contact.' John was rather amused, these children were barely out of middle school but they were already working a package.
"What about them?" He asked his cheerful companion, the noble Bubbles, swindler of vampires.
He took one look at the poster child for urban obesity before answering, as he did with the dozens of groups they've encountered before.
"That's Lil' Kevin, he's slinging a package for Hungry last I heard," Bubbles said, scratching his arm, he wore long sleeves and heavy clothes but anyone could guess how badly he abused his veins, "You should be careful around him, he's a toddler, but people say he's already made his bones."
"Duly noted." John said, earning himself a strange look from his clueless informant.
If dope fiends were good at one thing, then it's knowing the street.
Who runs with whom? Where's the best real estate? Who got killed yesterday and why? Who's the hottest chick around and why is it Cat Woman? These were all questions they could answer, if you bother asking the right way.
The thirty minutes walk to the scrapyard ended up taking them a full hour, further convincing John that he was the one who got played.
But he didn't mind, now he had a pretty idea of the local turfs and street dynamics.
There was no mention of men belonging to Falcone or that bastard Rupert Thorn, all he got was independents and semi-independent players who paid up to bigger fish, but none of belonged to a higher class of criminals.
The comics and shows often portrayed them and their goons as mustache twirling villains involved across all levels of misdemeanours from petty theft to retail selling of conveniently unnamed drugs.
But that couldn't be the case, now could it? People like them wouldn't be caught dead in the same room as the dope, nor would their men, or the men of their men.
No, the game was dangerous, and while they could make more if they had their own men in the streets, it was the kind of greedy foolishness that brings down an empire.
Smart men would let their money, muscle and connection do the work.
They'd smuggle in shipments of coke from the south at ten or twenty grands per pure kilo, then do wholesale distributions in the city or in the whole country if they're big enough.
A single killo could bring up to 180.000$ if they knew how to manage the supply.
(AN: These are the actual figures.)
That's how the underground benefits from the major ports, and John would bet his arse that la crème de la crème of Gotham's criminal eutrepeneurs worked like this.
And John already knew how he could get his share.
They arrived at the scrapyard which was nearly empty, few people bother bringing the stuff they 'found' so late in the night. But there were still enough for them stay open and hire someone for the night shifts.
The fact that said people often brought brand new items whose origins are dubious at best might or might not have something to do with their decision.
Nobody could prove anything, anyway.
'That's Gotham, I guess, even legit businesses are a bit dirty.' John wasn't exactly in a position to blame them.
It was their turn to present Bubble's findings to the worker, a fat man with salt and pepper hair, bags under his eyes and a face that screamed 'Piss off, I don't want to be here.'
He barely reacted when he John left a whole refrigerator in front of him, nor did he react when Bubbles opened it to reveal a whole microwave shoved inside.
"What the heck?" John looked at the shameless junkie.
"Forty bucks for the fridge, it's in a pretty good state, fifteen for the microwave." The worker said monotonously, reaching into his pocket when Bubbles nodded earnestly.
"Thanks man," He nodded at the worker who barely reacted, counted his bills before handing him one, "Here, ten dollars, as promised."
Yeah, he got played.
"No hard feelings, right? The game is the game."
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