Vampire in DC

[TheHamtaro]

- A Very Bad Day -


If you want to survive in Gotham, keep your head down and mind your own business.



That's a lesson people learn quick after some time in her streets, it often came with a pat on the back and a few dollars in your pocket, or a bullet through the skull in some nasty back alley because somebody was having a bad day.



John knew it because he lived it, he grew up in these very streets after all, knew all about those shady deals below gothic towers, the people in charge of the clubs and galleries and fortune five hundred companies and all those new and exciting opportunities that attracted fresh blood by the thousands every single day, all eager to live the life in one of the most crime infested, murderous places in the whole darn world.



Lovely.



But it didn't stop people from coming to this hellhole, how could they not? The highest concentration of wealthy individuals in the US of A, and all the advantages it presented; high paying corporate jobs, massive consumer base for luxury goods, so much money flowing from their deep pockets to the industrial complex, arts and movies scene, research and development, academia and architecture.



You name it, Gotham has it and she has it better than just about everyone else.



The best restaurants, best bars, best nightclubs, golf courses, best insane criminals and the best equally insane vigilante. Gotham has style, it has pizazz, all the glamour you could want and then some more.



Even the healthcare system was as good as it could get, and unlike Metropolis, going there wouldn't ruin your entire financial future for three generations, thanks Bruce Wayne for that one.



Now consider the insanely cheap rent, as long as you're willing to live in the more impoverished parts of town, you'll quickly figure out why everyone from the bright eyed would-be starlet to the gritty dock worker and just about everyone looking for a fresh start would flock around the city like vultures who have yet to realize they are the carcass.



Then again, John couldn't fault them, he was no better.



Born to one of the many nocturnal animals who dwelled in Gotham's high end clubs, looking for a fancy lay they could hopefully entertain long enough to experience that eight figures lifestyle and maybe sneak a cake into their oven if they're ambitious.



Since he didn't grow up living La Dolce Vita in some out of town mansion, and was often left to eat cereals for days on end while that hag was off trying to appear younger and kinder than she really was, it was safe to say that it didn't work so well for Mrs Harker.



No, her brand of predation was less baby-trapping millionaires and more like marrying a succession of reasonably wealthy, doubtlessly abusive, mentally unsound individuals.



Hiding bruises on a child's arms was easier than figuring out which blue blood fathered him, unless it was the bouncer, or the club owner, or his friends.



Her activity got them from Park Row to Gotham Village to Burnside and finally made him leave home to live with a touchy feely anaesthesiologist in the Metropolis suburbs.



Not the worst step-father he's had, by far.



Obviously, he ran away as soon as possible to the one place where three hundred bucks could get you a roof over your head for a good month, where nobody cares enough to ask about your age or demand to see your id as long as you pay up and don't make too much noise.



A place where anyone could get a decent wage breaking their backs in the docks, as long as they had the sense not to check what's inside those crates.



After all, to live in Gotham is to keep your head down and mind your own business.



That's the first rule of the game, follow it and you'll hopefully make it through the night.



Unless somebody was having a bad day and decided to make it your problem.



"Listen, I'm not looking for trouble." John said something that would get a pretty boy like him mugged, beat up and sexually assaulted any other night.



But since the two gentlemen in front of him had guns, and since there was a man with a hole in his skull taking a nap on the floor, that ship had already sailed.



"I've heard nothing, seen nothing, in fact I think I might not even be here." He said as sincerely as he could, hoping to at least get them talking "Works for ya?"



Now he knew there was no way they'll just let him go, but if one of them started monologuing instead of shooting, he could try and make a run for it.



It was worth a shot, it was late at night and the street lighting in East End wasn't the best. They were only one block away from Brideshead, and that place was a labyrinth of tightly packed buildings, he knew he could loose them there.



All he needed was an opening, and he could zigzag his way to safety.



"Thorne said no witness, old man." He heard a snarky voice say, though it could've been his imagination.



"Sorry kid, but it won't do." One of them approached, getting closer and closer to the one flickering lamppost lighting the alley, he could clearly see the shiny barrel of a huge revolver, the surprisingly nice suit and balding grey hair of the old man in front of him.



'Crap.'



He saw his face.



Now things got much more complicated, but there was still hope, maybe he could-



*Bang*



Before he knew it, he was lying on the floor, a burning pain digging through his chest until the adrenaline kicked in.



*Whistle*



"Darn Joe, nice shot!" He heard the other guy, a younger man say, he sounded amused, as if shooting some seventeen years old kid on his way home was normal.



Maybe it was normal, this kind of things happened everyday in Gotham, the Batman couldn't be everywhere, and the police was too busy being nowhere.



"Shut it Keith, I told you to make sure people wouldn't get close." Joe—the man who just shot him said, though he didn't sound all that pissed.



"Yeah, yeah, no need to make a fuss, it's just some nobody."



Huh, a nobody, was he? John wanted to get mad, to flip him off, curse at him, do something, anything! But he couldn't, he was just so tired, so cold.



Breathing was starting to be painful, the adrenaline was wearing off, and he was feeling sleepy.



"—Go make sure he's dead, and do it properly this time." The older man ordered in that tired voice of someone who dealt with too much bullshit to care, he'd almost feel sorry for the guy if he hadn't just shot him in the chest and was asking his little boyfriend to confirm the kill.



He heard two set of footsteps, one leaving and the other toward him.



'I am so dead.'



He was tired, he was hurting, but even with his vision getting all blurry he could clearly see the bored expression on the man's face. The carelessness, the contempt as he stepped on his bloodied chest, pressing on the wound just because he could.



'Just shoot me already, you sadistic fuck.' He thought, glaring at the bastard who only chuckled in response, then pressed even harder.



John didn't groan or whimper, he wouldn't give him that pleasure.



The pressure soon left, but the pain was still there.



"He's dead." He could faintly hear that criminal fuck-up say amidst the sound of his footsteps, those loud footsteps, everything about these two was loud and obnoxious and lousy, as if they had nothing to fear.



It was always like this when the bat was busy somewhere, the rats would get out and party as if to convince themselves that they ruled this city and no amount of beatings from a freak in costume would change it.



"Good, now get rid of our communist friend over here, I have places to be."



"Screw you."



He started thinking about his life, what little he'd accomplished so far, his non-existent legacy. The outcome was most displeasing, shit all nothing.



He barely lived, all those years were spent trying to survive.



There were no goals guiding his actions, no higher purpose.



And now it was ending, in some nasty alley, killed by some random mooks for the crime of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.



He could only close his eyes and wait for death. He was sure what to didn't know what to expect, but he was pretty sure that a wall of red text wasn't part of the equation.



[Warning: Host dying before scheduled time.]



[Brute force awakening?]



'What the heck?"



He was tempted to just gawk at it for a while, wondering whether he was hallucinating or if hell was a computer science course. However, he was dying, and if the magical text wall of death could help out then he was all for it.



'Yes.' He thought, and regretted immediately.



[Integration started, brace yourself.]



The mother of all headaches befell his poor self, a pain so strong his actual wound was all but forgotten. Then came the memories, memories that were decidedly not his...and yet so familiar, natural.



A whole other lifetime, in another decidedly more boring world. One without masks and capes, where flying super powered aliens and caped crusaders where nothing but fantasy.



A world where Gotham and Metropolis did not exist, beyond the realm of entertainment.



A world where everyone knew thrill-seeking billionaire Bruce Wayne moonlighted as the Batman, Clark Kent was Superman and where an apocalyptic event happened every other day ever since the Justice League became a thing.



'Crap.'



In the span of a few seconds, John had lived and died, the shock was great and the pain extreme. But now he knew.



He knew it was worth it.



He knew the past, the secrets of this world.



He knew the curse he received as a boon, his path to survival.



He was still John Harker, that literal son of a bitch from Crime Alley, but he was more, so much more.



[Memory Transfer Complete, you will now receive the Dark Gift.]



The wall of text appeared for what he now knew to be the final time, his past victories where not nearly enough to warrant a system.



He braced myself, call it a hunch, but something told that there was no way in hell changing his whole nature would be a painless process.



He was wrong.



It was so much worse.



No amount of pain could compare to the cold, the awful cold. He could feel it in his veins, deep in his bones, in his very soul, twisting and corrupting.



Doing away with his humanity, his feelings and emotions numbed or roused to suit darker purposes. Old desires fading to make way for new alien appetites, vicious instincts.



His eyes burned, and soon seeing in the dark became natural.



His heart stopped beating, his blood stopped flowing, it didn't need to.



And so did his body go pale, stone cold, like a corpse or an uncanny sculpted statue. He could go completely still if he so wished, even his breathing was mere habit and served no real purpose.



Yet he felt strong, stronger than ever.



The bullet wound in his chest was healing already, knitting itself back to normal in a display that would make any normal person vomit or faint in horror.



But he didn't, his body was no longer capable of such reaction. No, he just watched in fascination, enraptured by the sight of the bullet being pushed out of his body.



It was inhuman, He was inhuman.



[Vampire System Activated.]





A small part of him mourned that which was lost, another was excited by the power that would soon be his to wield, but both were meaningless in front of the sheer ravenous hunger he was feeling.



[Warning: Blood reserves dangerously low, Frenzy imminent!]



'What the hell?' Was his immediate reaction to his stomach actively trying to cripple him, he could barely think straight, 'I..need….'



And it all went dark.





. . .



Keith Gunman was having a very good day.



He had 3 grams of the purest coke money could buy in his pocket, two escorts waiting in his hotel room and he got to put a bullet in that stupid vodka-drinking dumbass.



Working for Rupert Thorn was awesome!



Sure, there were a good dozen levels of insulation between him and the big boss, and he was only ever sent to whack people when the less important outsiders wanted them gone, but the ladies didn't need to know that, do they?



He whistled a nice tune while throwing his Soviet friend in a nearby dumpster, he was making Uncle Sam proud.



*Crack*



He dropped the Brosky and reached for his gun, turning around to find the terrifying sight of...nothing.



There was nothing.



The dead kid wasn't there.



Just a puddle of blood.



"Damn," He said, trying to stop himself from shivering, criminals were a superstitious bunch, and he was no different,"We shot a damn spook, Joe will never believe me…"



"No, he won't."



"What?!" Keith screamed, frantically looking around.



This wasn't good, he had to get out of there.



The one lampost lighting the street flickered, and he saw it, a pair of bright red eyes in the dark, stalking him.



"Don't—Don't come close!" He meant to command it, as he always did, he had a gun, he was a gangster, he was part of one of Gotham's greatest criminal organizations, he was powerful damnnit and some ghost wasn't going to scare him!



*Bang* *Bang* *Bang*



Keith closed his eyes and emptied his gun, when he opened them up, that thing was gone.





And a clawed hand ripped his throat open, blood flowing like a fountain.



He watched in horror as the kid they killed—no, the monster he failed to put down, he watched as it feasted on his blood, on his life.



With his final thoughts, he cursed this beast, he cursed that old bastard Joe for accepting the hit then leaving him here, and he cursed himself for not minding his own business.



'Thorne said no witnesses, what a joke...I've never seen the man!'



Keith Gunman died in some nasty back alley, all because somebody was having a bad day.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- 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 bother with getting rid of the body either, he just threw it in the dumpster 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, checking it 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 asbestos contamination.



The only decorations were the suspicious 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 bed sheet 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 disappear, 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 mesmerize 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 panel, 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 capabilities.]



'Can I use it in the bedroom?' Was his first question.



[Task Completed!]



[Reward: +1 Exp.]



And just like this, the red screen disappeared 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."

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Batman -



Vampire Rule N°2: Don't drink the blood of junkies.

. . . . . . . . . .



"See ya later Johnny Boy!"



And just like that, John was alone in the city with ten dollars in his pocket and a mind full of borderline insane plans.



The night was young, and he had much to do.



With barely a third of his blood reserves filled, he couldn't risk testing the limits of his capacity, not to mention the lack of living relatives for him to slaughter.



But he couldn't go on a hunt either, lest he feeds on inferior blood, and his instincts told him that it was a very bad idea.



He didn't want to catch the vampire equivalent of an STD.



Truth be told, what he needed right now was money.



Money to secure a roof over his head.



He ought to get himself some supplies to protect his home from the sunlight, sleeping in the bathtub because the windows couldn't close properly wasn't sustainable.



He also needed clothes, everything he owned was dirty, oversized rags that literally smelled like poverty.



Keeping that Crackhouse Resident title wasn't good for business.



You can look as good as you want, but dressed like the lowliest of hood rats, he wouldn't even be able to attract some wicked cougar looking to take advantage of him.



Then he would need weapons, knives or at least a good baseball bat, he couldn't exactly reveal his claws and fangs each time he got into a fight, now could he?



Guns might be a bit too ambitious for the moment, not to mention his lack of experience with anything but those small revolvers for self-defence, and he never even used it.



Anything else could wait until he got his affairs sorted out.



As for his hunger, if push comes to shove he'll just sneak into someone's house and bite them while they sleep.



'Let's hope it doesn't come to that,' He thought, not particularly thrilled by the prospect of sinking his teeths into a stranger's neck, but that was the cost of being a vampire.



At least he didn't buzz around like a mosquito when he feeds.



John sighed, before focusing his senses to check for a possible tail, finding none.



Call him paranoid, but he wasn't about to act recklessly when he was still literally a newborn.



His eyes burned red, enhancing his already clear vision and turning him into a radar for blood, his ears picked up on people's heartbeats, discussions in the apartment nearby, the homeless woman squirming in a vacant house.



It was thrilling, until the culmination of his sharp senses resulted in him knowing that an obese man was jerking off to catgirls somewhere in the scrapyard.



'Yuck.' Was his thought on the matter.



Somewhere, a blue haired lady of easy virtue and loud disposition likely imploded in a rant about kink shaming.



John followed his instincts, crouched low, feeling the tension build up in his legs before releasing it in an inhumanly high jump.



He couldn't help but smile widely, it was utterly amazing.



'And that's without Bloodbuff.'



The young man felt light as a feather, in control despite being a whopping thirty feet above the ground.



Said control promptly vanished when he started falling into a nearby low-rise building, barely holding onto the edge and almost smashing somebody's window in the process.



'Alright, I'll have to work on this.' He thought, easily pushing himself up to the roof.



He started running, his attention divided between making sure he wasn't being observed, trying to not break the roof on accident and avoiding another potential crash.



*whoosh*



His second attempt was more successful, and so was the third one, and the fourth...



Moving like this was becoming easier and easier, and soon he was able to pick more speed, avoid the obstacles more easily, keep tabs on his surroundings without losing his focus.



He could still improve, mastering his basic abilities was very much a work in progress, one that would take him weeks if not months to finish.



Only then could consider developing new ones.



'Being a human mosquito is awesome.'



. . . . . .



"Yo, get your ass in the stash boy, we need a refill!" A young, fat teenager yelled at his wiry counterpart after yet another sale.



His street name was ironically Little Kevin, one of the many soldiers looking to make his fortune in the corners, one dopefiend at a time.



He's been in the game since he was a younger, more naive fatso, started as a lookout, working for clout in the kindergarten then graduated to hopper working day and night in the corners making that bread.



It's been years, years of paying up the lion's share of the package, only making minimum wage despite months spent in the boy's village and more than a couple 'rough rides' with those nice folks in the Gotham PD.



His ribs still hurt from that one time...



But that was then, and now was now.



He's been promoted, made a real soldier for his trouble, and he makes points on the package.



He gets a percentage, if you're a school boy.



"How much did we make?" He unwrapped a lollipop and asked his money guy, a youngster wearing an oversized Tom and Jerry hoody.



Kevin wasn't dumb, the older guys schooled him right and he listened well.



They told him to always separate the dope guy from the money guy, and never to touch the drugs himself.



"Maaaan, we're heavy as f*ck!" The kid removed a huge stack of bills and smelled them like it was his hot teacher's panties.



"How much?" Kevin spat on the ground, before tasting the sweets, he didn't have time for this dumbass bullshit.



"F-five hundred, maybe six?" He stammered, he thought he was sneaky counting the bills again.



"Five or six? Make up your fu*king mind….shit, I'm getting hungry, go stash it with Duke while Mikey's refilling. Amma get us some Chinese food."



Lil' Kevin glared at each one of the socially promoted retards that made up his crew as a warning not to muck up while he's off. He only had five boys to work with, two children working as lookout on a school night, one middle school kids slinging for him, one bank and one guy holding the stash.



His boss would send someone to get the money and deliver a new package every week, the time it takes them to run a couple G-pack in this corner, it wasn't prime real estate but still pretty fucking good.



Good enough to need a big fella with a big gun off the streets to protect the dope and money.



The three stooges went into of the many vacant houses nearby and knocked three time on the large wooden plank they used to cover the door before opening.



The guy inside had orders to shoot first and ask later, so they needed a way to recognize each others.



It wasn't necessary though, the man with the gun had been busy polishing his other weapon while holding a roughed up issue of the Gotham Playboys Magazine and barely managed to make himself look right when they got in.



He was slouching on scavenged torn up sofa right next to the flash light they used to light up the room.



Any other night, they would've laughed their asses off before threatening to tell Kevin about it unless the horny shithead paid their mouths shut, but tonight was different.



"Man! You're gonna get—Yooo you heard that?" The Tom & Jerry guy, Dennis, said, his smile fading instantly. "Don't tell me you bought a girl Duke, or I'm seriously gonna bury your ass!"



"Fuck you." Duke flipped him off, though he didn't look that threatening with his pants half-on , "Must've been a rat."



He still picked up his gun, just in case.

Criminals are a superstitious bunch, after all.



But in this case, they were right.



*Crack*



A black blue broke through the make-shift door and collided with a helpless Mikey, slamming him face first at the wall.



"THE HELL IS THAT!?" Duke screamed, raising his gun just in time to see the business end of some disgusting sneakers two inches away from his face.



*Crunch*



Dennis felt numb, his gaze locked in the ground.



In less than three seconds, his entire world was flipped upside down.



Mikey was french kissing the wall.



Duke was knocked out cold, his face a broken mess.



And he was alone with this...this thing, his only weapon a flip knife he didn't dare bring out, that would just be suicide.



Maybe if he begged, it would let him go?



He mustered enough courage to raise his eyes, and then wish he hadn't.



For an instant, the light blinded him, but what came next was much worse.



It stood there, freakishly tall, it's foot soaked in his crewmate's blood was stepping on the one flashlight lighting the room, keeping firmly pointed at him.



That thing was covered in the shadows, and the only thing he could see was a pair of burning red eyes peering into his soul and finding it lacking.



He felt his stomach turning, and his pants felt all warm and tight, then blacked out.



Dennis woke up to someone screaming and slapping him, he opened his eyes to see a furious looking Lil' Kevin towering over him holding a bag full of Chinese food.



His Tom & Jerry hoody was mess of blood and what smelled like urine, Duke and Mikey were groaning loudly on the ground, clearly needing medical help, and there was a hole in the wall where they kept the dope and money.



They'd lost nearly a grand worth of dope and twice as much cash.



"What in the flying fuck happened here!?" His boss shouted, spittle flying everywhere, his fist clenching so tight his fat ass started sweating.



To that, Dennis could only say one word.



"Batman."

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Midnight Snack -

. . .




Vampire Rule N°3: Would you like it if someone fu**ed your sandwich? No? That's why virgin blood is superior.



. . . . . . . . . . .





"Thank you for your purchase…" A monotonous voice told John as he left the store, the miserable looking clerk with huge bags under his eyes then returned to his book.



John didn't bother answering, instead leaving the store with two hundred dollars worth of wooden boards, trash bags, bleach, deodorant, nails, plain white sheets and various tools.



Transporting the whole thing without vehicle was a hastle, and it did make him look like a nutjob, but this was Gotham and nobody gave a shit when it wasn't their turn to give a shit.



'I need to get myself some proper clothes next,' John thought, completely unbothered by the various people sizing him up to see if he was a good mark, 'I'll do that after I get my appartment situation sorted out.'



It took him a thrity minutes walk and bus ride to get back home, and two different people tried to rob him along the way.



Then again, he did live in Brideshead, and that was as East End as it could get.



He stopped breathing while going up the stairs, now knowing better than to to suffer the stench, opened his door and was welcomed by the sight of his very own crackhouse.

And with the spoils he got from his little visit in that corner boy's stash, he even had the heroine.



A thousand dollars worth of dope, sitting right there in his bathroom, and he had absolutely no use for it.



Selling it was beneath him, giving it away was stupid, throwing it in the sewers? Killer Croc might get high and come back for more, but it was also a huge waste.



A small, insidious voice in his head told him to just work the package, he would surely come across many more g-packs and he wasn't exactly in a position to refuse a thousand bucks.



But he crushed it swiftly, spreading this filth around would just create more dopefiends, kill other users and create a whole bunch of orphans who will surely become the next generation of gangbangers and drug addicts.



This kind of bullshit would just lower the overall blood quality.



And that was something he couldn't accept.



'At least I got the two grands and a gun' He smiled, genuinly pleased with himself, 'That's more than this body could hustle in four months of work.'



Playing stick-up boy wasn't sustainable, and for people who can't take a couple bullets in the chest and shrug it off, not very safe either.



But he didn't need to do it for long, and he could eat a few shots if need be, so he wasn't too worried at the moment.



Dropping his supplies, John got to work turning his filthy crackhouse into a less disgusting crackhome.



He used some disinfecting wipes to clean his hands and nails, until now stained with blood and grim. He wouldn't catch an illness, but it was no reason to let himself go.



Not to mention how rude it would be to make someone sick after eating them.



With his hand no longer making Grandpa Nurgle proud, he put on a pair of gloves.



Then another pair of gloves, just to be sure.



Only then did he open up the first trash bag, start scooping up some of the trash and ignored how utterly disgusting it was, if old John didn't get shot then he would've died of some medieval sickness.



One bag turned into two then three and four, and the slowly the piles of cardboard, plastic, aluminium cans, stained papers and other trash started disappearing.



One hour, two packs of trash bags and a whole bottle of detergent later, John's house was now clean enough to be a pigsty.



Hurray!



'A couple more days of intense cleaning, and it might just become fit for human presence.' He thought, sitting on mattress and wishing he could reward himself with some food.



It was at this moment of light celebration that a new york sized rat choose to take a stroll right in front of John.



'Maybe more than a couple days, all things considered.'



It was almost 4 AM, and he would rather be ready to sleep by then, so he decided to make haste and finish his work for the night.



Grabbing the plain sheets and the nails along with a hammer, he started turning them into makeshift curtains.



He then boarded them up with every single plank he got, before covering it up with two more layers of white sheets as an added precaution.



Call him paranoid, but he would rather not get burned alive because he was too lazy to make sure the sun couldn't pass through.



He finished his work by using his last three new sheets to improve his bedding situation.



Laying out the first one under his plastic-wrap covered mattress as a carpet of sorts, wrapping the second one around the mattress itself and finally using the last one as a protective cocoon.



The one his previous body owned was used normally, covering him head to toe as a final measure.



It wasn't the kind of things he pictured when he thought about life as a vampire, but now that he got there, it became an obvious necessity.



And another burden.



Once he's wealthier, he could start considering a safer and more glamorous way of protecting himself without looking like a complete freak show.



But even then, he would need many safe houses around the city, or the country even, and they were more likely to look like this than some luxury mansion.



That was the distant future though, and his present was here and it demanded his full attention.



Minutes passed, and he felt himself growing more and more sleepy, more tired.



He tried to resist the torpor as much as possible to make future plans easier.



John knew he could force himself out of day sleep if push comes to shove, but it would require so much blood that his current reserves would be emptied three times over.



Then again, pretty much everything was possible if he had enough blood to waste.



By 4h in the morning, his mind and body were a sluggish mess.



At 4h30, he could barely move.



[Hidden Task Complete!]



[Safe Haven N°1]



[Objective: Create a relatively safe haven with reduced chances of burning alive during the day.]



[Reward: 1 Exp Point]



'Nice!'



He blacked out a few minutes after.



.



.



.

The next night, John woke up to a feeling of growing hunger.



[Blood Points: 25/100]



He needed to feed soon unless he wanted to risk another frenzy, and who knows what he could do without a proper target right next to him?



While going about his business the night before, he made sure to scout out a few good spots where he could get a nice meal, so to speak.



Nothing too fancy, a good enough nightclub here, a fancy bar there, a 24h gym and one of the many, many community colleges open in Gotham.



'The problem is, I look like a crackhead.' He glanced at his clothes, old, ratty and covered in dubious stains.



That meant he had to do another investment.



After making sure his stuff was properly hidden, he stopped breathing and left his fairly disgusting house for a horrifyingly gross stairway.



He really needed to find a better place.



. . .



'Getting new clothes in this economy might've been a bad idea,' A troubled John left the clothing shop with naught but a few bags and a much lighter wallet.



The young lady who made the sale though, seemed very happy.



How on earth could a couple outfits cost him a thousand bucks?!



All he got was some casual wear for night to night life in the city, some warmer clothes and winter coat with the added benefit of further concealing his figure, some sportwear to avoid tearing his pants while taking advantage of that enhanced agility and a few smart casual pieces to build a decent image in the eyes of the people he plans on eating.



...Alright, it might be quite a lot of clothes.



And he did buy more than he first intended…



He also might have accidentally avoided the cheaper stores and ended up on higher end boutique instead…



'Still, a thousand dollars is just robbery.'



He purposefully ignored how he made double that amount through actual robbery.



At least, he could go on a proper hunt after dropping his bags in the crackhouse, it would be his very first hunt.



'I hope I won't end up biting some coked up slut.' He thought, and that was a genuine worry he had.



Such were complications of a vampire's life, wondering wether or not your next got fucked within the last couple days, something you can really only figure out after taking a bite.



[New Task Available: The Limits of Your Palate].



[Objectif: As a vampire, only the blood of the living can sustain your unlife. Most of the regular food turns to ash within your mouth, others will disgust you on a fundamental level. But there are some meals you can tolerate, or even enjoy to some extent! Finding out will allow you to avoid suspicion by publicly eating, concealing your true nature.]



[Reward: 1 Exp Point.]



'…' John started at the red mission text, before wordlessly dismissing it.



He however changed his plans to dropping off the bags, checking out that decent-looking diner in Grand Avenue, potentially vomiting his weasley black guts out, then going to some seedy nightclub to torture his enhanced hearing and sink his teeth on some hoe.



Then maybe vomiting a second time, for vastly different reasons.



Nobody said being a vampire was easy.



He walked into a poorly lit alley, hearing the distant bangs of gunshots two streets down, knowing the cops won't bother sending someone and the citizens wouldn't bother reporting it either.

In an instant he disappeared, unbeknownst to the people shopping and scamming and touting in the dead of night.



No one noticed him going from roof to roof, his body moving at speeds mere human could only imagine.



No one cared when he emerged from another dark corner, and only the would be thieves cared enough to look at him and his large shopping bags, but he was too big and too unsettling for them to try their luck.



He wasn't complaining though.



Again he went up those darn stairs, passing by another tenant and girlfriend who tensed as they met, fearing the worst.



John paid them no mind, content to go back home and putting his bags near his bed. He stripped down, pausing for a moment to admire his compact, rock hard muscles, the many scars he collected in this lifetime all but gone, leaving him with smooth pale skin.



He put on a clean black t-shirt with a matching leather jacket, a pair of jeans and Chelsea boots.



Well-dressed enough to stand out from the local crackheads and small-time thugs, but not enough to attract needless attention.



He looked like he could rock a nice suit, but dressing like that in these parts was just asking to be robbed.



Satisfied with his looks, he checked his status hoping to lose that rather offensive title, alas it was still there.



[Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.]

The stench of the hood was still on him, and losing it would take more than a new wardrobe.



Figuratively speaking, of course, he doesn't have a wardrobe.



John emptied his pockets, counting the dirty twenties and tens until he got roughly eleven hundred dollars, he put a grand safely in his jacket's inner pocket, and left the rest in his jeans.



He was ready to go.



Taking a walk now that he no longer looked utterly miserable was a rather pleasant experience, but he still didn't fancy lingering in Brideshead more than necessary.



He passed by several drug corners operated by different crews of different sizes, each of them vying from prime real estate and shouting about their product.



"Spider Bags! Spider Bags!"



"Red Tops! It'll make you sparkle! Get some Red Tops!"



"Death Row! Death Row right here!"



He saw kids as young as ten working in the corners as lookouts and touts, getting schooled by their elders.



Some groups were more sophisticated than others, some had better product, others just held so much territory it didn't even matter what kind of weak dope they throw at the fiends.



Addicts will buy it anyway.



Nowhere did he see a shadow of the Cosa Nostra, the supposed kings of the east side, not a word of italian was spoken in the corners, just regular poor English.



No, it was just people from the East Side cannibalizing themselves to get that bag.



Once he got past Brideshead, he started seeing a few police cars patrolling every once in a while, though the slingers were still out there selling their product.



If the cops stopped, the corner boys run.



If they don't, business continues as usual.



The boys in blue were so ineffective it was almost comical, at this point all they could do was arrest people for possession or rough up people they know they can't jail for long.



They were out in the streets fighting the war on drugs, making an innocent man strip down in the cold pavement, punching children and showing them that the authorities were no better than they were.



Stealing drugs and money and jewelry and whatever the heck they could get away with, like stickup boys with a fancy badge and legally obtained boomstick.



Meanwhile, the real gangsters won't ever be caught touching a package or working a street like a bunch of ignorant peasents, and the big shots bringing the dope and coke inside the city were probably out there having a party with the politicians and other wealthy weasels funding the police department.



As for the bat, what he could do? Beat up a fourteen years old living in one room with his siblings and addict mother? The man is too kind for this.



As John blized through the roofs, the streets started getting brighter and brighter, cleaner too.



The towers and rowhouses and urban nightmares that made up the mess of low-income housing projects, the vacant buildings turned warehouses and havens for dealers and addicts alike, the misery and grim and depression of the East Side.

It started fading.



There were more and more civilians going about their business, honest tax-payers trying to survive and stay away from the hell a few miles away from them.



Things started becoming more working class, there were proper cars and shops and people actually looked rather normal and not props in some rapper's song, policemen were out there making folks feel relatively safer; it was still Gotham though, and the cop is not much better than the crook.



Still, it was an improvement.



'Not for me though,' John thought, realizing that staying in the shadows in such a place wouldn't hide him all that well if he didn't know how to sneak around properly.



He jumped down from the roof, one hand sliding across the wall keeping his fall nice and slow, less loud when he reached the ground.



The vampire blended in with the humans, only getting a few second looks, whether it was because of his good looks or the aura of the hood making people uneasy was still unknown.



...Just kidding, he knew he looked that good.



There wasn't exactly a crowd outside, most people in these neighbourhoods were at home getting a good night's sleep before a hard day in the docks and factories and other honest jobs that payed too little for too much efforts.



But they were less careful than East Side folks.



It felt warmer, more humane.



People walking side by side on the side-walk, parents holding their child's hand, young people laughing and joking without keeping an eye out for their opps, or the likely possibility of starting a fight with you because they outnumbered you and felt like you looked at them wrong.



It was cathartic, and made his desire to move out even greater.



He even managed to take a cab! And the driver didn't look like Ted Bundy's uglier cousin!



"Where you going?" The middle aged man asked when he got in.



"Grand Avenue."



"Sure thing, we'll get there in a few if the traffic's good."



The cab driver wasn't much of a talker, so John was left free to lean against window and just the people and the streets, seeing what Gotham was like for normal people.

And sure, there were a couple gunshots here and there, and he did see a few shoplifters and muggers working their hustle, along with ladies of night with few clothes and too much make-up.



But compared to Brideshead? This was a paradise.



The ride felt much too quick for his taste, but he still paid and tipped the good man.



He took a stroll for a couple minutes, and only then did he reach his destination.



In front of him was a sixities diner with two large neon-lit words standing above the entrance.



"Pauli's Diner."



But to him, the name and the signifance wasn't the most interesting part.



"Oh, what do we have here?" He couldn't help but chuckle.



He saw the waitress through the glass, leaning against the counter and reading something, she was a pretty thing, black haired and bright eyed with just the right proportions.



A nice meal.



He could almost forgive the kill-me yellow low-cut uniform with the diner's logo on it, though it did nothing to conceal her rather sizeable bust.



More importantly though, he recognised her.



At this point, John already knew he found his meal for the night.



..........

Yo!

I'm the author, the one and only Hamtaro of the Mighty Cheeks.

Give me some likes, write a review, or face my wrath.

You have been warned.

(This story is currently at chapter 44 in other platforms, just google Vampire in DC Hamtaro and you'll get it, I will try to bring all the chapters here as soon as possible.)

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Thanks for the Meal Part 1 -

. . .


Vampire Rule N°4: Unlife isn't some cheesy movie for Tweens, don't expect people to fall head over heels because you're pale and look somewhat constipated.

. . . . . . . . . .



Max Black was safely nestled behind the counter and nursing a much-deserved cup of coffee, she really hated working nights in the diner, but the month was ending and her wallet was empty, and being a nighttime waitress paid better than just counting on the tips of other struggling clients.



At least it's quiet most of the time, people come by to get a snack and hardly ever decide to eat it there.



However, this wasn't most days.



She held back a sigh, and squinted her eyes to have a better look at the stranger sitting at one of the table booths, his back facing her.



'Nice back,' a voice in her mind purred, and she would agree if it didn't sound like her drunken slut of a mother.



No, she wasn't a mother, she didn't deserve that title.



Mothers were supposed to look after their children, protect them from the angry, hurtful world out there. Not snort line after line of coke while two men with real ugly faces joked about the kind of fun three people could have together.



Nope, that woman was just the body she came out off.



'Bad thoughts,' She chided, and decided to punish/reward herself with a nice bottle of whiskey...before remembering how broke she was.



Maybe hot stuff would leave a nice tip?



He better, with the kind of stuff he bought, all sorts of pies, drinks and a nice serving of coffee, that's at least sixty dollar sitting on his table.



That's double what she makes in a full day's work, all ten hours of dealing with ungrateful grouches, troublesome idiots, hipsters and the occasional pervert.



And he was just blazing it as if he didn't care.



She was so busy drilling a hole behind his back that she barely noticed him turning his head to call her out.



Max froze in place for a moment, believing she just got caught checking him out, and prepared herself for the onslaught of attempts to get in her pants.



'At least, the tips are gonna be good.' She tried to see the bright side, 'and he does look yummy.'



That much was true.



With his high cheekbones, bright blue eyes, red lips so pretty she couldn't help but wonder what they tasted like. Don't get her started on his insanely soft-looking, shoulder length black hair...would it be creepy if she asked what kind of conditioner he uses?



Yeah, he looked good.



"Excuse me, could I have more coffee?" He called her, looking more amused than anything else.



"Sure," Was her answer, gliding to refill his cup and taking a good look at his table in the process.



His very full tables, filled with all kinds of food Han wouldn't let her touch without paying full price despite her working there for months.



Most of them were left untouched, he barely finished the chocolate and cherry cakes.



Those delicious chocolate and cherry cakes…



Her eyes were glued to it, now that they truly experienced what yummy was, and she rememberd that she ate nothing but a pack of gum and a few cups of coffee.



"I think I might've ordered a bit too much, would you like to have some?" He asked, and in that instant she might've kissed him if he wasn't potentially a psychopath looking to make some new age sculptures with her guts.



This was Gotham City.



Even if he wasn't a psycho killer, she had a boyfriend.



Cheating at 20 years old wasn't a good look, even if it was an improvement compared to the woman who raised her.



However, free food was free food.



"Dis is delicious," She mumbled, finishing a slice of pie in five bites without using her hands, a personal record.



"Glad you're enjoying it," The food dispenser said, looking at her cleaning his table in ways most waitresses never would, talk about going above and beyond for the client.



'Client is king, even if he's an idiot throwing away good food.' She thought, almost moaning when the chocolate melted in her mouth, now this was the life!



'Yeah, he's definitely a psycho,' She thought, he was sitting there chewing his food with a grimace as if it was cardboard.



Sure, Oleg was most certainly not a good chef, but he couldn't mess up a strawberry cheese cake that badly.



"Not good enough for you tastes?" She asked, not intending to be that harsh since he did share his food with her, despite being a reckless spender and snob jackass.



"I'm sorry?" And there he went, apologizing to make her feel bad, boy was playing around with forces beyond him, "It's quite good, just can't find the appetite."



"Why you some kind of diet-crazy model?" She pressed, half-curious and half-eager to poke the rich kid a bit, "Why'd you spend sixty bucks on shitty diner if you're just gonna throw it away?"



With the way she talked to him earlier, her tip was already gone, so why bother playing nice at this point?



Being rude wasn't as nice as money, but it had its own charm.



Him frowning and giving her a 'How is that any your f*cking business, b*tch?' before giving her an opening to throw a few jabs at his ego was the outcome she expected, it's the one she'd gotten many, many time before and likely the reason she didn't make nearly as much money as she should've on tips.



Alas, hot stuff over there was dead-set on subverting her expectations.



No, there was no shouting or cussing and no opportunity to tell him that his dick was smaller than he'd like it to be, which was always true.



Instead, that gorgeous prick had the audacity to laugh.



Her back started tingling, and she felt her stomach drop, as if she did something extremely stupid.



"I wish I was, things would be much easier that way," He kept grinning even as she gave him her best glare, "Nah, the truth is that I couldn't afford a meal these last few days, so I thought it'd treat myself now that I'm doing better…"



"Oh," was all she could say.



She didn't think he was lying, telling her he's broke as hell wasn't all that smart if he wanted to get laid, and he didn't seem the type of guy who needs to aim for a pity-f*ck.



Max didn't feel bad for him, she was buried in way too much shit to afford that kind of nonsense, she wasn't that kind of girl anyway...but she didn't feel all that good about herself for some reason.



'Must be the food, Oleg probably spat in the dough for shit and giggles.'



If she didn't feel like looking at him right now, it was for a completely unrelated reason.



But despite her best efforts, an insidious voice kept whispering in her head, a voice that sounded like an elderly african american man for some reason.



'You done messed up girl,' It said, 'Fix your mess while I go get some milk.'



It defitely wasn't coming back with the milk.



"It's still stupid though," She said more petulantly than she intended, her gaze locked firmly on what was left of her cake...



If someone talked to her like that, she'd probably punch them in the nuts, and here she was dishing it out to a stranger who invited her to share his meal.



She really was her mother's daughter.



"Hm, maybe, but at least it gave me an excuse." He said, and she raised her eyes only to regret immediately.



He had no business looking that good, it should be illegal.



"An excuse to do what?" She asked, staring at his eyes way too long to be able to play it off, so she just owned it and continued ogling.



"To get a dinner date with you." He said it as if he was talking about the weather, taking a sip of his coffee.



"It's not a date." Max said, ignoring how corny he sounded, and how good it felt to hear it for some reason.

"Really? It sure does look like one."



She took a second to think about it.



A man and a woman eating and talking alone in a restaurant, albeit a rotten one.



It did look like a date.



"It isn't one though."



He looked at her with an expression universally recognized as 'Nigga please'.



"It is not a date." She insisted.



"Sure~" He said, rolling his eyes, "Then what is it?"



"I'm helping you finish your food."



"And I'm letting you ogle me, that's just part of our dinner date." He waved his hand to dismiss her words.



There was no denying her ogling, so she just ignored that part and hoped real hard that he'd let it go.



"It's two in the morning, we are not having a dinner date."



"Breakfast date then? Darn, our relationship is moving fast, can't say I dislike it though." He whistled, a small smile on his face, "What's your name by the way?"



She hated to admit defeat, but there was no way she was winning this battle, not without bringing the big guns.



"I have a boyfriend," Max said, dropping the B-bomb, and waited for the fallout.



Either he gives up, or he says he doesn't care and makes an arse of himself.



'Checkmate, b*tch.'



"Hi, 'I have a boyfriend', I'm John." He continued smiling.



Or he makes a dad joke.



Yes, this John guy was dead set on subverting her expectations.



And the worst part was that she was actually having fun.



Too much fun maybe.



Max could've flipped him off and left at any point if she truly wanted to, but she stayed put and enjoyed the banter.



At some point, she probably went a bit too far.



Maybe it was when she started laughing with him instead of at him.



Or when she let herself feel something when he started matching her humor, tentatively at first when he was not yet certain of how far she'd go, then following her into the sweet depths of political incorrectness and jokes so dark even the French football team wouldn't take them.



Maybe it was the moment she realized they were sharing one booth, their elbows touching every so often, then just kept enjoying the moment.



The looks they shared might've clued her in, but it all felt so natural, so innocent, as if they were just children sharing secrets and not two adults making dirty jokes.



But if she was honest with herself, something she tried to do as little as possible to avoid having to actually deal with her problems instead of shoving them into a corner of her mind then making jokes about them.



If she did choose to be honest, then she'd know it was too late the moment she joked about her childhood but got neither laughs nor pity.



He held her hand so gently it felt warm, despite how cold his skin really was.



"Your mother's a b*tch." He said, and that was as romantic as it could get in her books.



Yes, she might do something wrong, but she was ready to deal with the consequences.



"Ow, what the heck are you made of, dude?" She asked, rubbing her knuckles after they collided with his ribs.



"Why did you punch me?" He asked with a mock-frown and the pleased smile of a man who felt manly.



"You said my mother's a wrinkled ugly b*tch."



"You might've added a few things, but it's true."


"Yeah, but you don't get to say it." She explained, "And my hand still hurts, you should be more considerate."



"Want me to kiss it better?" He asked with a charming smile, and at that moment she felt like she was having a breakfast date with some sort of devious monster.



And she wouldn't have it any other way.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Thanks for the Meal Part 2 -

. . .

Vampire Rule N°5: You are not immune to STDs, so beware of whose neck you're biting.

. . . . . . . . . .



When Max Black clocked in this evening for night-shift in this crappy diner, she expected many things, including but not limited to serving a bunch of starving hookers, chasing off hobos and losing her mind out of sheer boredom and fatigue.



What she certainly did not expect however, was for an insanely hot, utterly annoying, overly patient stranger to just barge in and decide they were having a date.



Even then, what were the odds that it would actually be enjoyable?



Worse still, she had a boyfriend.



Her first boyfriend that didn't try to rape her after giving her one drink too many, or ended sleeping with her mother because she didn't put out, or tried to take her virginity in her high school's toilets.



No, this was actually a decent guy.



Never got in a fight, never said anything bad, and he sure as hell wasn't going to cheat on her.



He went to college, majored in arts, he was part of a band! They still hadn't taken off, but those things don't just happen overnight, it took time and she knew he had the potential to go big if he put his mind to it.



Even if it didn't happen, she'd stand by him, they would find a way to make things work together.



He was such a nice guy, after all.



So why was she being held by another man?



A man she knew nothing about, and yet her head was pressed on the crook of his neck, his cold but soothing palms caressing her hair and that charming voice whispering things she couldn't understand yet craved desperately.



The booth wasn't meant to hold two people in such a way, but her kept her comfortable on his lap all the same.



She kept wondering how it came to that, but he kissed her neck once more and she felt herself melt against him, her toes curled and a moan escaped her mouth.



"More…"



It might be a mistake, but she was too far gone to care about it.



His lips left her skin, but she continues to ride the pleasure, shuddering when his tongue licked neck playfully.



The pleasure faded, leaving her sleepy but content, she could feel herself go despite her will but she still had enough eneregy to make on more request.



"Don't leave me, please."



. . .



"I might've overdone it…" John mumbled, tucking a strand of his new friend behind her ear.



Was it right to call her a friend after bringing her such pleasure? After feasting on her four times in a row, carefully repressing that primal desire to drink her blood till all that is left of her is an empty husk?



After seducing her so mercilessly? Despite her fruitless attempts to avoid such an outcome.



It probably wasn't, but when he looked at her flushed face and the peaceful smile on her face while she tried to merge her body into his, there was no regret in his heart.



[Task Completed: The Limits of Your Palate]



[Reward: 1 Experience Point.]



'Nice,'



He was one step closer to reaching a new level of power, his attention was quickly shifted to something more unexpected yet rather obvious now that he thought about it.



[Hidden Task Completed: First Hunt]



[Objective: Embrace your new nature and sink your fangs onto mortal flesh for the first time without falling into frenzy.]



[Reward: 2 Exp, Ability: Blush of Life.]



In instant, the red texted shifted to display his abilities.



[Abilities:

[Vampiric Physiology]



[Bloodbuff]



[New: Blush of Life]



[Spend 5 Blood Points per hour to maintain a simulacrum of life, restoring most bodily functions and allowing you to maintain the masquerade more easily.]



Did he just rewarded with the ability to pop a boner?



Well, he wasn't complaining.



When he dismissed that last panel, he expected the onslaught of notifications to end, but he was pleasantly surprised with yet another unexpected reward.



[A successful hunt on your chosen prey might avail you an increase in power, the obtention or further growth of an ability or a debuff if the blood is of poor quality.



For greater spoils, target those with extensive power, skills and importance in addition to their health and your own chosen preferences.



Going against it might result in a decrease in Experience, level or the loss of an ability in some cases.]



[Successful Embrace: Max Black]



[Blood quality: C (virgin, healthy, willing.)]



[You have unlocked the ability: Presence, 5 Experience Points]



[Ability: Presence Lvl 1 (Exp: 0/50)



Through blood, influence.



Presence is the ability of supernatural allure and emotional manipulation to attract, sway and control crowds or individuals.



Consume blood to give a feeling or impression to those around you, ranging from awe to fear to admiration or even safety. Using it allows you to easily become the center of attention at a price.



Higher levels allows you to induce stronger feelings, effectively influence stronger minded individuals and increase the range of your ability.]



'Sheeeit,'



At his level, he could probably impress folks in a street corner or be more convincing in negotiations, but if he grinded it the right way he might just get to the point where attacking him wouldn't even cross the mind of those who approach him.



Then he looked at the experience required to level it up, and understood that it was referring to the Exp Points he gathered and not the result of intense practise.



That kind of privilege was for those with a Gamer System, not blood sucking peasants like him.



No, he was not still salty about it.



'Status.'



[ Level: 1



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 90/100



- Exp: 10/10 (Level up?)]



'Darn right I want to level up.' He thought, and waited for whatever changes would take place.



He hoped he wasn't going to bleed stinking black stuff out of his pores before turning into some jade-like beauty after a shower, then his childhood friend would appear to try and sexually harass him long enough to make him fall in love.



Until Young Master Bruce Wayne comes and—what the heck was he thinking?!



[ Level: 2



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 90/200



- Exp: 0/20]



Well, that was anti-climactic.



'I'm a hungry again.' He thought, and couldn't help but glance at the body resting in his arms before shaking his head, if he took anymore blood she would end up in real danger.



Still, it was quite late at night, it would be wise to leave if he wanted to avoid the sunlight.



But leaving her like that didn't sit well with him.



Should he leave and let her pick herself up like an adult? Or take a small risk and let her rest before waking her up?

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Presence -

. . .


Vampire Rule N°6: Being Alucard is the goal, not the starting point.



. . . . . . . . .



'It sure is nice waking next to somebody.'



These were her very first thoughts when she woke up, eyes still closed and enjoying the way her scalp was being gently massaged by those long, nimble fingers.



There was something stupidly amazing about it, the way she was being held, the sheer safety and comfort that offset any possible complaint she might have with their pretty darn bold sitting arrangement.



Yes, this was the life.



"Max." A calm, soothing voice called out between two caresses, further lulling her to sleep.



John chuckled, and she felt it rumbling pleasently in his chest.



What was even more pleasant was the way he cupped her cheeks, indulging her with soft, lazy kisses that truly did nothing to help calm her heart.



*Groans*



"You've turned me into a sappy b*tch," She growled, but still stayed glued to his now warm body, "I'll make you pay for that."



Another chuckle.





"I'm sure you will," The culprit said with a fondness he didn't bother hiding, "But you need to wake up, sweetheart."



"Don't call me that," She complained, "It's too condescending."



"Honey?" He tried.



"Too old school."



"Babe?"



"Too new school."



"Is it even a thing?" He asked, his voice betraying his curiosity.



"I don't know, can I go back to sleep?" She whined, opening her eyes and regretting instantly, looking this good should be illegal and she was ready to die on that hill, "Darn."



"What?"



"Nothing," There was no point in feeding his ego, he was already a bit too cocky for his own good, "I can't believe I fell asleep like this."



"I'm not complaining, you were really cute." He whisped, as if he was telling her a secret.



"Shut up." She smiled, but her face fell soon after, "You need to go, right?"



"No, I should've left half an hour ago," He grinned, "But I didn't have your number, so there was that."

"My shift end in a few hours, no chance I could convince you to wait?" She looked at him, looking more vulnerable than she'd ever allow herself to be, but he seemed to bring out the mushiest, most embarrassing parts of her.



"Mine starts in a few." He sounded genuinly regretful, "Maybe another time?"



As long as you don't throw me away, she wanted to say, but wisely kept her mouth shut.



She reache into her pocket to grab her pen, then feeling a bit unreasonable, she grabbed his hand and wrote her number on his skin, doing her best to make it as painful as possible without drawing blood.



'I'll let him have his revenge later on,' She smirked, thinking about all sorts of devious thing they could get up to when she wasn't supposed to be working.



Unfortunately, he didn't budge, as if he was made of solid stone.



"You're no fun, I hope you know that." She huffed, and absolutely did not blush when he was suddenly only a few centimeters away from her face.



"I can be a lot of fun, believe me."



And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the diner to contemplate her choices.



. . .



John Harker was a happy man...undead...he was a happy humanoid mosquito.

His hunger finally subsided, somewhat, and he had sowed the seeds of what might grow to become a stable source of blood and entertainment for him.



Call him an arsehole, but he couldn't help but see the value in his relationships, even if said relationship was that of a predator and a particularly pretty snack.



It was a fair trade, as far as he was concerned.



He gets blood, an increasingly dependant and thus loyal asset, and a whole lot of fun.



She gets stability, safety, and the affection of someone beyond her reach.



Everybody wins.



'I'm just glad I got there before my sandwich got f*cked.' He thought, not caring about said sandwhich's so-called 'boyfriend' for even a second.



As far as he knew, that child would be the start of a long series of disapointments that would end up with Max becoming a less disgusting, equally promiscious younger version of her horrendous mother.



This kind of life would leave her lonely, filthy and might even let her perpetuate the cycle with a fatherless child of her own.



That, or she turns into a bull dyke.



Or worse, both things could happen at the same time.



'Yes, I'll make sure she has a happier life.'

If said happiness involved her being under his grasp, who could blame him?



He took a cab to get him home in that sweet, disease ridden, crime infested East End where the only game being played was one of murder, greed and self-destruction.



John planned to get back to his crackhouse before the sun showed it's burning self up to roast him up, maybe raid a few corner boys if the occasion showed itself.



And he almost did, if he didn't hear a pained groan.



Now that wasn' that uncommon, living in Brideshead with enhanced sense meant picking up on all sorts of cries, groans and moans of people in more or less distress.



But this one was different.



He knew that voice, how could he forget it?



It's the voice of the man who swindled him on his very first night in the streets of Gotham.



The one and only Bubbles, expert dopefiend and the indirect cause of half a dozen illegal drug-seizures, losing a bunch of gangsters a nice sum of money.



'Oh boy, he looks rough,' The vampire thought, almost wincing when he saw the state of the man,'Didn't it was possible, he was already rocking the weary crackhead look before, but now that's just depressing.'



At this point, his face was just one giant bruise.



The poor man was barely able to limp his way forward, if it wasn't already obvious that he got mugged out of his already meager possesions, then he'd attract all of them East End hyenas looking for an easy meal.



John approached him, silently getting down from his vantage point in the poorly lit rooftop of some low income housing building, he creeped his way behind the man for the sake of practise if nothing else.



If he could sneak up on a veteran hustler, he could sneak up on pretty much everybody.



'Darn, I'm getting good at this.' He praised himself when he managed to stand right behind his injured not-quite-friend before clearing his throat to get his attention.



"Who?! Wait, Johnny boy? How the hell did your white ass get here?!" Bubbles all but jumped away from him, further straining himself in the process.



Great, now he was feeling bad for him.



A lesser man would be crying at this point, but Bubbles was no mere man.



He was a fiend, blessed with crackhead strenght and the resilience of a needy junkie, forged through being pierced by a thousand needles of dubious quality.



"Easy there," John said, trying to pacify the older man, but he got nothing but a few groans and panicked looks, whoever did that to him has hurt more than his body, "I need you to calm down, we need to get you some help."



"NO! Just leave me alone! Why won't you leave me alone!" Bubbles roared, eyes wide and bloodshot, but to John it sounded more like pained whining than anything else.



'There is no reasoning with the man, not while he's in this state,' He thought, now considering using this opportunity to test his newest power.



Presence must be ideal for this kind of situation, and the cost was meager.



Using it was surprisingly simple, as easy as moving his hand or looking somewhere, instincts engrained deeply in his being guided him and he was wise enough to follow.



In that instant, he felt the many possibilities his ability opened, the control it gave him was almost intoxicating.



For some blood, he could push Bubbles' fear to new heights, he could foster his rage and make him lash out, or appease him and give him some much needed peace.



John could awe, intimidate and influence on a level most people could only dream about.



"Bubbles, calm down and tell me what happened," He said, feeling the small amount of blood vanishing while his target's posture relaxed more and more. "I mean you no harm and you know it, right?"



"...Yes, I—I think so." The battered and bruised man mumbled in between two long, calming breaths, "I'm sorry I lashed out...it's—it's been a lot lately, even more than usual."



"It's alright," John said, putting even more power and blood into the ability, more than he ever intended, "You can trust me, I'm here to help you."



[Blood Points: 50/200]



'Bloody hell,' He cursed, knowing full well what just happened.



He got a taste of power and drowned in it, disregarding logic just to have a bit more fun.



In other words, he got lost in the sauce.



The affects were also rather...obvious.



*sob* *sob*



"Thanks kid, I'm really sorry—shit aien't right, I'm telling you, it aien't right." The man looked like he just met Martin Luther King, and wasted no time before telling him all about his plight.



John listened silently, only nodding every once in a while to encourage him.



"So if I understood correctly, some doped up fiend has been following you around, beating the snot out of you and taking all your money and junk."



"And my shoes! Fucker took my shoes!" Bubbles added.



"I see."



He thought about for a few moments, weighting the pros and cons of doing something about it.



For one, helping out a junkie was universally recognized as an exercise in futility.



These folks are virtually useless, spending nearly all their time getting high or looking for a way to get high. They lived and died by the corners, and would sooner die than give up the needle no matter what they say.



Most of them do die too, only a lucky few can break free.



Helping him out would also set up a troublesome precedent.



John couldn't keep giving a shit when it wasn't his turn to give a shit, or he'd never grow out of this garbage dump of a neighbourhood.



Let alone reach the limits of his potential as a vampire.



Every minute spent helping others was one he could've spent making money, hunting for blood or making his unlife that much more comfortable.



'On the other hand, Bubbles has already been a useful asset.' He thought, looking at the injured man rubbing his swollen face with a pained wince.



He was a reliable source of information, did a wonderful job snitching on every street-level dealer in the area, and that was only in exchange for some help carrying scraps.



If he was truly dependent on him, if he somehow managed to get him on his payroll, then there was no telling how profitable it could get.



Having eyes and ears in the streets, an invisible agent beyond all suspicion, who would suspect a known drugfiend in this business As long as he had his ten dollars, the hoppers wouldn't look at him at him twice.



Bubbles was also rather resourceful, more crafty than most folks out there, he'd call him enterprising if he had more ambitions than getting high and not dying.



There was also his own opinion of the man.



'I like this idiot,' He thought, it didn't have strategic value, but if he ever was to help someone than it better be a likeable person.



And Bubbles was as likable as one could be without having tits.



'What should I do?' He asked himself, but already knew the answer…





--------------------------------



Hello folks! Hamtaro here with another chapter.



Did you like the chapter? Got any suggestions? Opinions?



I'd appreciate any feedback, positive or negative, that's how you get better at doing stuff.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Future Asset -

. . .


Vampire Rule N°7: Don't be a messy eater, take what you need from people and make sure everyone involved is either satisfied with the outcome or too dead to complain.



. . . . . . . . . . . .





John looked at the beaten form of Bubbles, the noble hustler, and couldn't help but extend his help in the name of justice, peace and democracy.



It had absolutely nothing to do with the possibility of gaining a very promising asset.



Nor did he even consider the benefits of being the shining light in the life of a miserable man left behind by society, only a wicked man could desire that kind of ill-gotten loyalty.



John wasn't this kind of man, it was all done for the Greater Good.



His lips curled into a comforting smile and he unleashed his presence upon the vulnerable man for the second time, once more awing him and capturing his full attention.



"I will do everything in my power to help you get through this, Bubbles," John said with conviction, looking at him in the eyes, "You have my word."



The battered junkie stood there like a statue, mouth wide open and unable to comprehend what was happening, what he did to deserve this kind of help…



He was nothing but an addict, a filthy, unreliable, deceitful addict who'd lie and cheat and betray the people closest to him in the name of the needle.



There was no denying that.



He looked his sister in the eyes when he told her he was getting clean, before robbing her home clean and selling everything off for a few dollars.



He stole ground stashes of drugs from careless youths, and he hardly felt a thing when he watched them getting beaten for their errors.



He even stole pain killers from an ambulance for goodness's sake.



'It's all in the game.' He'd say, justifying anything and everything.



As if it meant something.



Like the game had rules, like it could be won.



That's the kind of life he has, one he knows will end somewhere in a vacant house, with him overdosing and choking on his vomit, rotting there till the neighbours complain about a dying animal stinking up the place.



But at the moment, watching the tall young man with bright blue eyes and looks that would make those movie stars seem like horse faced hobos, listening to him speak words that belonged in a church, coming out of the mouth of a lying priest before he touched his third child of the day, or some old stories where the hero would come to save the day.



He didn't feel like a dopefiend, a soldier who trusted nothing and believed in no one, a man who lived and died by the needles that ruined his life.



He didn't feel like good ol' Bubbles.



He felt like Reginald Cousins, that kid with big hopes and a kind heart, before he got chewed up and spat out by this city and the people in it and those cruel games they played.



"Alr—Alright." He barely managed to say, wiping his moist eyes and snotty nose with his sleeve.



"Good man," John smiled brightly, and Bubbles felt himself getting bolder, his body still hurt like a mean b*tch but he felt stronger somehow, braver.



He had forgotten how nice it felt to have someone looking out for him, it's been so long…



"Do you have somewhere you can crash in for the night?" The young man asked, and he nodded telling him about his hideout close by, the second floor of a warmer vacant house.



His instincts honed through years spent in the street told him to shut up, but he was brave enough to ignore it.



"Here, take this." John gave him a couple twenty dollars bills, "Get yourself some food, some shoes too if possible, it should be enough."



The vampire knew it would likely be spent on drugs, but that was not the point.



He needed to foster what little trust had been built between them, something stronger than a single positive encounter followed by a ruthless emotional bombardment when he was at his most vulnerable.



If that meant parting with a few dollars, so be it.



Technically, it was the drug dealers paying up anyway.



'I just hope he won't end up overdosing tonight...would be really funny though.' He thought, smiling a bit which the junkie took as a friendly gesture.



"Thank man, I will." Bubbles mumbled, both of them knowing he wouldn't keep his word on the matter.



"Great, let's call it a night," John said calmly, "Tommorow at midnight, you and I will take a walk around the neighbourhood and we'll teach a lesson to your troublesome little friend."



"…"



"What?"



"That's it?" The junkie asked.



"Yup, you show me the guy and I make sure he doesn't trouble you again, that's all it need to be." He said with a small small, a bit curious about the kind of far fetched plan the injured man had cooked up in his drug-craving mind.



"I dunno, I expected something more…" Bubbles scratched his head.



John shook his head.

"Sometimes, less is more." He said, bidding farwell to his his asset in the making.



The night was about to end, and he was eager to lighten a few hoppers of the burden of a full stash, keeping so much money could be very dangerous.



Then again, drug dealers were reckless bunch.



He walked into a dark alley, focusing on the world around him, his signature blue eyes turned a dangerous red and he was soon nowhere to be seen.



In the span of half an hour, Bridehead's corner boys faced yet another onslaught from a mysterious figure.

"Argh! My head!"

"My knee! He broke my knees!"

"Please don't break my balls! Take anything you want but leave my balls alone!"



Some thought it was the bat, others believed it was just a particularly competent and violent stickup boy made more fearsome by the rumours and exaggerations victims eager to salvage their reputation.



John knew not and cared not for it though.



He was four thousand dollars richer, and his bathroom was filled with more bags of heroin that he had no use for.



He slid inside his bed, content with the knowledge that he would soon be able to move away from this poorly disguised crackhouse he called home.



However, something was telling him that his peace won't last.



Most of the freaks were behind bars or confined in the Asylum, the kingpins of Gotham had greater concerns than some upstart emptying some gangster's stashes, and those with real power in this world had yet to make a move.



There was no justice league yet, no one inviting dangers of a higher caliber, but also no one to defend against such threats...Darkside, Brainiac, Trigon.



Not to mention that many alien civilizations eager to plunder, pillage and otherwise pilfer all the resources on this earth to fuel their advanced empires.



Sooner or later, the chaos would come and he must be prepared.



. . .



John felt like a soccer mum.



Life truly was unpredictable. To think that the age-defying, blood drinking abomination that he was would ever be in such a position was pure madness.



'Yet here I stand, ready to berate a bully for picking on those weaker than him.' He thought, it was almost funny.



"Is it the guy?" He asked, his voice masking his disbelief at what he was about to do, "You're sure?"



"You think I'd let you beat up some random ass n*gga Of course it's him, I'll never forget his ugly mug." Bubbles said bitterly, glaring at the oblivious man laughing with other homeless men around a dumpster fire.



"I've never said anything about beating him up." John said, approaching the group with a nervous Bubbles in tow.



"You said you'd teach him a lesson!" The older man complained.



"And teach him I will, using words, like civilized people." He said, ignoring his whining.



Was it too late to give him up and cultivate another tool? It wasn't like he invested all that much into this guy.



"Where the f*ck you going pretty boy?" The tall, rather muscular crackhead he intended to converse with screamed at him before he could say anything, sending spittle flying everywhere.



Now John thought he was a rather calm person.



But he also just saw a drop of spit leave a junkie's mouth and land on his face.



"Change of plans, Bubs, I'm going to beat the shit out of him." He said slowly, wiping it off with his sleeve.



"Hell yeah!" Bubbles cheered.



Acting before the junkie's brain could process the information, John's fist collided with his gut at a fraction of his full strength, it was still more than enough for him to double over with a pained grunt.



The vampire was about to finish him with a kick in the mouth, but he overestimated the resilience of a crackhead.



Either that, or he underestimated his own strength.



The poor thing was choking up on his own vomit, a message has been sent and judging the look on his face, a lesson had been learned.



Before long the two of them left, following a trail of lamp-light and being observed by the many weary souls who decided to waste their time and energy on the infamous streets and corners of Brideshead.



Touts and dealers shouted their product's name as if they were street legal, advertising better than most executives with the fancy suits and briefcases.



"Lethal Injection! Our shit's so good it'll f*cking kill you!"



"Blue Tops! One blue top and you'll be flying high!"



John could see the temptations on Bubble's face, the boy was eager to join the lines of gaunt, tired petitioners standing against the building, waiting to get the dope they paid for.



He could see the plans forming in his eyes, the calculations to get himself another ten dollars for a possible midnight high.



"Don't even think about it," He warned, but knew this was the cost of doing business with a dopefiend, "We've got places to be."



"I didn't do nothing!" The fiend protested, raising his hands in the air.



"Good, you better keep it that way."



He could be sinking his fangs into a comely woman's neck, replenishing his reserves and growing in strength. Instead, he had to make sure a drug addict didn't act like a drug addict.



There wasn't much he felt buying up the shit-brown pickup truck from a local used cars salesman, the shock on his new employee's face when he gave him the keys wasn't as pleasing either, not with an empty stomach at least.



He was five grands poorer, but that was fine, he'll just put it on some dealer's tab.



"How much money do you make picking up scrap metal on average?" He asked, the still confused addict who struggled to give him a straight answer.



'I really need to feed,' John thought, more and more irritated.



"On a good day, maybe fourty dollars..." The older man finally answered, scratching his dirty beard.



"Good, I expect you to make at least five times more with this baby," He tapped the ugly but reliable vehicle, "Minus the gas and with some margin of error, that's fourteen hundred bucks every week, sixty percent of which is mine"



The street guy could only look at him with a blank look while he talked about earning sums he couldn't make in months on the streets.



"And I can't?" Bubbles asked.



"Then you better have a bloody good reason, or I'll take as you stealing for me," John said plainly, "In which case, I would be forced to track you down and rip off your nails one by one, maybe break a few teeths for good measure?"



"You'll also continue working for me until your debt is settled, then I'll just break your legs, take back my truck and we'll go our separate ways." He continued, smiling at the increasingly uncomfortable black man.



"Deal?" He asked, and got a shaky nod.



"D-deal."



John just got himself his first employee, and secured a relatively stable and almost legal income of about seven hundreds dollars a week.



Unlife was good.



It would be even better if he wasn't so hungry.



'Yup, it's time to pay a Max a little visit.'

 

[TheHamtaro]

- We Need to Talk -


Vampire Rule n°8: Always keep and maintain a few blood dolls; stable blood sources are necessary.

. . . . . . . .



It had been one week since John's started his little 'conquest' of Bubbles and his world, making the junkie financially and socially dependent on him had been an easy matter.



A shitty truck, some human interactions and just a tiny little bit of presence was all it took to have the coke-thinned, remarkably sharp dopefiend dancing in the palm of his hand.



He made sure to meet him every two nights, between a pleasant feeding session with Max or the occasional girl he picks up at a local gym when he's craving some variety in his diet, they'd usually talk business.



If business was Bubbles complaining about the hardships and obstacle he went through to secure their 'bread', always exaggerating his tales in order to get some extra brownie points or an attaboy from his not so gentle employer.



Still, John didn't mind as long as his stomach was full, cultivating beneficial relationships was key to long term success, and that meant dealing with people's bullshit with a smile on your face and laughing when appropriate.



"That damn cop kept me there for ten whole minutes, I'm telling ya, you white boys sure have it easy round these parts…" Bubbles growled at the injustice of the world while driving the pick up truck he so generously lent him.



So John gave him a warm, sympathetic smile from his place in the passenger seat.



"Only fools care about such things, Bubs, soon you and will be living a life these worms can only dream off." He said smoothly, earning himself one grateful look and an eager smile from the junkie.



"—I told him not to try playing Hungry's boy like that, but the fool didn't listen to me, ended up getting beat so hard even his whale of a girlfriend wouldn't kiss his black ass face no more." Bubbles said with a voice full of mirth, and John laughed hoping it was indeed appropriate.



It wasn't rocket science, he just had to play nice while making it clear that he was capable and willing if not eager to hurt him very badly if he so much considering messing around.



Then ever so naturally the discussion drifts off and Bubbles starts feeding him some actually relevant informations, the words of the streets rang in every dopefiend's head, it was almost like a super power. Let them stand a few hours in some corner, and they'll tell you who works for whom, who's going to get hurt, who shall be doing the hurting and for whatever stupid reason.



The more he listened to Bubbles go on and on about this and that package, the more he understood the structure of the drug market, and the more he realized how little he actually knew.



It wasn't some corporate-like, cold business structure with powerful cartels carving up territory and enforcing rules upon the many greedy players.



It was a savannah, a wild desert, a concrete jungle where hoards of beasts fuelled by money and desire came to live the their lives in service of the high.



The corner was the oasis, the haven of readily available dope and coke where the ever so thirsty fiends gathered to feed their habit like a herd of antelopes stomping and grazing their way to the watering hole.



From the depressed white collar worker driving by every day with 20$ in his pocket and so much pain he needs to drown, the single mother selling her body for a vial thinking that it was only temporary and that her children were too young to remember anyway, the career drug-addicts, hardcores who live and die by the corner and developed something of a professional pride in their hustle.



All the animals, big and small, old and young, came to get that happiness cocktail hoping it would as good as that first time, the time their brain changed forever.



Every day and every night of every week of their cursed existence.



They ignored all dangers, the fiends felt safety from both harm and shame in their numbers, Gotham was a city of millions and her fiends were in the hundred of thousands.



'Gotham has the best drug fiends,' John thought amused.



In places with such abundance of fat, juicy prey, there was bound to be swarms of highly effective predators; drug dealers, ruling their little kingdoms with fierce reputation and the occasional bout of senseless violence.



Other with smaller fangs where content to take advantage of the weak and careless, burn sellers and stash thieves.



"What's a burn artist?" John asked his more street-wise companion when the label came up.



"Stupid bastards that's what they are, they put baking soda in vials then call it dope, robbing us blind is what they really do." Bubbles answered with distaste, and a bit of begrudging respect for those capable of such a good capper.



A capper, that's what they called it, not as bad as a crime, but not honest work either.



A capper was the fiend's hustle, the petty theft and small scams a drug addict will do to get his high.



Armed robbery was a crime, shoplifting was a capper.



How else was a fiend to pay a dealer?



'That's all in the game,' John couldn't count the amount of time he heard these words from his employee's mouth.



Game wasn't always played this way though.



Even back then in the sixties when heroin conquered the East Coast of the united states, turning what was once a small industry confined to hipsters and party goers and fancy musicians looking for something stronger than vodka, into an opportunity to make some serious money.



The users went from less than a couple thousands to a real army, legions paying up in the back alleys and low income housings, up the towers and behind the clubs and bars.

Dealers were businessmen, they maintained distribution networks and provided for them, their people, their muscle and soldiers and the boys locked up who stayed silent knowing their families would be taken care off...one way, or another.



Professionals, lethal but not stupid like the fools John raided these last few days, these men had a code.



They didn't use what they sold, didn't serve or use children, wouldn't sell to people who didn't know what they were in for and didn't shoot people who didn't need to be shot.



For John who saw children as young as ten working as lookouts or even runners for teenaged drug dealers, it sounded like fantasy.



But it was the truth, people came and went, kingpins rose and fell but the rules stayed the same.



Until Miss Coke showed her pretty arse in town.



Heroin meant business, it was the needle piercing a hole to your veins, it was hardcore and pricy and something most people had the sense or fear to avoid on sight.



It took a real determined fool to stab himself for a high right off the bat.



But the eighties saw the arrival of Jane, the Miss, a much cheaper, friendlier sort of white powder you could shove up your nose to get a few moments of euphoria before it fades and you're going back for more.



Those on dope like Bubbles could pretend to be stable, they could do things and buy stuff that didn't necessarily fuel their habit...sometimes.

But coke was a horrible mistress, it demanded everything and then some, turned a man so mad even the dope fiends were disgusted...till they tried it, and mixed it up with their beloved heroine.



Coke brought women to the corners, made it possible for a fifteen years old to grab a vial and tell a friend that his mother would take it up the arse for this much, all the while being completely truthful.



It made the hard to maintain, limited connection essential to the heroin trade nearly obsolete, any fool could go to Gotham and buy a package then deal it back in his home town making a thousand bucks and paying six hundred to the suppliers.



That meant anyone and everyone could deal.



That meant chaos.



The professionals became a minority in the game they pioneered, now twenty something young guns were giving package to seventeen years old and making hundreds of thousands of pure benefits every year.



The prison were crammed full of people, so much that arresting someone for street level distribution became utter madness, the best the cops could do was rough them up and send them to a judge who'll dish out probations and pre-trial time served to young men who were effectively shitting gold bars.



The streets were full of dealers, the prisons were full of dealers, and no matter how many new cages were built in the city, the county or the entire state, there would always be ten times as many dealers working the corners for every last dollar they could provide.

Ladies and gentlemen, that's the war on drugs.



In every war, information was key, and everyday John Harker was getting more and more educated on the subject.



"—Here's your share, fifteen hundred!" Bubbles said with big smile, trying to hide his nervousness, but John already knew it was the correct sum.



Giving a couple hundred dollars to the employee at the scrapyards was enough to ask a couple favour, like noting the exact amount they paid Bubbles every week.



"We've made 3200 bucks, right?" John said as he counted the bills, not bothering to look up to see the older man's surprised face, he already saw it enough times already, "That's alright, keep up the good work."



He knew Bubbles probably shorted him off a few dollars, but it didn't matter much, what mattered was letting him know that his actions weren't as discreet as he might think.



At least, until his first human asset is ready for further development.



His freshly bought phone buzzed, breaking the silence. He glanced at the screen and saw Max's name, who happened to be the only person with his contact information. Answering the call, he noticed an unusual silence on her end.

"Max, everything alright?" he asked, his voice smooth and reassuring, already suspecting what was about to happen.

"We need to talk," she replied, her tone subdued.

There they were, the dreadful words.

Lesser men would panic and scramble hearing them, with good reasons too.

John held back a chuckle, something like this was bound to happen sooner or later, "Sure thing. Where are you?"

"Outside the diner. Can you come?"

"I'll be there soon," he promised.

As he ended the call, Bubbles shot him a concerned look. "You in trouble, boss?"



'Boss? Now that's new.' John thought, evaluating the situation, 'Is he trying to compensate for a possible dishonesty?'



"Nah, nothing unexpected."



-----------------------

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

I don't know why this chapter turned into a study of the drug trade in the East Coast during the nineties, but it did and I can't say I regret it.

Our boy Bubbles has been working hard hauling scrap metal all day long, it should alright to let him have a few extra bucks for his trouble, right? As long as he knows that John knew, they don't don't know that we know though...or do they?

Anyway, thank you all for reading, please do leave a comment and drop some likes to encourage me to write more. As always, criticism is welcome and suggestions even more so.

Pet your dog, kiss your mom, hug somebody who needs it.

And have a nice day.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Blood Doll -


Author Note: Yo! It's Hamtaro! Just wanted to tell you that there'll be a little vote at the bottom of the chapter, and that we will soon grow out of this 'foundation' phase with little DC characters and plot lines.



Enjoy the chapter!



----------------



Vampire Rule N°9: A blood doll is a human who freely lets a vampire drink from them, blood dolls seek a perverse thrill from the vampire's Kiss or might entertain an emotional connections. Do not waste such a valuable resource.



. . . . . . . . . . .



"Thanks for dropping me off, Bubs," John leaned against the pick-up window, and gave some parting word to the nervous wreck inside, "We'll have to continue our discussion later, there is still much we have to work through, so stay out of trouble."



"No promises," Bubbles joked, but there was hiding the worry in his eyes, "Good luck with your lady friend."



"Won't need it."



Just like that, he was gone with the rumble of the motor and the manly smell of engine fumes, leaving John Harker alone in Grand Avenue, a couple streets down from Pauli's Diner and his 'girl trouble' as some would put it.



It all seemed to futile, when he knew the kind of issues he'll eventually run into in this messed up world, or just the demands of the vampire system that played on his greed and lusts for power to make him undertake greater and greater tasks.

[Task: Recruit Retainer]



[Task: Expand your Domain]



[Task: Drink the Blood of a Metahuman.]



All of them so much more complicated than dealing with a civilian girl's doubts and insecurities, more subtle than the manipulations needed to absolve someone of their guilty conscience.



However, he was the one who choose to make her his blood doll, bulldozing his way into her life, so it was his duty to make it as smooth and pleasant as it could ever be.



He walked leisurely, appreciating the city in a less depressing setting than the misery of the East End with it's desperate fiends, ten dollar hookers and children playing gangster with real guns and real dope.



There he found her standing below the flickering neon lights of Pauli's Diner, for the first with casual clothes instead of the horrible but somewhat kinky yellow waitress uniform.



He liked her better like this; wearing blue jeans and a red flannel shirt under a vintage leather jacket but somehow along with tasteless, cheap jewellery but somehow making it work in her favour.



He'd like her even without the cigarette in her lips though.



It might have a certain aesthetic, an attractive restless woman leaning against the wall, trying to conceal her doubts and worries and bracing herself for a painful talk.



But that wasn't what he wanted for her.

'A happy life,' John thought, putting words on what he did want for her, 'I owe her that much.'



She eventually saw him, but by that time it was already too late, the vampire was upon her.



There was nothing a frail human woman like her could do to stop him, nothing to save her from the public embarrassment of being picked up and twirled like a little girl.



She yelped, her cigarette falling down in the process, after which he merciless crushed the poison and that horrible fire that made him feel weak and vulnerable and all sorts of things a creature of the night should never be.



"People are looking!" Max hissed to no avail.



"Let them look," He answered calmly.



Lucky for her, he was no Dumbledore.



He put her down to appease her half-hearted protests and pleas, she already learned that punches and threats would only make him double down, but he still didn't allow her to leave his arms.



"Hi there." He whispered, his chin resting on the crown of her hair, knowing full-well how much she enjoyed being pampered like this, though she'll never admit it.



"Hi," She answered in a subdued voice, conflicted between the desire to just give in and let him hold her some more, enjoy his protection from the harsh world out there, or doing the reasonable thing.



Reason won in the end, and she stepped out of the embrace before he could decide to slide his fangs into her neck and turn her serious talk into a much more enjoyable one.



She stayed there in silence, her plans and rehearsed speech and all the arguments she played in her hands crumbling now he stood in front of her.



"You alright?" He asked, cupping her cheek as if she was made of glass, and she know that to him it might as well be the case.



John Harker was strong, that was a fact Max understood intimately.



Maybe that was why he never showed any concern about his person, any fear, she saw no chink in his armour in all the night they spent together talking and laughing and doing things that would make her mother puke and wonder what she did wrong to raise such a corny mess of a daughter.



Her boyfriend on her other hand, was all chink and no armour.



That might be one she agreed to go out with him, he was such a nice guy.



That's what made it all worse.



She spent the last week being held and caressed and cajoled by another man, she went on dates and shared secrets and fears and hopes that no one else knew, not Earl and not the new rich girl gone broke and certainly not the guy who was supposed to know all this.



Things that left her mouth before she could even notice.



And if the man in front of her had wanted to, she knew she'd go even further.



That was bad.



"No," she answered truthfully, John deserved the truth, "I'm not, I...I told you I had a boyfriend, but we did—we did what we did, and it's not right."



He stayed silent, lips thin, looking at her with those bright blue eyes of his.



Those eyes that told her he planned many great things, endured things she couldn't even imagine, that promised her that he could handle all her problems if she just let everything go and become his.



"We need to stop?" She wanted to affirm it, but it came out more like a question, a whimper.



"No, we don't." John said with a smile, perfectly relaxed, wiping off tears on her face that she didn't even notice, his grin widening when she couldn't help but lean into his touch.



"I'm really sorry sweetheart, I would have taken care of our little problem earlier if I knew it would bother you so much," He lied through his teeth, acting earlier would be rushed and might've not ended in his favour.



Their relationship had to grow beyond a simple emotional affair, she needed to feel the guilt of betraying not only her soon to be ex-boyfriend but also her principles.



The principles she held dearest, the ones built on spite and disgust at her mother's foolish actions, that she wouldn't betray her partner and hurt them like the many man Mrs Black had played and hurt.



She had to compromise everything to be with John, and she had to do so willingly, to consider all her options and decide that he was worth more than anything else she might possess.



Only then would he swoop in and absolve of her crimes, by showing her that this 'boyfriend' of hers was so much worse, a disgusting and wretched thing.



So that she might push all the blame on him, and be freed from the emotional burden.



Everyone wins at the end, except that poor sod.



It might be callous, but what did you expect from someone who drinks blood to survive? At least he had the decency to properly seduce and then take care of his blood dolls instead just taking what he wanted, bleeding them dry then throwing them away when they inevitably broke.



"Why don't you call him? We'll do things properly this time," John closed the distance and leaned down to kiss her temple, "I don't want to lose what we have."



Yes, he will make sure to give her long, happy life.



----------------------------

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

Got a new chapter for you guys! Hope you have a wonderful day!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Subverted Expectations -

. . .

Vampire Rule N°10: Ghouls are your blood-bound servants, nearly as frail as humans yet unflinchingly loyal and capable of doing your bidding during the day.



. . . . . . . . . .



'Everyone is a slave.' John thought, sitting at his usual spot in the diner under the curious gaze of the few customers and the blonde waitress who took over Max's shift.



It might sound cynical, but it was the truth.



A man was nothing but a slave who gets to choose his masters.



Some grow up to become the slaves of money, waking up everyday and going to sleep every night thinking about it, sacrificing their time and energy and whatever morals they value in the name of the dollar.



They would laugh and pity those who counted and hoarded each dime instead of using their wealth, not knowing they worshipped the same master.



Others were slaves to their desires, they lusted until their eyes went red and their brain rotted, until they could only see skin and flesh and filth.



Poor Bubbles was slave to the needle, he chased that high with religious fervour and treated the corner as his prophet, following it's teachings to letter.



Even John was a slave, despite shedding his humanity when he drank that first drop of blood bursting out of his would-be killer's mangled throat.



He was the slave of his blood thirst, the slave of that drive for control and power that shaped every facet of vampiric life from the violent to the most intimate, he might even the slave of that system and it's lures.



The sticks and carrots built to make his life as interesting as possible.



So what is it so bad that he treated others as property?



Bubbles arms wouldn't so bloated and covered in abscesses and dead veins if he had been his servant.



He would have status and health and a measure of wealth a prosperity, one week following his orders and he already had a car and more than a thousand dollars...soon, even his addiction will be a thing of the past.



Max wouldn't need to humiliate herself serving mediocre food to irritating customers.



She would live a life of leisure and safety. No more would she worry about money and rent and how to put food on her table, she would be cared for and valued, given all the tender affection and wild passion she desired, the time to pursue her hobbies and dreams.



They would have more freedom under his grasp than this greater 'free' world ever allowed them.



In that case wouldn't it be a favour to acquire them? Wouldn't it be an act of kindness and justice?



So what if he needed to break someone's bones to make things right for Bubbles? So what if he needed to push Max's boyfriend on a path of self-destruction?



The brunette sat beside him, having long since finished her cake and didn't think twice about stealing bits and pieces of his own chocolate pie.



She was still so full of doubt and guilt and that adorable confusion of a lost lamb.



But even then her hand was still firmly holding his, as if she feared that he might run off and abandon her like everyone else in her life did.



'Adorable,' He smiled warmly, burning some blood to unleash his presence and give her that feeling of safety and wholesomeness she needed.



The ends did justify the means.

And if the means gave him the twisted satisfaction of taking someone's else cake, so much the better.



The door opened with a ding, alerting the waitress that another client needed serving, but the young lady had a good enough relationship with Max to know that he wasn't here for a midnight meal so she didn't bother approaching.



John smelled him before he could see him, that irritating scent that he worked so hard to remove from his own body, the one that followed Bubbles everywhere he goes, the scent of the hood at it's lowest.



The young man smelled like urine and weed and the days old vomit that stuck to his baggy clothes like Drake to a middle school.



He turned around to see the almost familiar bush of unkempt dirty blond hair and that unkempt, uneven stubble. The kid was tall and barely had any meat on his bones, his neck was slightly hunched and his shoulders slopped forward giving him the almost zombie-like appearance shared by his fellow jobless, shower-hating music enthusiasts who tried to look like Kurt Cobain.


"Here he comes, the man of the hour!" John's smile only grew, waving to the poor thing who looked like he just crawled out of a grave, "Come here, Billy!"



Max seemed transfixed, it had been less than week since she last saw him, but then he was a lively and excitable guy, sure he never was too big on hygiene and he could do with a better diet and easing down on the weed.



But this...Max Black was no fool, she knew what a dope fiend looked like.



"William…" She muttered, none of this made sense.



The woman held onto John's hand for comfort, and soon felt his arm warp around her protectively, this didn't make sense either, but at least it was pleasant, it was safe.



William Weeks staggered into the diner, his eyes darting around nervously. The few patrons that were present gave him a wide berth, their expressions a mix of pity and disdain. He looked like a man on the edge, every step a struggle.



John watched him with a detached interest, his smile never wavering. He took a sip of his coffee, letting the silence stretch until William finally made his way over to their table.



There was something uniquely exciting about cuddling a man's girlfriend before his very eyes, and knowing he could not and would not do anything about it.



Conan really knew his stuff, it might be the best in life.



Vile, yes, but the best nonetheless.



Then again, he was a vampire, this was just their modus operandi.



Unfortunately for Billy, there was no Van Hellsing to even the odds.



"John," William croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced at Max, his eyes full of shame and desperation with none of the fury a proper man would muster, "I... I did what you asked, I came as soon as I could."



Max's grip on John's hand tightened. She looked between the two men, her eyes wide with confusion. How on earth did the two know each other? She was the one who called him.



John's smile grew softer when he kissed her head, whispering sweet nothing and reassurances in her ears. But then he turned to the young man and his eyes hardened once more, "William here has something he needs to confess. Don't you, Billy?"



'It must be hell,' John thought, 'Being the third wheel in your own couple, though he'd probably let me take her right in front of him if I promised a vial.'



William's hands shook as he wrung them together. "Max, I'm so sorry. I... I've been using. Heroin, cocaine... I couldn't stop. I spent all my money, lost my job, and... and last week I got caught...Bubbles saw me in Park Row." His voice broke, tears streaming down his face as rambled on and on, "I'm sorry, it was just too much, the band had trouble and we blew a contract to play in a club, I had too take the edge off somehow but weed wasn't doing it."



"Just say it," John said, frowning at the poor guy who almost had a heart attack.



That's what happens when you throw your presence around for the sole purpose of intimidation.



But it did the trick, William took a deep breath and prepared himself to tell the single most hilarious thing John and nearly everyone in the dinner heard in a good while.



"I got caught giving head to a dealer named Tyrone for a vial." He said in one go.



It took all of John's will not cackle right then and there, some of the more noisy patrons and the waitress weren't as respectful though.



Max did not gasp or rage or even vomit as John had imagined in the most comical renditions of the conversation, her face sayed blank and she asked the shameful man,"What?"



"He sucked off Tyrone for a vial! Pay attention Max!" The voice of a man of slavic descent rang out from the kitchen.



William all but fell to his knees, looking at her with pleading eyes. "I didn't want to, Max. I swear. But I couldn't stop. Bubbles said he knew someone who could help, that his boss always found a way to get people the help they need...that's how I met John, but he said he—he said he liked you and told me to come clean. He said he'd help me if I told you everything."



He didn't mention that Bubbles was given three hundred dollars to follow him that day, but that wasn't something he knew in the first place.



Max turned to John, her eyes filled with confusion.



John's smile turned colder. "William needed to face the consequences of his actions. And now he has."



William reached out, trying to grab onto John's shoulders but promptly retreated when the younger man glared at him. "Please, John. You promised. You said you'd help me."



He did do that, it wasn't hard convincing a man who lost everything.



John looked down at him with a mixture of pity and disdain. "I said I'd help you if you told Max the truth. And you did. But I never promised you drugs or money, William. Your addiction is your own to deal with."



William's face crumpled, and he let out a choked sob. "Please... I have nothing left. I'll do anything."



John's gaze flickered with a brief spark of amusement. "I can't give you money, Billy, but I can give you a job, a chance to get clean."



Max watched the exchange, her emotions a whirlwind of anger, sadness, and confusion. She couldn't believe what was happening. She had known William was struggling, but she had no idea it was this bad. And John...John had already planned all of this.



From the day they met, when he promised he would take care of her, something she dismissed as mere sweet talk when the night ended and she returned to her dull, exhausting life.



'It wasn't,' She thought almost fondly 'He wasn't lying.'



Bubbles worked for John, she knew he hauled around scrap for him so he rode around the city all day long, but there was no way he just stumbled onto William.



John put him up to it, he put a tail on her junkie of a boyfriend.

On one hand, she wouldn't have known otherwise.



On the other, it all felt so cold, so calculated.



She didn't know how to feel about it.



"Everything will be alright, William" John said.



That meant William should probably run and never look back, but junkies weren't known for their good judgment.



William slowly got to his feet, swaying slightly. "What do I do now?"



John's smile returned, a predatory glint in his eyes. "That's up to you. You've hit rock bottom, William. You can either stay there or claw your way back up. Bubbles will drop you off to Brideshead, meet me there in three hours, or I'll just assume you're no longer interested."



William nodded, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned to Max, his eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry, Max. I never meant to hurt you, but I think it's best if we stop seeing each other."



Max looked at him, but there was no heartbreak. They were done, just like that.



William stumbled out of the diner, heading for Bubbles' shit-brown pickup, the snake inside whispering ways he could get ten dollars and buy a vial while waiting for his new boss.



And just like that, he was gone from her life.



Max turned to John, there were hundreds of questions in her mind but only a single one mattered.



"Why?"



John reached out to take her hand, his expression softening. "I knew you'd feel guilty leaving him, and I just couldn't stand letting you suffer like this."



She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong and those eyes of his showed too much care, soon all she could think about was him and his touch and the lengths he would go to make sure she was alright.



Their lips joined for a moment, and then another, and another until that voice that told her they in public and shouldn't act this way was gone, replaced by another stating that she was now single and free to do as she pleases.





She was gasping for air by the time they parted, her face flushed and lips puffed, but John didn't seem constrained by the same limits, he just went kissing his way from cheeks to her chin until he reached her neck.



Max felt him kissing and sucking, the slight pain of the hickey drowned by the ecstasy that followed, it wasn't supposed to feel this good.



What little sense was lift in her wondered what it would feel like to go all the way, if a mere kiss was enough to make give her euphoria.



She barely remembered him stopping, and holding her close, the envious or appalled looks from the few customers look, nor did she remember getting into a cab and holding onto John as if he was a body pillow.



But she did, and soon her key was opening the door of her small apartment.



This day started with her stifling tears when she decided that stopping this was the right thing to do, and there was welcoming him into her home.



Yes, John Harker was determined to subvert all her expectations.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- 28 Days -

. . .

Yo! It's Hamtaro!



Is there a lore reason why I didn't post yesterday? Am I stupid?



More seriously though, I had to rework a bunch of stuff including but not limited to Johnny Boy's personality, morals and goal.



Amma be honest, I didn't expect this level of engagement with my first real fic out there, we're almost 2K reading my ramblings on a daily basis (across all platforms) and that's bloody awesome.



It also means I have to put more thought and work into the fic to live up to your expectations.



Chapter is 2K words long.



Anyway, enjoy the chapter and don't forget to leave yer reviews!



--------------------------------



Vampire Rule N°11: A vampire is only as good as his retainers, nurture and refine them into proper tools, for every stain and mistake of theirs might result in your final death.



… … … … … … …





John Harker was no fool.



He might not be nearly as much of a stone cold, heartless monster as he'd like to be, but he was still far from the kind of naive buffoon who could ignore reality even as it flipped them the middle finger.



Working with a Junkie was not sustainable.



No matter how good a job Bubbles was doing, no matter how street-savvy and well-versed an informant he was, no matter his relative honesty and loyalty to him.



He was still an addict.



Worse than that, he was an addict who happened to be intimately familiar with most of John's ventures, one who was too bright not to have at least some insight into his immediate goals after so much time spent working under him.



That made him a weakness, the most obvious vulnerability in John Harker's otherwise ironclad armour.



The kind of weakness one must purge mercilessly.



That what the vampire told himself as he entered Bubbles shit-brown truck, it had barely been two weeks since he got him that car and it was already halfway through paying for itself.



Yes, Bubbles was an efficient worker.



"Hi there Boss-man!" The older man said with a mock salute, a cheeky smile on his face.



John took a second to study his appearance, he still had the gaunt cheeks and bloodshot eyes of a bona fide drug addict, but his clothes were clean and he got something for the scars and abscesses that used to cover his skin.



Convincing him to see a doctor was a hard task, but a necessary one, John couldn't let some miserable-looking wretch represent him in the street now could he?



"Evening bubs," His greeting was more tame, but he reckoned that anything warmer would be in bad taste given his plans for the night.



As for Bubbles, he quickly caught on to the solemn mood, he didn't like it though. He didn't know how to deal with it, the streets were all fake-cheer and bravado, with the occasional bout of horror, he was in foreign waters.



"Where we going? Off to see your lady friend?" He tried to lighten the mood.



"Nah, we're gonna meet someone at Widows Avenue, two streets down from the old Solomon Wayne Courthouse..." John said, and for a moment Bubbles relaxed.



This was business, so it was a good thing, he could deal with John when he was in business mode.



"...Then we'll have that talk." He continued, and the poor man's heart dropped.



'Having a talk' was never a good thing.



He remembered vividly the 'discussions' John had with that foolish, thieving dopefiend making his life more difficult than it already was, as if he needed more trouble.



Or his little chat with Gary, who tried to threaten his way into a share in the scrap hustle they've got going.



Bubbles gulped, Gary had never been the same since that day.



"Solomon Wayne...that's in Park Row, you ain't planning to do me in Crime Alley, are you?" Bubbles laughed, half-joking but mostly making sure he would survive the night...yet only got a strange look.



"No, of course not." John said with his usual smile, the one that said that everything was going to be fine...for him, at least.



Yeah, Bubbles wasn't feeling to good about this Park Row Business.



Part of him wanted to just open the door and run away as fast as he can, but he knew this wasn't an option, the last two weeks working for John Harker were the easiest, smoothest ones he's had in a long time.



He can't give that up.



Also, he was fairly certain that John would catch him and break his legs if he did, so there was that.



"Alright," He turned the key and heard the engine roar, it's rumbling was the only sound in the car for the entire ride.



…



Driving through Park Row was like peeking at the gates of hell.



There was no fire and brimstone, but the damned were present, the despair everywhere.



To John's enhanced sense, it was even more true.



Brideshead was the hood, it was the housing projects and rundown buildings and vacant houses turned into drug stashes to feed the heroin business.



It was born of desire and greed, two very understandable things.



But the Park Row District, or Crime Alley as literally everyone also calls it...it was different.



It was just evil.



Every minute, a child screams in terror, a man is beaten to death and a woman is assaulted just because someone could.



No greed, no drug money, no one pretending there was a game being played or the illusion of rules and fairness.



Only violence, the people who revelled in it and those caught in the quagmire.



That was Crime Alley, senseless murder.



For Bubbles it was much more simple, as long as John didn't tell him to stop the car and get out, he was a happy man.



Things got better when they approached the old Courthouse.



By the time they reached Widows Avenue, the 'kill me' atmosphere had subsided.



"Turn left." John guided him to their destination, still unwilling to just tell him where he wanted, "That's the place, let's go."



"Wait, am coming too?" Bubbles asked, and had half a mind to just press on the pedal and drive away, but the younger man was already outside and opened his door, grabbing his shoulder with that iron grip of his.



"Of course you are." John said calmly.



They arrived at the building, a place that looked rundown but functional. Bubbles followed John inside, his eyes darting around, trying to make sense of their destination. When he saw the sign for the Gotham Narcotics Anonymous, his confusion deepened.



'This sure ain't the best place to put down a nigga' He thought, looking at the crowd of addicts seeking help.



Some of them came willingly, some had to come here to avoid jail time, others were brought by friends and family.



He even recognized some faces from Brideshead.



John led him to a seat, and they sat down, listening to people's stories.



A young girl who went from one vial with her friends to taking multiple men at once to pay for her habbit.



An old man, a regular addict who spend decades on the needle yet survived to tell the tale, just because he got lucky.



A tattooed biker guy, with all the bulging muscles and glorious beard and leather clothes one could expect, scary as hell till he started talking.



Then folks realized he was the most wholesome fella in the whole building.



As Bubbles absorbed the testimonies, he began to understand what John wanted from him. The tales of redemption and change were moving, but Bubbles couldn't see himself in them. He didn't think he had the strength or the will to follow that path.



He loved getting high.



'Are you sure?' A small voice whispered in his brain, and he did his best not to think about all the thing he's done to get that blast, all the bridges he's burned.



The meeting wrapped up and Bubbles stood up more than ready to leave. But John was right behind him, a look of disappointment etched on his face.



"It's time for you to make a choice, Bubbles," John said, his voice low and commanding. "You can continue living like a rat in the streets, or you can become something bigger, something you can be proud of."

John's presence washed over Bubbles, a powerful, almost tangible force. It wasn't just Bubbles who felt it; the entire room seemed to be under John's spell, their eyes fixed on him with a mixture of awe and reverence.



Such was the power of the blood.



"I... I'll try," Bubbles stammered, feeling the weight of the vampire's gaze.



John's expression hardened.



"There's no 'try,' Bubbles. You either do it, or you don't. Make a decision."



Bubbles felt a surge of conflicting emotions. The fear of losing his current life battled with the hope of becoming something better. John's presence intensified, and Bubbles felt an overwhelming urge to please him, to live up to the expectations that had been placed upon him.



But it wasn't enough, until his dopefiend mind remembered.



Until he remembered all the beatings he took, all the money he blew, all the people's hurt.



How his only living relatives, his sister and his niece, were now strangers to him because he couldn't resist, because he was a slave to that needle.



All the time he tried to quit, only to fail and return to his old way.



But now he wasn't alone.



So maybe, just maybe, it could all work it.



"I'll do it," Bubbles finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.



John's expression softened, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Good. There's a 28-day program here. You'll start tomorrow."



The next morning, Bubbles walked into the program, still riding the high of the previous night's events. The journey to recovery was just beginning, and despite his doubts, he was determined to see it through. For John, for himself, and for the future he dared to dream of.



The days in the program were a blur of therapy sessions, group meetings, and solitary reflections. Bubbles struggled at first, the cravings for his old life gnawing at him. But John's words echoed in his mind, and the memory of John's presence gave him strength.



Each day, he felt a little stronger, a little more in control. He started to see glimpses of the future John had painted for him—a future where he wasn't just surviving, but thriving.



By the end of the 28 days, Bubbles emerged from the program a changed man. He was still the same in many ways, but he was no longer a slave to his addiction. He had a purpose, a direction, and the unwavering support of John Harker.



As he walked out of the building, he saw John waiting for him, leaning against the hood of his baby, the shit-brown ugly arse pickup truck that changed his life. Bubbles approached, a mixture of gratitude and determination in his eyes.



"Thank you, John," he said, his voice steady. "I couldn't have done it without you."



John nodded, a proud smile on his face. "You did well, Bubbles. Now, let's get to work. We've got a lot to do."



Bubbles felt a renewed sense of purpose as he climbed into the car. He wasn't just an addict anymore. He was a man with a future, a man who had taken control of his destiny.



"No," He shook his head, "Name's Reginald."



And he knew that, with John by his side, there was nothing he couldn't achieve.



As for John, his mind was preoccupied with other matters.



After all, he has been very, very busy in Bubbles...in Reginald's absence.





[Task Completed: First Retainer Obtained]



[Reward: 10 Exp, Ability: Ghoul Familiar.]





--------------------------



Hello! It's Hamtaro!



This is the end of Bubbles Arc and the start of the end of John's Crackhouse lifestyle.



I tried to be less 'preachy' without going full nutjob, worked the plot forward and introduced that Ghoul Making Ability. (Again, heavily based on Vampire the Masquerade.)

 

[TheHamtaro]

- A Stick-up to Rule Them All -
Vampire Rule N°12: The Best among the Vampires are those who are thanked and applauded by the very people they consume.

… … … … … …





John Harker leaned against the brick wall of a dilapidated building, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his leather jacket. He could hear the faint mumbles of business transactions, the quick exchange of cash for baggies, and the occasional nervous laughter that punctuated the night.

Every minute, someone got high, someone got scammed, someone got done.

This was an open-air drug market, one of many poisoning the blood that might otherwise sustain him, and tonight, he was on a mission.



John had a clear objective in mind. He needed to know how deep the rot went, how many corners these parasites had infected, and just how much muscle they could muster when threatened. If he was to cleanse Brideshead, he needed to understand the scale of the infestation first.



Bubbles had given him a solid idea, but it was still only from the dopefiend's point of view, the front of the operations so to speak.



It was all good if he wanted to raid some corner stash-houses; easy business, breaking a few bones and going him with a couple grands and some bags of dope he had no use for.



Standard stick-up activities, the kind of problems drug dealers expect, accept and endure easily as a cost of doing business. They might put out a bounty if they knew who did the hit, which was useless in his case since he didn't bother selling the drugs. The smarter ones started rotating the drugs and money more often while getting muscle in the houses.



That means that it was as effective in culling the drug trade as the GCPD's occasional operation.



It didn't mean shit.



If he wanted to actually do something about it, then he had to aim much higher.



Why though? Why go out of his way to damage the drug trade? Wouldn't it be better to let them operate freely then come back to mow the grass and make a few thousand bucks every once in a while?



The answer was fairly simple.

From the very moment John woke up in East End and decided to hang around, the prosperity and peace of mind of the drug dealers was doomed.



It was a natural conclusion.



A vampire feeds on blood and craves power.



Drug dealers hoard power and spoil the blood.



How could the two ever coexist?



One of them had to flee or be crushed, and John had no intention of cowering and seeking greener pastures because a bunch of fools on a drug-fuelled power trip were too much for him to handle.



'Not to mention of lucrative it would be to take over the assets of so many groups, without needed to worry about the costs of making business.' He thought, his mind already giving him ideas to launder and invest the money.



He moved silently, slipping from one vantage point to another. His senses, enhanced by his vampiric nature, picked up every whispered conversation, every furtive exchange of money for poison. The dealers operated with an arrogant confidence, as if they believed themselves untouchable.



And in a sense, they were right.



The police couldn't do anything, the bat was too focused on the big players and freaks to try and clean up the corners. Not to mention the fact that he never beat on children the way he battered the adults playing the same game.



Capes always made a point of avoiding the ugly reality of the streets, it was so much easier to break a grown man's bones after all.



Without an obvious predator, the dealers were free to grow as big and fat as they wished, only keeping an eye out for the crooked or incompetent cops or the rival gangs.



John couldn't help but smirk at their ignorance. They had no idea that they were being watched, studied by something far more dangerous than the police or rival gangs.



Each corner had its own crew, a motley assortment of lowlifes who thought themselves kings of the block. The vampire counted them, noting the way they interacted, the pecking order among them. The ground stashes were the easiest to spot—small amounts of drugs hidden in the most convenient of places, ready to be ditched at the first sign of trouble.



He didn't care much for them, stealing ground stashes was a capper, a drugfiend's game.



The corner stashes were better protected, but even there, John saw the holes in their defences. He had raided a good dozen in his short stay here, saw them go from a couple idiots playing guard to half a dozen fools with small guns and lots of bravado.



Raiding one was taking away a few days worth of money and drugs, a week at best, nothing they couldn't make up in a few days.



It was the main stashes that really interested him, though.



The places where the real money was kept, where the big players hung out, and where the drugs were cut and packaged. These were the fortresses, hidden behind the facades of legitimate businesses—a strip club here, a gentleman's bar there.



John knew that these places were more than just drug dens; they were the command centers, the heart of the operation.



He spent hours moving from one location to another, cataloguing every detail, every weakness. The more he saw, the more confident he became.



These dealers were complacent, lazy even. They had grown fat and slow, believing themselves safe in their little empire. But John knew better. He knew that in a city like Gotham, safety was an illusion, and empires could crumble overnight.

As the night wore on, the bloodsucker returned to the center of Brideshead, his mind racing with possibilities. He had seen enough to know that the local drug crews were vulnerable, ripe for the picking.



But he also knew that he couldn't rush this. He needed to be methodical, precise. A blitzkrieg was only effective if it was overwhelming, and for that, he needed more power.



The Vampire System has been a great tool, reliable, and gave him the opportunity to grow with each achievement, each bite in the neck of a worthy prey.



Maintaining a proper feeding habit, completing the Tasks and diligent exploitation of what he had availed him some solid growth.





[ Level: 4



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 270/400



- Exp: 17/80]



Still, it wasn't enough.



His mind drifted to the hunger gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. It was always there, a constant reminder of what he was and what he needed to survive. The blood thirst. The power it promised. He would feed tonight, but not just on any blood. He had standards, after all. Virgins, healthy, competent women, and those who intrigued him—those were the ones he favoured. The blood of addicts, drunks, and sluts was tainted, polluted. He wouldn't lower himself to that level.



But first, he needed to finish his reconnaissance. There were still a few more places he wanted to check out before the night was over. He slipped into the shadows once more, his eyes scanning the streets for anything he might have missed.



Or a the presence of a nosy bat, something he has avoided so far.



The more he observed, the more certain he became that this was the right move. These gangs, these so-called soldiers, were nothing more than parasites feeding off the misery of the people.



That was something only he had the right to do.



John's lips curled into a cold smile as he thought about what was to come.



He had seen enough. Now, it was time to feed.



He needed more power if he was going to take on the drug dealers and their so-called soldiers. They had numbers, weapons, and territory. John had himself. But that was enough, or it would be, once he'd fed.



His first stop was Max's apartment. Max Black, the feisty waitress who'd caught his eye, was someone special. Max had stopped smoking, partly because he'd made her, but also because she wanted to please him, even if she wouldn't admit it.



She would also stop working and spend more time taking care of herself if he had it his way, but that would come later.



He slipped into her apartment like a shadow, silent and unseen.



If he did the same thing while being ugly, it would be a horror show, but pretty privilege was a thing and there was no doubt that many a girl out there fantasized about being his glorified sandwich.



Max was asleep, her dark hair splayed out on the pillow, her breathing soft and steady. Johnny moved closer, even without unleashing his presence he could still affect her, stirring something deep within her even in sleep. She shifted, a soft sigh escaping her lips as he leaned over her, his eyes locked on the pulse beating in her neck.



He could hear her heart beating, her warm blood flowing...he could even smell it.



John didn't rush. He took his time, savouring the moment. His hand brushed against her skin, and she stirred again, her eyes fluttering open. There was no fear in her gaze, only a sleepy confusion that quickly turned to something else as she recognized him.



"Johnny…" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.



"Shh," he whispered, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic. "Just relax, Max."



She did, her body going limp at his command. Even without presence, or supernatural domination, she obeyed blindly and earnestly.



The perfect blood doll.



John bent down, his lips brushing against her neck, just above the artery. The hunger flared inside him, but he held it back, controlling it with iron will.



When he bit down, it wasn't a savage act. It was gentle, almost tender, his fangs sliding into her skin. Max gasped, her hands gripping the sheets as the pleasure hit her. John fed slowly, drawing out the experience for both of them. Her blood was rich, vibrant, filling him with a warmth that spread through his entire body.



[Blood Points: 330/400]

[+3 Exp Points]



He could feel the power surging within him, his senses sharpening, his muscles tightening. But it wasn't just physical strength he gained. There was something more, something deeper. It was like drinking in her essence, her life force, and it made him stronger, more complete with every gulp.



When he finally pulled away, Max was breathless, her eyes half-closed, a blissful smile on her lips. John licked the last traces of blood from his lips, savoring the taste.



"You did good, Max," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Get some rest."

She mumbled something incoherent, already drifting back to sleep as he slipped out of the apartment, leaving her with only the memory of the pleasure and the rapidly fading marks on her neck.



His saliva could close the wounds his fangs caused and helped prevent an infection.



It was rather fortunate, or hunting would be much more complicated.



One feeding wasn't enough. John needed more, much more, if he was going to take on the drug dealers and cleanse Brideshead. He moved through the night, hunting with a purpose. He knew where to find his prey—his usual hunting spots, the places where he could find the kind of blood he needed.



He avoided the addicts, the drunks, the ones whose blood was tainted by their vices. John had no interest in feeding on filth.



Instead, he sought out those who were pure, or as close to pure as one could find in Gotham.



Virgins, healthy women, those who had something to offer beyond just their blood. They were harder to find, but that only made the hunt more satisfying.

His next target was a young woman he'd been watching for a while.



She worked at a small boutique in the Gotham Heights, a place untouched by the worst of the city's corruption.



She was pretty, in a quiet way, with a shy smile and a reserved demeanour. John had seen her around, noticed the way she carried herself, the way she interacted with others.



She was intelligent, cautious, the kind of woman who didn't take risks.



But tonight, she had taken a risk. She had stayed late at the boutique, working after hours, alone. John had been waiting for this opportunity, and now it was here.



He approached her as she was locking up, stepping out of the shadows with a disarming smile. She startled at first, but his presence, his aura, put her at ease.



They talked for a few minutes, the vampire charming her with practiced ease, he almost felt bad for her.



When he made his move, it was quick, almost too quick for her to notice. One moment they were talking, and the next, she was in his arms, her head tilted to the side as he sank his fangs into her neck. The shock of it made her tense, but the pleasure that followed melted her resistance away.



John fed deeply, his hunger driving him, but he was careful not to take too much. He didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to leave her weak or drained. He took just enough to sate the hunger, to feel the power surge through him, then he pulled away, leaving her dazed and disoriented.



"Thank you," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead before disappearing into the night.



He continued like this, moving from one target to the next, each feeding bringing him closer to the power he needed. By the time he was done, the night was almost over, and John was filled with a power unlike anything he'd felt before.



[ Level: 4



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 400/400



- Exp: 88/80 (Level Up?)]



With a single thought, he felt his insides turn and his veins burn as if someone had poured molten steel within them. Something unlike his previous level ups, something greater.



In a few seconds the pain left, leaving behind nothing but a feeling of increased physical power.



He had reached a new milestone in his life as a humanoid mosquito.



[ Level: 5



- Name: Jonathan Harker.



- Age: 16



- Titles: Crackhouse Resident, Jailbait.



- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)



- Blood Points: 400/800



- Exp: 0/200]



He was ready, ready to take on the dealers, to cleanse Brideshead, and to claim his territory.



The next phase of his plan was about to begin.



---------------------------

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

Bubbles is in rehab, but John has been pretty busy, huh? He also finally reached that level 5 milestone, it's about time.

In case you were wondering, he got his first major physical boost (without bloodbuff) getting him from peak human with bullshit physics to slightly superhuman with bullshit physics.

He ain't no Spiderman, to be honest he ain't no Deathstroke either, but it's the start of a very twisted journey till he becomes some eldritch abomination.

His blood reserves doubled, and the Exp Required to level up also went up a lot.

Guess he'll need to eat someone a bit more important next if he wants to get strong.

Anyway, the whole Drugs Arc is about to end, so don't be stingy with your suggestions, advice and criticism!

Hope you'll have a nice day!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- A Stick-up to Rule Them All part-2 -
. . .


"Well, you can still be destroyed but... Forget the books and the movies. Garlic? It's worthless. A cross? Pfft! Shove it right up their ass! Hahahaha! A stake? Only if it catches you in the heart, and then it just paralyzes you. Runnin' water? Ah, that's no problem. I bathe... eh... occasionally. Now, a shotgun blast to the head? Oh, that's trouble, boy. Fire? That's real trouble. Sunlight? Well, you catch a sunrise and it's all over, kiddo. Get it?"



- Wisdom from a Jolly Blood Sucker.



… … … … … …



John knew the streets of Brideshead like the back of his hand. He'd spent weeks scoping out every corner, every alley, every damn crack in the pavement where the scum of the city hid their dirty business. He wasn't just some bloodsucker out for a midnight snack—he was a hunter, and these streets were his hunting grounds.



After feeding and levelling up, the thirst was sated, but the hunger for more power still gnawed at him. He was ready to tear through the filth that had taken root in his neighbourhood. The dealers, the thugs, the so-called soldiers—they thought they owned Brideshead, poisoned it's people, they maimed and slayed his cattle. Tonight, John was going to show them just how wrong they were.



It started with a tip-off—an exchange set to go down at a corner stash just past midnight. One of Hungry's guys, a lieutenant in charge of this particular crew was one of the more cautious types, the kind who didn't let his boys get too comfortable. He rotated locations, kept the deals short and quick, and always made sure to be on the move.



But no one could stay off John's radar for long.



He perched on a rooftop, hidden in the shadows, watching the street below like a hawk. The stash was hidden in plain sight, a viable alternative to the usual vacant house. A busted-up phone booth with a false bottom, a garbage can with a hollowed-out interior—it didn't matter. The real action was what happened around it, the comings and goings of the corner boys, the muscle lurking nearby, and the lieutenant who orchestrated it all.

Sure enough, he spotted the man in charge, a wiry fella with a slick, greasy look about him. He moved with the nervous energy of someone who knew he was in a dangerous business but wasn't quite sure how to get out. The guy had half a dozen men with him, each one armed, though they tried to keep it subtle. A couple of Glocks tucked into waistbands, a shotgun hidden under a ratty jacket….now that's troublesome.



Unless you were some Superman-kinda guy, a shotgun blast to the face will always be a bad experience.



Fortunately for him, the man on the other side of the barrel was big, green and squishy.



John couldn't help but smirk. They had no idea what was coming.



The exchange was quick. The lieutenant handed off a small duffel bag—probably stuffed with cash—while his guy passed over a package wrapped in brown paper. It was a smooth transaction, efficient even, but John didn't care about the deal itself. He was after the bigger fish.



'This kind of transfer is routine, give the corner boy's a new package and take your share of the profits back home,' The vampire thought, getting himself ready.



He put on his game face, he was dressed in all black with a hood large enough to cast a shadow over his face to protect his identity, though he knew that a bit of presence and showing off his burning red eyes would be enough to craft a separate image from the charming, playful John Harker.



As the crew started to disperse, the lieutenant gave a nod to his men, signalling them to take the stash back to their corner. It was then that John made his move.



He dropped down from the rooftop, landing silently in the alley. The lieutenant was already heading back to his car, a beat-up sedan that looked like it had seen better days. John slipped through the shadows, his footsteps soundless on the pavement, until he was right behind the man.



The lieutenant never saw him coming. John's hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him against the car with enough force to dent the door. The man's eyes bulged in shock, his hands scrabbling at John's grip, but it was like trying to move steel.



"Where do you think you're going?" John hissed, his voice low and cold.

The lieutenant gurgled something incomprehensible, his eyes wide with fear. John loosened his grip just enough to let him speak.



"W-what the hell… who the f*ck are you?" the man stammered, his voice shaky.



"Doesn't matter. What matters is you're going to take me to your boss." His red eyes shone even brighter under his hood.



The man's eyes darted around, looking for the crew, but they were too far away, already heading down the block. John could see the panic setting in, the realization that he was utterly alone with a predator he couldn't hope to fight off.



"You've got two choices," John continued, his voice as calm as ever. "Take me to your boss, or I start tearing apart your little operation piece by piece until there's nothing left but blood and dust."



The lieutenant hesitated, and for a moment, John thought he might try to fight back. But then the man's shoulders slumped in defeat, and he nodded weakly.



"All right, all right, I'll take you… just don't kill me, man."



John smiled—a cold, predatory grin that showed just a hint of fang. "Good choice. Now, drive."



The ride to the main stash was tense. The lieutenant kept glancing at John in the rearview mirror, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. John didn't say a word, just stared out the window, already planning his next move.



Of course, his nine-millimetre was pressed against the driver seat, business end pointed right at his new friend's spine, just in case his balls got bigger and overthrew his brain's rule.



"I'm out, I'll take my money and go back to Texas, game got too fierce nowadays…" He heard the relatively old man, at least in his profession, mumble under his breath.



"Yes, that would be a smart idea." He answered honestly, but his driver didn't think much of his advice.



Or maybe he did? John couldn't tell, the poor guy just flinched and kept driving in complete silence this time.



'That's pretty rude.' He thought, shaking his head in disapproval.



The main stash was exactly what he expected—a rundown strip club on the edge of Brideshead. The kind of place that looked as shady as all hell, seedy in more than one way, but still pulled in a decent crowd thanks to the cheap booze and cheaper thrills. It was the perfect front for a drug operation. The bouncers at the door gave the lieutenant a nod as they passed, not even bothering to search him or his "guest." It was a sign of just how secure they felt in their little kingdom.



But their arrogance would be their downfall.



Once inside, John could feel the tension in the air. The place was packed with muscle; dozens of guys, all armed to the teeth, lounging around as if they owned the world. The lieutenant led him through the club, past the bar, and into the back room where the real action was.



'Seven pistols, three assault rifles, four shotguns and a bunch of baseball bats, knives and knuckle dusters.' The vampire counted in less than a second, choosing the most fitting among the many plans of attack he had prepared.



Hungry was there too, surrounded by his best soldiers. He was a large man, built like a tank, with a bald head and a thick gold chain around his neck. The kind of guy who looked like he could break bones with his bare hands—and probably had on more than one occasion.



He favoured the melee judging by his scarred knuckles, though he still had a large revolver within arm's reach.



"Franky, who the hell is this?" The boss growled as John and the lieutenant entered.



"Uh, boss… this is the guy who's been causing trouble," the lieutenant stammered, trying to keep his voice steady. "He—"



Before he could finish, John moved. It was like a blur of motion—a speed that no human could match. He grabbed the nearest thug with a shotgun, twisting his arm behind his back with a sickening crack, then used him as a meat-shield as the others scrambled to draw their weapons.



The room exploded into chaos. The thugs fired off shots, but John was already on the move, darting between them with supernatural agility. He could feel the power coursing through him, the strength that came from his recent feeding, from levelling up. His fists were like hammers, breaking bones and crushing jaws with every strike.



"F*ck this, I'm getting outa here," His driver said, running away without looking back amidst the confusion.



"Bye Franky!" He called while neutralising the last of the shotgun-men with a brutal kick right on the liver, he grabbed the metal weapon and threw at a shooter who was a bit too accurate for his taste.



*Crunch*



"Argh!" His target whimpered on the floor after his skull had a nice meeting with the heavy gun.



The handgun fire that might have torn a normal man to shreds barely slowed him down, and he was much too fast for the riflemen to spray him without butchering their own friends and brothers.



The few wounds he sustained where healed almost instantly, and he still had more than enough blood in his reserves to unleash dreadful presence upon his helpless enemies.



He used the fear to his advantage, letting the terror spread through the room like wildfire. The men started to panic, shooting wildly, hitting more of their own than they did him.



The vampire was unwilling to personally kill anyone just yet, getting caught by this or that vigilante was still a risk, so he'd rather keep the 'I am Justice' card just in case.



However, it didn't mean he had to save them from themselves.



John focused on their boss, the big man who had once seemed so imposing. Now, he was just another target. Hungry swung at him, a meaty fist aimed at John's head, but John ducked under it with ease, then drove his elbow into the man's ribs with enough force to crack them.



However, he wasn't a boss for nothing, the enraged criminal all but shrugged it off, instead aiming his large revolver right at John's hooded head ready to take the shot.



A weapon of this caliber would take a pound of flesh, and he was a bit too close to evade all six shots without taking chances, so John burned some blood to activate his bloodbuff for the very first time in battle.



The explosive increase in speed was all it took to close the distance between them before he could even press the trigger, John punched him right in the stomach with so much force both he and the gun were sent flying on different directions.



In his Earth, the gangster would be a peak athlete with the strenght, speed and durability he displayed. But here, he was just a common brute.



Hungry staggered, gasping for breath, but John didn't give him a chance to recover. He grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him off his feet as if he weighed nothing, then slammed him into the wall. The boss's eyes were wide with fear, the bravado gone in an instant.



"Please… please don't kill me," the boss wheezed, his voice trembling.





John leaned in close, his eyes glowing with a cold, predatory light. "I'm not here to kill you," he said, his voice dripping with menace. "Not yet. First, I'm going to take everything you've got. Then I'll let you live long enough to see your empire crumble."



He dropped the battered and bruised boss to the floor, leaving him gasping for air until a foot on his face sent him to land of dreams. The rest of the thugs were either unconscious, wounded, or too terrified to fight back.



John walked through the room, picking up the duffel bags filled with cash and drugs, grabbing a few guns for good measure, and stuffing them into his coat.



He scattered the rest of the drugs; crack, dope and coke around the home, making it unfit for consumption.



He checked for cameras, but even thugs had the sense not to record a criminal conspiracy.



As he left the strip club, he felt a grim satisfaction. The first step in his plan was complete. He had taken down one of the biggest players in Brideshead, and he'd done it without breaking a sweat, the sound of sirens coming to the worst neighbourhood in all of Gotham was the cherry on top.



But he wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.



John returned to his apartment, the spoils of his raid hidden beneath his coat. His place still wasn't much to look at, a relatively clean crackhouse was a crackhouse nonetheless, but it served its purpose.



He didn't need luxury for the moment; he needed privacy, a place where he could lay low and plan his next move.



He stashed the cash and weapons in the bathroom, making sure everything was secure. The duffel bag felt heavier than before, not because of the money or the guns, but because of the significance of what he'd just done. He'd made a statement—a loud, violent statement—that Brideshead was no longer under the control of petty thugs and dealers. It was his territory now.



But John wasn't naive. He knew that taking down one gang wouldn't be enough. The others would see what had happened and either come after him, or go into hiding. Either way, he needed to act fast before they had a chance to regroup.



He wasn't too worried about being targeted, he was essentially a ghost for all intents and purposes.



He didn't sell dope, didn't flaunt wealth and didn't hang out with any crowd save for a dopefiend and people just ignored those folks.



John didn't get out in the day either, when most of spying and gossiping...I mean, 'intel-gathering', took place.



So he was safe from the wrath of those he robbed.



He stepped back out into the night, his mind already working on the next target. He needed to track down the remaining gangs, find their main stashes, and hit them where it hurt. It wouldn't be easy, each gang had its own network of hideouts, muscle, and connections, but John had something they didn't. He had the element of surprise, and he had the power that came from feeding, he was a vampire.



They never stood a chance.

......

Don't forget to drop yer reviews me lads! I appreciate the support!

Criticism, suggestions and advice are always welcome! So don't be a stranger!

Writing action scenes is pretty new, any idea on how I might improve them? Readers or writers, I'll take anyone's advice if he's giving it away.

 

[TheHamtaro]

- A Stick-Up to Rule Them All -

. . .

Vampire Rule N°13: Only eat people when it's on your terms, a stranger asking to be bitten is as much a trap as Astolfo.

… … … … … … …



A few days ago he was walking around the streets with Bubbles, being told tall tales about Hungry's crew and how they won their corners with lead and violence.



Now he stood in his crackhouse surrounded by their ill-gotten money, Hungry's crew bleeding and most likely getting arrested after the single worst night of their gangster careers.



But tonight wasn't over. He had more work to do.



John locked up his spoils and left the apartment, disappearing into the night like the monster he truly was, and not a constipated discoball looking for his soul mate.



The first gang had been a challenge, but he wasn't one to back down. If anything, the success of his first raid had only fueled his hunger for more. He moved swiftly, his senses heightened as he made his way to the next target.



The possibility of encountering the bat was still keeping him on edge, but it might be a good thing, it kept him on his toes and honed his perception.



The second gang John had in mind was holed up in a gentleman on the south side, a place that was known for its flashy lights and thumping bass. But beneath the surface, it was just as dirty as the rest of Brideshead. The gang used the place as their base of operations, with a stash hidden somewhere in the back.



John slipped into the alley behind the bar, listening to the muffled music and the occasional shout from a bouncer. He could hear the voices of a few gangbangers near the back door, talking and laughing, completely unaware that they were being watched.



"Man, I tell ya, the boss is paranoid as hell," one of them said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "He's been jumpy all night, like he's expecting someone to come bustin' through the door."



"Can you blame him?" another replied. "Heard some freak took out Hungry's crew earlier. We're talkin' the whole stash, gone, just like that."



"No way, man. That's just some bullsh*t to scare us. Ain't nobody crazy enough to hit us here. This place is locked down tight."



"Yeah, you're probably right. I mean, who'd be stupid enough to mess with us?"



John couldn't help but smirk as he listened to their banter. The irony was too good. He crept closer, staying out of sight as he moved along the wall. The door was just ahead, slightly ajar, and the two thugs were standing right next to it. He picked up a small pebble from the ground and tossed it down the alley, causing it to clatter against a dumpster.



The sound was enough to make the thugs jump. They both turned in the direction of the noise, their hands moving toward their weapons.



"What the hell was that?"



"Probably just a rat or somethin'. This place is full of 'em."



"Well, go check it out. I'm not takin' any chances."



The first thug reluctantly moved toward the sound, his gun at the ready. John waited until the man was a few steps away from the door before he made his move. He darted forward, silent and quick, grabbing the second thug from behind and clamping a hand over his mouth. The man struggled, but John's grip was ironclad. He dragged him into the shadows, knocking him out with a precise blow to the back of the head.

The first thug turned around just in time to see his buddy disappear into the darkness. His eyes went wide, and he fumbled for his gun, but John was on him before he could shoot, scream or make a fuss. A quick punch to the gut left the thug gasping for air, and John followed up with a swift kick to the knee, sending the man crashing to the ground.



"Who's there?" the thug wheezed, trying to scramble back to his feet.

John leaned in close, his voice a low growl. "Just a ghost. And you're about to have a very bad night."



The thug's eyes widened in terror as John delivered a final blow, knocking him out cold. John stood up, dusting off his hands, and stepped over the unconscious bodies. He pushed open the door and slipped into the club.



The interior was a chaotic mix of flashing lights, pounding music, and dancing bodies. The gang had chosen the perfect cover—no one would notice a few extra men hanging around, and the noise would drown out any suspicious sounds. But John was a master of slipping through unnoticed. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, heading toward the back of the club where the gang's stash was hidden.



As he approached, he could hear the voices of more thugs, laughing and joking as they counted money and sorted through packages.

"This is the life, man," one of them said. "Money, drugs, and all the girls you could want. Ain't nothin' better."



"You got that right," another replied. "And the best part? We got this place locked down. Nobody's gettin' past us."



John smiled to himself. It was almost too easy.



He waited until one of them moved away from the stash, heading toward the bar for a drink. Then, he struck. He moved with lightning speed, taking out the nearest thug with a quick blow to the head. The man crumpled to the ground, unnoticed by his companions. John continued, taking out the second thug with a well-placed punch to the throat.



By the time the last thug realized something was wrong, it was too late. John was on him, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall.



"Where's the stash?" John demanded, his voice low and dangerous.



The thug struggled, his eyes wide with fear. "B-back there, behind the wall! Please, don't hurt me!"



John nodded, satisfied, and knocked the thug out with a quick jab. He moved to the wall, finding the hidden panel that concealed the stash. Inside were stacks of cash, bags of drugs, and a few more weapons. He grabbed what he could carry, stuffing the cash into a duffel bag, and left the rest. The drugs he destroyed, just like before.



As he left the club, he could already hear the commotion inside as the gang realized they'd been hit. But by then, John was long gone, disappearing into the night.



It might've not been as violent as his 'meeting' with Hungry, but the damage wasn't that much smaller, especially if someone called on a phone booth to report screams and gunshots in a certain gentleman's bar.



Who said a vampire couldn't be a good citizen?



The third gang was based in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Brideshead. This one was going to be more challenging—the place was a fortress, with high walls and a small army of heavily armed thugs, all they needed was a few watch towers and they could go to war.



But John wasn't about to back down. If anything, the challenge only made him more determined.



He approached the factory cautiously, sticking to the darkness as he scouted the perimeter. There were thugs playing guard posted at every entrance, and he could see the outlines of more men patrolling the upper levels. They were prepared for a siege, but not for someone like him.



John waited until one of the guards wandered too close to the edge of the fence before he made his move. He scaled the wall quickly, grabbing the guard and pulling him over the edge. The man hit the ground with a dull thud, unconscious before he could even react.



The vampire slipped inside the factory, moving silently through the maze of machinery and rusting equipment between tables where the dope was cut and package. The place was massive, with multiple levels and plenty of places to hide. But he had a mission, and he wasn't about to get distracted.



He could hear the gang members talking as he moved closer to the center of the factory, where the main stash was most likely to be hidden.



"I'm tellin' you, man, the boss is freakin' out. He's got everyone on high alert."



"Can you blame him? First Hungry's crew, then the nightclub… who's next?"

"Whoever it is, they're gonna get a bullet in the head if they try anything here."



John smirked. These guys were so confident, so sure that they were untouchable. He was about to show them just how wrong they were.



That, or there was some sort of virus making people stupidly brave in Gotham City.



He crept closer, his eyes scanning the area for any weaknesses in their defenses. The main stash was heavily guarded, with at least a dozen men stationed around it. They were armed with shotguns, assault rifles, and a few handguns—enough firepower to take down a small army.



'Where are the canons?' He thoughts, looking everywhere but finding none, 'That's strange...bitches love canons.'



But John wasn't a small army. He was something much more dangerous, a tween's dream fantasy.



He waited for the right moment, then struck. He moved quickly, using the darkness and the cluttered layout of the factory to his advantage. The first two thugs went down silently, their weapons clattering to the ground as they fell. The third managed to get off a shot, but it went wide, missing John by inches.



"Who the hell is out there?!" one of the thugs shouted, panic in his voice.

"Spread out! Don't let him get away!" One of them shouted, giving out the worst possible command.



The gang members fanned out, searching for their invisible attacker. But John was already on the move, picking them off one by one. He used the factory's machinery as cover, slipping between the shadows and striking when they least expected it. The thugs tried to fight back, but how were they supposed to overcome a vampire of all things? Not that they knew…



"Man, this guy's like a freakin' ghost!" one of them shouted, his voice trembling with fear.



"Shut up and keep looking! We gotta find him!"



It was all in vain. John was everywhere and nowhere at once, always one step ahead of them. He took down another thug, then another, until only a few were left standing. By then, the panic had set in, and they were firing wildly into the darkness, desperate to hit something—anything.



John took advantage of their panic, closing in on the last few thugs. He disarmed one, elbowing him in the liver before knocking him out with a punch...yeah, that man wasn't gonna drink booze for a long time.

The last two tried to run, but John was faster. He caught them before they could reach the exit, taking them down with a few well-placed strikes.



When it was over, John stood in the middle of the factory, surrounded by unconscious bodies. He took a moment to catch his breath, then moved to the stash. Just like before, he took the cash and destroyed the drugs.



It was time for him to come back home with the booty, the night would be over soon and he wasn't eager to sleep in the sewers for the whole day.



The next day, the streets would talk of a monster in Brideshead hunting down drug dealers with a vengence.



Some said that it was the ghost of a man they killed during a shout-out, back from the underworld to give them a taste of their own medicine.



Others called it bullsh*t, and said there was no way a single man could do all this, it had to be another gang trying to get one over their competition.



In less than a day, there was a dozen different version of the events, and even those who experienced John's own version of 'the fist of love' disagreed about what trully happened.



The vampire who caused this mess was oblivious, having gone to sleep thinking about how he could exploit the opportunity to make some actual progress in ridding the streets of the drugs that made the blood so disgusting.



He might've broken the bones of the dealers, but the users were still out there looking to get high, eventually someone would come to satisfy their needs for a few bucks no matter how many gangbanger he beat up or how much money he stol—righfully plundered.



If he wanted to hurt the drug market, he had to ged rid of the fiends keeping it alive.



One thing was certain though, things were about to change.



. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And we're done, already.

I tried to channel my inner Arkham-Games Goon to write the dialogue, hope it went well.

If you've got any suggestions, don't be a stranger.

Leave a comment, drop yer likes and have a mighty fine day!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Damage Control -

. . .



Yo! It's Hamtaro!

I know, I know, it's been waaaay too long since the last update, but what can I say? Things got hectic over here.

I didn't stop writing though, we've officially got that 10 chapters headstart, a safety net against your mighty cheeked author burning out and dropping! Isn't it awesome?

I've also made that discord so you can actively know what's going on with the story, give suggestions and give me your opinions more easily. I'll make an announcement there before each update, and you'll usually know when I'm posting ahead of time.

Discord here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2

I hope you'll come

Again, since I took some time to update, this chapter is much longer than usual.

A cozy 3300 words long, not including the Author Note obviously.

Big, huh, like my...heart.

Make a comment, a review and drop a couple likes if you wanna support this author, my praise-kink demands no less!

I hope you'll enjoy, have a wonderful day and drink plenty of water.

---------------------

Vampire Rule N°14: If you're tempted to sparkle, stake your own heart. Seriously, you're better than that.



… … … … … … …



The basement of the old community center was barely lit, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead providing a low, constant buzz. It was a relic from another era, a place that had once been a beacon of hope, but now bore the weight of neglect.



The result of years spent cutting costs, trying and failing to stay afloat.



The walls, yellowed with age, held memories of a time when the center had been alive with activity, back when Thomas and Martha Wayne had funded it as part of their vision for a better Gotham.



That was decades ago, though, and without stable donors or anyone to champion its cause, the building had fallen into disrepair.



'A darn shame.' The vampire thought, looking at an old bronze plate hanged in their honor.



John stepped inside, his shoes echoing faintly on the cracked linoleum floor. He took a moment to survey the room. There were the usual faces, people who had become fixtures at these meetings, each of them carrying a different burden, yet all bound by the same desperate need for escape.



He saw the folks he lured in, counted them and gave them a nod acknowledging their presence and promising to fulfil his part of their little arrangement.



Some kindness and lots of presence could a whole lot of good.



Though John had a nagging feeling that the powers that be wouldn't appreciate his ways, either because they desire it or find in immoral.



It did, however, work much better than anything they came up with to fight this war on drugs.



He moved toward the circle of folding chairs, nodding in greeting to the few who noticed him. Carl was already there, his gaunt frame slumped in a chair near the back, hands trembling slightly as he fiddled with a crumpled pack of gum. Next to him was Deb, a middle-aged woman who had once been vibrant and full of life, but now seemed like a shadow of her former self. Her hair, once fiery red, was now streaked with gray, a testament to the years she'd lost to her addiction.

It was crazy how the needle would age people, a few years of injections and they would all look twenty years older than they really were.



"Evening, folks," John said, settling into a chair with an easy smile. His voice was smooth, disarming, the kind that made people want to trust him. It was a skill he had honed over the years, and it served him well.



A few muttered responses greeted him. Most of these people were too deep in their own thoughts to offer more than a nod or a grunt, but that was okay. John wasn't here to draw attention to himself—not too much, anyway. He was here to listen, to offer support, and to slowly, subtly, position himself as someone they could rely on.



They knew him as the guy who brought in Bubbles and got him to leave the streets for a bed in a rehab center, then just continued showing up with food and clothes to be donated.



A bit of presence here and there taught them how to appreciate his diligence instead of questioning it.



"Good to see you again, Johnny," Carl said quietly, offering a shaky smile. The man was a wreck, his life having spiralled out of control years ago after a back injury introduced him to painkillers. Now, he was just another casualty of the opioid crisis, hanging on by a thread.

The man was once on ace in construction and home renovation, able to turn some concrete and bricks into a dream house, or so he said after a few drinks.



Then he got hurt, and went to see a doctor who smiled and gave him the prescription that ended it all.



John returned the smile, giving Carl a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Good to see you too, Carl. How're you holding up?"



"Some days are better than others, y'know? I'm trying, but it's hard." Carl shrugged, the motion almost imperceptible.



"I know it is," John replied, his tone sympathetic. "But you're here, and that counts for a lot."



The room slowly filled with more people, each one carrying their own story of pain, of battles fought and lost. Mike, the ex-marine, entered with his usual heavy steps, taking a seat on the edge of the circle. The man was a hulking figure, his face hard and lined with the memories of a past he rarely spoke about. John had heard snippets, though—whispers of things Mike had done during his tours in Latin America, things that haunted him even now.



John caught Mike's eye and offered a nod. Mike returned it, his expression grim.



The group leader, an older woman named Helen, cleared her throat, signalling the start of the meeting. She wasn't much for speeches, preferring to keep things informal. There were no grand introductions, no prayers or rituals—just people talking, sharing their struggles in the hope that someone else might understand and maybe, just maybe help them get better.



"So, who wants to start?" Helen asked, her voice raspy from years of smoking.



Deb was the first to speak up, her voice wavering as she recounted the past week. "I've been clean for three weeks now," she said, her eyes flicking nervously around the room. "But it's been hell. Every day, it's like this… this weight pressing down on me. I miss my kids so much, and I know it's my fault they're gone. Sometimes, I just want to give up."



'Oh, cry me a river, I once had to dig up a bullet out of my own asscheeks with a butter knife.' Was what John wanted to say, and he could continue trauma-dumping for a good while, the costs of moving up in the world...worlds in this case.



But he didn't, this was work after all.



John leaned forward, his gaze steady on her. "Three weeks is no small feat, Deb. You're doing something a lot of people couldn't. But you can't beat yourself up for what's happened. You've got to keep looking forward, keep pushing through. Your kids need you to be strong."



"I know, I know… it's just hard." Deb nodded, though her eyes were still wet with unshed tears.



"It always is," John agreed, his voice low and comforting. "But you're not alone. You've got all of us here, and we're going to help you through it."



There were murmurs of agreement around the circle, a quiet solidarity forming among them. John noticed the way people looked at him, the trust they were beginning to place in him. It was exactly what he wanted.



Taking over Brideshead, one junkie's heart at a time.



He turned his attention to Mike next, sensing the tension radiating off the man. "How about you, Mike? How've you been?"



Mike shifted in his seat, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Been better," he muttered. "Been worse, too. Sometimes… sometimes I think about the things I did, and I wonder if I'm ever gonna be free of it."



John didn't offer platitudes or patriotic nonsense. He wasn't interested in pretending that Mike's service had been some noble endeavor. He knew better than that.



Lots folks were still riding the juice from the cold war, and that meant telling a man than butchering civilians in the name of relative democracy and free market was rather common.



Even when they were propping up dictators.



The meeting continued with more stories, more confessions.



There was Lydia, a young woman who had lost her scholarship and dropped out of college after her cocaine habit took over her life, the poor girl had just stopped tricking to get her vials and was now worried about catching the bug.



There was Greg, an ageing musician who'd seen his bandmates die one by one from overdoses, and now struggled to stay clean long enough to finish a song.



John listened to each of them, offering words of encouragement, never pushing too hard. He knew how to walk the line, how to make people feel like he was on their side without giving too much of himself away.



When the meeting finally wrapped up, people lingered, talking in small groups or offering each other quiet support. John stayed behind, moving from person to person, making sure they knew he was there for them.



'I should really hire someone to do this for me,' He thought while patting Mike on the back, brand marketing wasn't really that fun, 'Oh well, the woes of a small business owner.'



He approached Helen as she gathered the coffee cups, her hands shaking slightly from arthritis.



"You're doing good work here," he said, his voice warm. "But I can see the place could use some help."



Helen sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Yeah, it's been tough. We used to get some funding, but that dried up years ago. Now we're just scraping by."



"I've come into some money recently. Maybe I could help out, make a donation to keep things going." John nodded thoughtfully.



Helen looked up at him, surprise and gratitude in her eyes. "You'd do that? That would mean the world to us, Johnny."



He smiled, the gesture sincere...he just remembered the video of man trying to shower in the beach while some sneaky prankster kept putting more and more shampoo over his head.



"Of course. I'll talk to some people, see what I can do. This place is important. People need it." He said.



Helen patted his arm, her eyes misting over. "Thank you. Really, thank you."



John just nodded, watching as she walked away. He knew what he was doing. By positioning himself as a benefactor, he was solidifying his influence here, making sure these people saw him as their lifeline. It was all part of the plan, but he couldn't deny that it felt a tiny little bit good to be helping, even if his reasons weren't entirely pure.



Someone somewhere was likely cursing him for disliking drugs and doing something about it, even if it was good for him, the benefits it brought to the greater world around him might be too great for some people's tastes.



He should only maim, kill, steal and otherwise slaughter everyone and everything with no regard for his own quality of life, personal tastes and opinions.



People would then flock around him and serve him based on his good looks, winning smile and Je-ne-sais-quoi of lustful stupidity that drive most people with a system.



Unfortunately, neither life nor unlife worked like this.



As he left the center, John couldn't help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction. He was playing a long game, one that required patience and careful manoeuvring. But he was getting what he wanted—a foothold in Brideshead, and the loyalty of people who one day would do anything for him.



And if, along the way, he made their lives a little better… well, that was just the icing on the cake.



The meeting might've ended, but the night was still young and he was still very busy.



People were more likely to follow someone who offered them something tangible, even if it came with a hidden price tag. His plan to clean up the streets was twofold: eliminate the troublesome fellows and bring the addicts under his control. It was a delicate balance between appearing as a savior and remaining the secretive force that lurked in the shadows, reappearing to break the bones of dealers who got a bit too brave.



It's been some time since his biggest stick-up, but he was satisfied with the progress.



He started with something simple, but powerful...a small daily bribe for those who showed a desire to get clean, or at least the appearance of it.



Every addict who came to him for clean needles and went to the local Narcotics Anonymous meetings would get ten dollars, no strings attached. It wasn't much, but in a place like Brideshead, the price of a vial was the price of loyalty.



John walked through the alleyways, his dark coat flaring slightly with each step. His presence was commanding, even without the supernatural influence he could wield. He preferred to save that for special occasions, letting his natural charisma do the work. As he approached a small gathering of addicts huddled near a burned-out building, he could hear the soft murmurs of desperation and hope—a toxic mix that he knew how to exploit.



"Hey, Johnny!" A lanky man with sunken eyes and a twitch in his neck called out. His voice was shaky, but there was a glimmer of something akin to respect in his eyes…that or he was high, maybe both, "You got any more of those clean needles?"



John nodded, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small bag filled with fresh syringes. He handed them over to the man, who took them with trembling hands.



"Thanks, man. You don't know how much this helps," the addict said, his voice almost reverent.



The bug was everywhere these days, and needles were becoming a rare commodity forcing the lowliest of fiends to share their stuff with people they'd rather not.



"I know exactly how much it helps," John replied with a small, almost predatory smile. "And you know what to do to keep it coming, right?"



It was a comical sight, he stood there all threatening while trying to help the man turn his life around.



The man nodded eagerly. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be at the meeting tonight. Promise."



"Good," John said, handing him a ten-dollar bill. "Remember, I'm not doing this for free. You keep going to those meetings, and I'll keep helping you out."



As the addict shuffled off, John turned his attention to a small group of women nearby.



They were younger, with the same desperate look in their eyes but still clinging to some semblance of dignity. He approached them, his voice softening as he spoke.



"Evening, ladies," he greeted them with a nod. "How're you holding up?"



One of them, a woman in her mid-twenties with frayed hair and a weary expression, looked up at him. "We're getting by," she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. "But it ain't easy."



John reached into his pocket again, pulling out another bag of clean needles and some more cash. "Here, this might help. And if you need more, you know where to find me."



The women took the supplies gratefully, exchanging quick glances with each other before one of them spoke up. "Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"



John chuckled, the sound low and almost comforting. "Let's just say I like seeing people turn their lives around. Besides, it's good to have friends in low places."



He could see the scepticism in their eyes, but they didn't push further. Instead, they accepted the help, tucking the money into their pockets and murmuring their thanks. As they walked away, John watched them with a calculating gaze. Every person he helped was another thread in the web he was weaving—a web that would eventually ensnare them all.



For the Greater Good.



His greater good, to be precise.



As John continued his rounds, he noticed a car pull up to one of the still-active drug corners. The car was a bit too nice for this part of town, standing out like a sore thumb. He paused, observing with mild curiosity as a young woman stepped out, her friends lingering in the vehicle. She had a sharp look about her—smart, but desperate. He recognized the signs all too well.



The corner dealer, a wiry man with greasy hair, sauntered over to her, a sly grin on his face. John could hear their conversation from where he stood, his enhanced senses picking up every word.



"You're lookin' for something special tonight?" the dealer asked, his tone oozing with false charm.



The woman handed him a wad of cash, her expression cold and focused. "Just the usual. No extras."



The dealer chuckled, leaning in a little too close. "Come on, sweetheart. How about a little something for me, and I'll throw in a bonus?"



She recoiled slightly, her eyes narrowing. "I said no extras. Just give me the stuff."



The dealer's grin faltered, but he handed over the small baggie, muttering under his breath. The woman took it and quickly turned on her heel, heading back to the car without another word. As she drove away, John couldn't help but smirk. She had fire, but he knew it wouldn't last. In a few weeks, maybe less, she'd be back, and her resolve would have crumbled.



That was a shame, she would have been a mighty fine meal if she wasn't so intent on wasting her life, money and blood lusting after that blast.



Still, the corner boy had been a bit too pushy for his tastes...



"Got a tough one there," John remarked as he approached the dealer, who flinched at the unexpected presence.



"Johnny," the dealer greeted nervously, his earlier bravado gone. "Didn't see you there. Just, uh, taking care of business, you know?"



When someone went around helping out the fiends, he was bound to piss off a couple hoppers, what followed was a right beating that taught people that sweet Johnny Blue Eyes wasn't all that sweet after all.



John nodded, his expression unreadable. "I see that. Be careful with that one. She might not break as easily as the others."



The dealer swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. John clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture both reassuring and ominous. "Just a friendly warning. You don't want to push too hard, too fast."



"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the dealer stammered. "I'll be careful."



John gave him a final nod before turning away, continuing his rounds with a satisfied air. He had no real concern for the woman or the dealer, but it amused him to see the dynamics at play. The delicate dance of power, desperation, and control was something he excelled at, and he enjoyed watching it unfold.



As the night wore on, John found himself reflecting on the strange satisfaction he felt from helping these people. It was a twisted kind of pleasure, knowing that he was doing good deeds for all the wrong reasons. But he didn't let himself dwell on it for too long.



He had a plan to execute, and sentimentality had no place in it.



Each addict he helped, each connection he made, brought him closer to his goal...and that's all that matters when all is said and gone.



He was just playing damage control, trying to remove the demand for drugs instead of just beating up the offer.



Still, helping people instead of just eating them did feel pretty good.



And if a certain dealer got beaten to an inch of his life then lightened from the burden of his ill-gotten money, no one would complain.



..........

Author Note:

Hello! Hamtaro's Back! Back Again!

The chapter was a bit slow, since it's a consolidation of the whole dope arc and about what John's doing outside of bashing folks heads and taking all their money.

I've also tried to give a rational for his distaste of the drug trade in particular, since the whole thing started because I learned too much stuff while figuring out how folks like Rupert Thorn, Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone and other old school mobs made their money, how it was different from The Penguin and Blackmask or the Great White Shark, and where the smaller gangs played into this.

I ended up consuming a lot of drug--drug content! content about drugs! And this whole Arc was born.

It was also a convenient target for John when he takes a walk, and something I could use to escalate stuff and bring some interesting plotlines around.

For those asking about DC character, we've already gotten to two minor ones in my reserve chapters, and things will only get faster and bigger from there.

I hope you had a good time, and will join me in discord right here: discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2

Leave a comment, drop yer likes and have a pleasent day!

 

[TheHamtaro]

- Crackhouse Resident No More -




Vampire Rule #15: If you're technically perpetually underage due to an untimely demise, just remember—age is nothing but a number. Unfortunately, so is a prison sentence.

… … … … … … … … …



John Harker leaned back in the creaky wooden chair of his crackhouse domicile, the faint sound of dripping water and distant sirens filtering through the boarded-up windows, just to remind that he was in Gotham and that it sucked heavily.



No matter how many times he tried to clean it, the place still stank of mold, stale cigarettes, and the lingering despair of the previous inhabitants.



A perfume everyone in Brideshead learned to ignore, but was becoming increasingly inconvenient.



He was growing tired of the cracked floor, the peeling wallpaper, and, more importantly, the inability to bring his snacks home.



There was something darkly amusing about the fact that, in the eyes of the law, his meals were pedophiles. The irony wasn't lost on him, and he often chuckled at the thought, but he knew he needed to get out of this place.

Sooner rather than later.



The problem was his age—or at least, what his ID said about it. Being technically underage meant he couldn't just walk into a rental office and sign a lease on a nice apartment in a better part of Gotham. No, he'd have to do things the hard way, the legal way; get emancipated, make himself a legal adult, and then find a place that wasn't crawling with junkies.



That's how John found himself in the dingy office of Vinny DeLuca, a sleazy lawyer recommended by one of the guys from the Narcotics Anonymous meetings he'd been frequenting. Vinny was the kind of guy who wore cheap suits that were always a size too small, with hair slicked back so far it looked like an oil spill. He had a reputation for getting things done, no questions asked, as long as the price was right.



He also had a reputation for being a loyal customer in the local burlesque bars, but that was neither he nor there.



"Alright, kid, here's the deal," Vinny said, sliding a stack of papers across his cluttered desk. "You sign here, here, and here, and we'll get you emancipated. You'll be your own man, free to do whatever the hell you want."



John picked up the pen, giving it a casual twirl between his fingers before scrawling his name across the dotted lines. "That's it? I thought there'd be more to it."



Vinny smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Well, we do need your parents' signatures too. Y'know, just a formality."



John raised an eyebrow.



"Parents, huh? That might be tricky, seeing as how they're... unavailable."



Well, his mother is unavailable, his father is too busy not knowing he exists to help sign him off.



"No problem, no problem. You just sign their names too. No one's gonna check. Besides, you've got that honest face. Who's gonna doubt you?" Vinny said, waving a hand dismissively.



"Honest face," John repeated with a smirk. "Yeah, sure. Hand it over."



He quickly forged the signatures, which was probably a crime now that he thought about it, fortunately batman didn't burst from the window to break his neck in the name of justice however.

It was almost too easy. Vinny, clearly pleased with the incoming paycheck, grinned as he took the papers back.



"Great! My brother's a notary. He'll stamp these and get everything squared away. Expedited, of course, for a little extra…" The man said with a wink, and that ladies and gentlemen, was why Gotham's bureaucracy was an utter mess.



Partly at least.



"Of course," John said, already planning his next move.



Within a few days, John had the emancipation papers in hand, officially recognized as an adult by the state of New Jersey. It was almost laughable how simple it had been...just a few strokes of a pen and a greasy handshake, and he was free to make bigger moves.



The next step was finding a new place to live. He wasn't going to settle for anything less than perfect, so he set up an appointment with a local realtor. The woman, in her early thirties, with a blonde bob and an overenthusiastic smile, met him outside a swanky apartment building in the better part of town.



Yes, swanky is a real word.



"Mr. Harker, I'm Susan Monroe, but just call me Susan. It's such a pleasure to meet you! I've got a few properties lined up that I think you're going to love," she chirped, her heels clicking on the pavement as they approached the entrance.



I'm sure you've picked out the best for me, Susan. Lead the way." John flashed her a charming smile, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of prying eyes.



'I'm feeling a bit peckish' He thought, and the vampire system agreed with him.



[Blood Points: 680/800]



As they toured the apartments, John was careful to choose his words, asking about things like natural light and room sizes, but what he was really interested in was the isolation of the master bedrooms.



He needed a place where he could sleep during the day without worrying about a stray beam sneaking in through a poorly positioned window.



Sunlight is the enemy.

"This one's a real gem," Susan said as they entered the final apartment. "Top floor, no neighbours on either side, and the master bedroom is tucked away in the back—nice and private."



"Private, huh?" John mused, stepping into the master bedroom. It was perfect—no windows facing the east, thick curtains already installed, and plenty of space. "I think this might be the one."



Susan smiled, clearly pleased with herself. "I knew you'd like it! Shall we head back to the office to go over the paperwork?"



John turned to face her, his smile widening as he let a bit of his natural charm, enhanced by his vampiric presence, seep into his voice.



"Actually, Susan, I was thinking we could take a moment right here to celebrate finding the perfect place. You've been such a big help." He said, looking forward to the next part.



"Well, I suppose we could... I mean, it's been a long day, and we could use a break." Susan hesitated for just a second, her professional demeanour wavering under the intensity of his gaze.



"Exactly," John said smoothly, stepping closer. "Why don't we take a seat? You've worked hard for this commission, and you deserve a little reward."

She blushed slightly, flattered by his attention and unable to resist the pull of his presence. They sat down on the bed, the atmosphere shifting from businesslike to something more intimate.



John kept the conversation light, charming her with his wit and only using his power to go the extra mile, mind control just for a pleasant snack wasn't a good look after all.



Susan found herself laughing more than she expected, her usual caution slipping away. It wasn't long before she was leaning closer to him, her hand brushing against his.



John took that as his cue, gently tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. "You've really outdone yourself, Susan. I can't thank you enough for finding this place."



The words were soft, but the meaning behind them was clear. Susan felt her heart race as she looked into his eyes, feeling a connection that she couldn't quite explain.



In other words, she was overcome by the horni, and needed an urgent boink lest she does something foolish.



"You're welcome, John," she whispered, barely aware of her own voice.

He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her lips, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. But she didn't. She leaned into the kiss, her fingers curling into his shirt as she let herself get lost in the moment.



Yes, something foolish indeed.



As the kiss deepened, John's fangs gently grazed her lip, just enough to draw a tiny drop of blood. She gasped, but he soothed her with a soft murmur, his voice like velvet. "Just relax, Susan. I'll take care of you."



Even this much was enough to bring great pleasure the one bitten, perhaps greater than vampire's own satisfaction, yet another reason not to bite a man unless he could find a new way to absorb their blood.



Some kind of blood manipulation...



Susan nodded, completely under his spell as he moved to her neck, kissing her skin before sinking his fangs in, carefully and gently. The bite was painless, almost euphoric, and Susan melted into his embrace as he fed, taking only what he needed.



When he pulled back, Susan was left dazed but blissful, the bite already healing. John smiled at her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"You've been amazing, Susan. Thank you." He said sincerely.



Anything for you, John. I... I'm glad you're happy." She blinked up at him, her mind foggy but content.



"I am," he assured her, helping her to her feet. "Now, let's get that paperwork sorted."



Susan, still in a bit of a daze but feeling incredibly pleased with herself, led him back to the office where they finalized the deal. John made sure everything was in order, and by the end of the day, he had the keys to his new apartment—an isolated, sun-proof haven where he could finally rest easy.



[Title Lost: Crackouse Resident.]

[New Title Gained: Started From the Bottom.]



At last, John did indeed turn from a level 1 Crackhouse Resident to a level 5 Crook.

 

[Billbo baggins]

Please add system tag.