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i.

When Frankie picks up a shift at the Raven, he tries to take the last one. It's partly that his sleep schedule has never normalized, mostly that he likes walking home after dawn. He's been here for years, now, but he still spends as much time in the light as he can. He likes being able to go out in less than full riot gear.

It's still dark above, though, when he finds himself staring too long at the glass he's just poured for a patron before sliding it across the bartop. She gives him a funny look, but doesn't say anything; regulars are used to the oddity of a human bartender serving up blood. He takes her glass when she's gone; without thinking, certainly without planning to, he swipes a finger along the inside of it and licks it clean.

ii.

This early the streets aren't too crowded; the City's never really calm but maybe this is the closest it comes. Frankie's still feeling a little off, which is why he doesn't head straight home once he closes up. He could use a run. He's tired, but not weary enough to get some sleep. He could use to clear his head.

So he runs, aimless; he glances at strangers as he does and pauses now and then, lost in uncertain thought, always in a patch of direct sunlight, hands folded and subtly pressing his fingers against his wrist.

iii.

By late afternoon, and doubly so by the time it's dark again, Frankie's given up trying to rationalize any of this. He doesn't wonder what it means, or worry about the consequences. Buried instincts keep him to the shadows as the day drags on, watching passers-by, waiting for one weak enough to take or desirable enough to fight for to cross his path. He eyes their throats with a painful longing, as sharp as any he'd felt when he was dead, but wholly in his mind rather than his body. These are pangs of desire, not hunger; it's not only the blood he covets, but the lean curves of their necks, the hot chaos of a gaping wound. The thrill of violence.

He waits, he stalks. He strikes.

[ooc; tl;dr OPEN ACTION, he'll be getting progressively more violent and bloodthirsty... literally... although he isn't actually gone all vampy-- just cursed, so not contagious. Please let me know if you're character is up for injury and/or death; otherwise feel free to make a successful escape. PM &c with any questions! <3

today is NYCC so all tags will likely be later / tomorrow, sorry kittens <3 I backtag forever.]

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[This is the first night her brother has let her out into the Underground without cloying supervision for awhile. She's happy. Pai loves the Underground, feels almost at home there, though she looks anything but. She is a bright flash of pure innocence and apparent vulnerability.]

[ooc: Please do injure her seriously. ♥ (For one thing, if he doesn't, she'll probably try to electrocute him to death. XD)]

[Frankie couldn't care less if she's innocent, or if she's happy. She's smaller than he is, and that's enough to catch his eye. It's not been an easy night thus far.

He doesn't stalk after her; he waits for her to pass, and when he does he throws himself on her.]

[There was a time when Frankie never would have gotten the drop on her. By the time his skin met hers, it would be sizzling with electricity. He would have been dead before he could open his mouth.

Months of peace have dulled her reflexes, and she has used her ability so little that for a moment, panic makes her forget how to even call it up. Contractors don't panic. Except she isn't just a Contractor. She's also a child who has never been far from her brother's protection.

She's mauled, bleeding, weak by the time she remembers how to call up her power. Except it's too late. The shock she sends is little worse than a static jolt, and then she passes out.]

[None of this is personal. In a way, it's barely even conscious; he's acting on impulse and instinct, on a sort of hunger. A false hunger, to be sure; at least when he'd been dead, he was able to sate himself. When he was starving, blood had given him some measure of rationality, even if (by the end) you couldn't call it humanity.

Once she's down, he tears into her much more easily than he has his other victims tonight, body adjusting to the resistance of human flesh in the absence of fangs, and he laps at her blood with a hellish, animalistic glee. The shock makes him twitch, but does nothing to deter him, really.

[ A bit of slack in one place only means the screws are tightening further down the line. ]

[ Hei's let Pai wander off Underground, yes. But he didn't specify how long he'd leave her alone. In alien circumstances, people tend to cling to habit. Hei has seldom had the luxury of developing anything so predictable as habits. Even so, he finds himself defaulting to his usual approach. Keeping Pai in his protective crosshairs. Seated at a sidewalk caff, kitty-corner to the Casino, he nurses their eponymous coffee, an admittedly vile cream-based infusion, snacking on some of their light fare, and reading a book so he doesn't look like a sentry. From his vantagepoint, he sees Pai clearly -- a splash of whiteness on the gritty streets. He can't help frowning at her innocence, though. She isn't cataloging all the angles of the street, let alone checking the surveillance hot spots. If she was, she'd make Frankie in a heartbeat. He's lurking exactly where you expect -- not prowling but lying in wait. ]

[ Hei sees him, though. Not that it matters. By the time Frankie attacks, it's already too late. ]

[ He's not getting any younger, but Hei has two advantages. First, he's always been unusually quick -- partly the result of genetics, partly of obsessive training. Second, he can go from eerie silence to explosive violence without any of the usual precursors. The signs people know to look for -- obvious ones, like footsteps, words, gesticulating, and other posturing -- he doesn't exhibit. He can hurt enemies, or worse, and the only sign they have of what's coming is that he's close enough to do it. ]

[ Frankie won't hear more than a rustle, before someone appears behind him. Hei's palm curls around the back of his skull. The tang of ozone fills the air, before blue spikes of electricity flare from his fingers. It's not enough to kill. But it's no act of mercy, either. Hei isn't sure what this man's deal is -- cursed, insane, drugged -- but he wants him alive, so there's the possibility of a slow and ugly death later. ]

[There will come a moment when a slow and ugly death is what Frankie thinks he deserves, though it will never be what he wants. He'll be glad for the interference, absolutely. One less death (however impermanent) on his conscience is worth the headache.

He won't even hear the rustle; he's not listening, preoccupied as he is with his feast. Nothing registers. He's hit, and he falls.

It's likely for the best.]

[ Hei doesn't care what Frankie wants or deserves. Morality, reward, punishment -- they're all spurious concepts. Hei navigates his life only on the cold divisions of assets and liabilities. ]

[ Frankie is a liability -- and needs to eliminated. ]

[ When he falls, Hei stays where he is, eyes fixed coldly on his slumped shape. He recognizes the man -- mostly from the Network. The owner of The Raven. Human. Cursed, if his behavior is anything to go by. Not that it matters. Something shutters briefly across Hei's face, and he realizes, with the dark opposite of surprise, how close he is to killing Frankie. Reaching out, electrocuting him to a crisp. Or grabbing his hair, shoving his head to the left, ripping right with his concealed blade, sidestepping to avoid the spray. He'll come back as City Dead, no doubt. But Hei can keep him locked in one of his safe-houses. Kill him in different and creative ways, let him come back to life, then do it all over again... ]

[ Then he realizes he's rationalizing everything, even Pai's life, to give himself permission for revenge. Not a good sign. ]

[ His eyes skate across Frankie's face again, calculating. He'll be up in forty minutes -- throat acrid, head pounding, nerves frazzled. Otherwise intact. In the meantime, Hei needs to focus on Pai. Kneeling beside her, he ignores the ice-water prickle of dread. Checks the severity of her wounds instead -- and any signs of shock. No clammy skin. No blue lips or erratic breathing. So far so good. His own pulse carries a steady beat, but there's a reddish tinge creeping along the edges of his vision. Anxiety and encroaching panic. Carefully, he scoops her up, ignoring the blood staining both their clothes. His voice is barely a whisper, ]

Don't die on me, Pai.

[ Not a warning, but a plea. In the next blink, he's exited the scene at a rapid clip -- for the nearest clinic Underground. ]

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iii -- a-okay for hurting

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