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[jholloway.livejournal.com]

Run.

Prince Kovacs says he's not a prince. Prince Kovacs says the Southampton Compact is by everyone, for everyone. Prince Kovacs says unauthorised feeding endangers the fragile masquerade.

I say he's not even from here.

So I hunted -- that's what we do, that's what we are. I need to eat. I need to survive. Who died and made him king?

Only thing is, a few nights ago I saw this guy watching my haven as I was coming home. Not long before dawn, either, and I had the hell of a time finding a place. Big, stocky fucker, looked like trouble. As I darted back round the corner, I swear he lifted his head and sniffed the air.

Two nights later, I'm at the train station, just having a look around, same fucking guy. Same clothes, same everything. I took off sharpish. Saw him again last night, too, and that time he saw me. Barely shook him down near the refinery. Most of that area's still off-limits, and he peeled off right by the line. Means he's official. For a moment I thought about hiding in there, but no go. They say there's still things in there.

Come nightfall, same guy again. This time he's right on me from the jump. Jesus, where does he sleep? I took off flat and he came after me, trenchcoat flapping like a cape. A tan trenchcoat, Jesus. Why not just write "COP" on his forehead? Even cops don't style that shit any more.

Fast, too. Run. Bin lid to wall to fence top and take a second to look back and here he is again, coming on like a train and as I hit the dirt, scramble up and run on he just jumps up, snagging the barbed wire and even bringing a strand of it down with him but carrying on like it's no big deal.

No time to try to take a car, no time to get a cab. Can I fight this guy? He's acting like I can't. How much does he know about me?

Run. Make for somewhere public and he'll have to slow down. There, turn right there and there'll be people in no more than two, three minutes but WHUMP and a hammerblow to the back of the head. Face in the gravel already healing but lost a moment or two and that's all it takes for him to be on me, putting the gun away and dragging me upright.

"The boss wants to talk to you." Figures; another fucking American like Kovacs.

"Fuck you, you Yank fuck -- he wants to talk to me so bad, why not come himself?"

"Two things, tough guy: one, I'm not fucking American." Grabs my arm and twists and I go along.

"What was the second thing?" Might as well.

"He knew it was better to send me." Smiles, jagged fangs batlike. "After all, I always get my man."

Comments

[sl4irl.livejournal.com]

...Oh my god. :D