"So to put things clearly," John said, sprawling on his chair and feeling a headache develop despite his physiology making that quite impossible, "we have a bunch of rowdy criminal organizations who have just finished eating up the corpse of a big player, each with a collection of grudges that would make the most contentious Scotsman raise a brow, all bracing themselves for a crisis that did not come, at a time where nobody is able or willing to stop them from throwing their shit at the fan like a bunch of monkeys with guns,"
"Yeah, pretty much," Bubbles snorted, putting the folder down on John's desk, "and we happen to be standing on a big jungle filled with ripe bananas, and our big lion has to go take a nap whenever the sun shows up,"
It was not ideal.
Not ideal at all.
But again, such was life, John wasn't delusional enough to think he could somehow impose his will on every gangster, crook and crime lord within the city.
He couldn't simply use violence on such large groups and still expect them to wait quietly for him to finish dismantling them, without learning how they could fight him back, or using their numbers and finances to hit him back just as hard.
He couldn't control all the circumstances.
What he could control, however, was his reaction.
"It is what it is," John said the truest words, and started adjusting his plans and expectations for the future, "if conflict is inevitable, then we must do our best to prepare, the city is on edge, but we should still have some time before someone lights a spark,"
"So, I guess we should start hiring more guns, huh?" Bubbles didn't look at him, instead sending text messages to someone lower down the totem pole, "and invest more dough into the clinics, we should be able to increase the number of private ambulances by a fair bit before shit really goes down, less corpses that way,"
"Do that, and slowly increase the number of patrols on our turf, and the amount of eyes on the streets," John nodded, crossing his arms, trying to think of any avenue they have to explore, "buy up a few stores on enemy turf, low revenue businesses to avoid tempting rackets, and have them outfitted with cameras on the outside. Waynetech, not the cheap stuff, I want live feed in front of a reliable man at all times,"
Bubbles pauses for a bit, before nodding.
"It could work, if we do things on the down low, the slicks shouldn't be onto us," He ended up saying carefully, "employees will want more safety measures though, if we use our guys, bullet proof glass, reinforced doors, grills, the whole shebang,"
"Done," John continued, tapping his finger on his elbow, "add in shotguns, if it makes them feel better, but tell them to just pay up if wise guys come to collect protection money, I'll make up the difference, with bonuses."
Reginald smiled the way he did each time John acted like a decent human being, a bright thing that showed a mix of pride, fondness and hope.
John tried real hard not to think much about it.
"Well, I'm sure they'll appreciate it, boss," He chuckled, shaking his head
Still, it was nice.
"Hm, but what else can we do?" He said, thinking about every single point of failure so far, "we have enough men to patrol and put down any fires in Brideshead proper, our entire holdings in the East End? Not so much, but the more time passes, the more effective our responses would be."
"Well, I don't know if it'll work for us here," Bubbles started, scratching his beard, "but before you showed up, when the bigger gangbangers went 'bout killing each others, they used to kick us dopefiends out of the best abandoned rowhouse and buildings, so they can plop down there and stay for days, or even weeks,"
It was then that a statue who was not doing the murderous assassin's version of pouting, suddenly came to life.
"The cartels used to do the same," She said slowly, calmly, crossing her arms, "they mattress in groups wherever they are needed the most, so they can start fighting quickly, and don't need spend hours moving around and linking up,"
"It was a lot harder to put them down, when choking one man meant being shot by five others," Larissa blinked slowly, utterly relaxed despite Reginald looking increasingly unsettled by her words, or perhaps because of it, "I had to get…creative."
"Oh, you'll have to tell me more," John said smiling, only for her to ignore him, instead starting to polish her metal claws, removing the poison capsules and putting them on the desk.
"I'd rather not be here when that conversation happens, thank you very much," Bubbles said, walking away from the desk, looking at two dark green capsules like they might kill him, which they could, "still, you think our boys could do that?"
Considering things more carefully, John nodded.
"Yeah, garrisons in the more vulnerable parts of our territory would be useful in times like this," He said, finding the idea more and more appealing, "not just plopping mattresses in abandoned rowhouses of course, we'll use buildings we've already bought, or would buy for the occasion, with garages for vehicles and comfortable living conditions, while refitting them in case they somehow get attacked,"
It was prepping for the worst case scenario, obviously.
His territory within the East End and Brideshead itself might never get targeted. If it does get targeted, it might not be done by any of the truly dangerous groups, or big players.
If it is one of the big boys, the strength of the place despite lacking in criminal groups might be a large enough issue that they would just give up quickly.
Nobody expects the spanish inquisition…nor the private security patrols who somehow are on the payroll of every other business in Brideshead, and much of the East End, and also happen to often be taking strolls around the neighborhoods.
If they for some reason do not give up, then John's nightly attacks, Larissa's work during the day, and the multiple heavy response teams and units, such as the ones who helped him transport King Shark, would likely show them they should've known better.
Only if they linger after this would all out war become an option, and then the location of his people would have to be determined, reached and judged suitable for an attack despite the innate tactical advantage of a defensive battle within fortification.
Sieges are hard, even in urban gang warfare.
Still, better safe than sorry was Harker's unofficial motto.
"Larissa, you'll help out selecting the most suitable buildings once we've determined where the most imminent dangers come from, and where a garrison is needed," John says, already calculating the risks and advantages of each location, "Reginald, I want a more thorough break-down of each group's relations, territories, forces and interests as soon as possible."
Copperhead hummed in agreement, still polishing her claws, while Bubbles nodded and typed something else on his pager.
"Got it," He said, before looking up, "it'll take some time, and it won't be perfect but I'll have it done. For now, we have a basic view of things, though it's just word of mouth and street knowledge, just so you know."
"Street knowledge beats no knowledge," The vampire said, straightening up, "I want it on my desk by tomorrow morning,"
"Will do," Reginald took it for the silent dismissal it was, and turned around, opening the door while still fiddling with his pager, he turned to him one last time with a grin, "take care, boss, tomorrow will be a long day,"
John looked at the door closing, only then allowing himself to snort.
'Take that, Vlad, my Reinfield is so comfortable around me that he can make vampire jokes without pissing himself,' He smiled, eyes closed as he took one deep, unnecessary breath that somehow still helped him relax a bit, 'I'm objectively the superior vampiric employer,'
Now all that he needed to do was figure out how to fly, manipulate the weather, and shapeshift, and he could leave Bram Stocker's Dracula in the dust.
Then the moment passed, the footsteps grew more distant, and the room settled into that particular quiet that existed between people who didn't feel the need to fill the silence.
Larissa was no longer standing by the desk, though she was still caring for her sharp metal claws, now laying down on a black leather sofa that cost more than most people's salaries, boots crossed and propped up on its arm.
No words were spoken, and the only thing disturbing the silence was the metallic clank of weaponry, and the smooth sound of tissue sliding against it, over and over again.
Until it changed, and the comfortable silence stopped being that comfortable. When her jaw tensed a tiny bit, her fingers twitched by exactly one millimeter, and the wipe of the cloth against her claws was just a little bit too forceful.
"I apologize," He said in a calm voice that betrayed no shame nor discomfort, for he truly felt none.
Wounded pride from a single apology was the mark of a pitiful person.
And to feel such a thing, when one knows they did wrong, was the ultimate inadequacy.
"For what?" Larissa's movement did not still, but they did slow down, not like someone who now felt at ease, but like someone who just caught themselves slipping and did not like it.
Now there were multiple answers John could give, and most of them would make things worse, some of them would make things better, but those were mostly lies.
Lies were effective, when used in moderation and with sound judgment, but John was not the perfectly rational creature the vampire system had tried to mold him into, the one he sometimes wished he was.
So he went with the truth.
"I've been distant," He said with his most gentle smile, one that did not seek to charm, but only to say sorry, "I've been keeping us both focused on the job, but that is no excuse,"
He has been distant, indeed, among other things.
Manipulative, opportunistic and unapologetic about his lack of care for the innate imbalance in their power dynamics, philandering in the extreme, and technically enthusiastically cannibalistic.
Truly a toxic partner, one who expected dedication and exclusivity, yet would not offer the same nor pretend to do so.
But he was okay with that, being the bad guy, in this case.
What wasn't okay, however, was that he had been neglectful.
"It's fine," she said, which meant it truly was not, "it doesn't matter,"
"Doesn't it?" He tilted his head.
"You do what you want," she said in the same soft, level tone of voice, "I do my work, you keep your side of the deal, that's the arrangement."
Safety, comfort, stability.
Priceless things, for someone who lacked them for much of her life.
That was the arrangement.
"I see," John said, humming, the gentle smile turning into something that was a fair bit more sly, and unapologetically so, "that's inconvenient, I've been sitting here, and thinking that I'm feeling quite neglected, Larissa,"
The tissue stopped moving, the claws clicked as he handled just a bit too suddenly, but she didn't care, instead doing a very concerted effort not to look at him.
"Don't," she said in the same tone of voice, which was a small miracle with how she was fighting her own jaw.
"I'm serious," He got up and crossed the room at the pace of someone who had all the time in the world, and decided this was one thing that deserved to be approached slowly, "I miss you,"
Larissa fought to keep her eyes locked on the weapons in her hands, not on those bright red eyes she knew were looking at her and her alone, waiting for her to turn, she fought to force her hands to start cleaning her already pristine claws again.
She failed, on both counts.
"You have a strange way of showing it," She said, but the way she looked at him said, 'I miss you too'.
John smiled wider,
"I really do, don't I?" He chuckled, now that was understatement, but it didn't stop him from sneaking a hand to the back of her neck, playing with the hair on her nape, "then you'll have to forgive me for that too, and spend some more time with, for the sake of my own heart, of course,"
"Of course," Larissa huffed but allowed him that touch, which for moody Copperhead was the equivalent wrapping her arms around his neck, "then you'll suddenly be busy again, and I'll be left high and dry,"
She said that, but she didn't stop him from putting her claws onto the table, or joining her onto a couch that was much too small to prevent intimacy, nor did she push him away when he grazed her jaw with his lips.
"Not for two hours," He says onto her skin, breathing in deeply and taking in the aroma of her, and the vitae flowing within, ever so tempting even after so long, "we can do whatever you want, for however long you want,"
She didn't answer at first, part of him liked to think it was just the effect he had on her, but it was probably because the kisses had at some point turned into short bites, licking the wounds shut after enjoying the smallest tastes of her blood.
Then she looked at him like a snake who decided it was tired of pretending the meal wasn't worth it, and suddenly legs that can and have broken bones long before he ever empowered her wrapped around him with no regard for the strength she was using, a long tongue extended to lick his cheek for no reason he could conjure.
Did he like it? Yes. Was he going to question why? No.
At least he was always clean shaven, the Blush of Life did not involve simulating hair growth.
"There's a Romanian crew I've been scoping for a while, they're lying low in the bowery, just after diverting a weapons shipment," She said breathily into his ear, grinding against him, "I've been watching them for four days, and I'm tired of watching,"
John stopped, and considered it.
"Sounds like a date," He smiled, then pulled her closer all the same.
They had two hours, and the Bowery was only minutes away when you had superspeed, or enhanced reflexes and a glaring lack of concern for traffic laws.
Some things deserved to be taken, slowly.
. . .
They left by the back entrance which did not exist, Copperhead making a stop by one of the garages that also were never built while he simply jumped onto the top of a building.
Soon after he saw her, or rather heard her, the roar of the Honda VFR800 reminding him and much of the neighborhood why people truly thought Japan could one day become the leading economy in the world, the black bike was taken to its limit when driven by someone with genuine superhuman reaction time.
Knowing she would most likely survive a crash also helped ease John's worries about her almost suicidal driving.
With a top speed of 240 km/h on highways, it was actually something faster than him, though no amount of enhanced instincts could let Copperhead reach that speed within a city, this wasn't jailbroken experimental WayneTech stuff that wouldn't even be economically viable for private armies.
He still kept up easily from above the rooftop, enjoying the difference between being trapped within the cages of brick and mortar, and sprinting above them all.
From the acoustics to the winds and even the smells when he decided he should breathe, it couldn't be compared, even the sounds he could perceive changed drastically.
Enhanced senses did not change the way sound waves behaved, after all, regardless of what folks said about Superman, or monsters capable of hearing a hypersonic bullet coming toward them.
Thus he kept a close eye, and open ear for anything unexpected, all the while easily keeping pace with the reckless driver endangering the citizens of Gotham down below.
As expected, it took them only a few minutes to cross Brideshead into the East End itself, ending up in the Bowery*
It was one of those districts that did not truly sleep, even during these tense times, but for all the wrong reasons. He could look down without seeing at least one bar, pub, tavern or haunt frequented by various groups of criminals.
With the amount of grudges and trouble between rival affiliates, there was more than enough market share for every single of these places, not to mention how most of them had a gambling operation in the same building, quiet rooms to have discreet talks which sometimes might not even be spied on, and girls to enjoy after a long day, if you have the extra dollars.
Still, Copperhead parked the bike at one of their places, the back of a parking of a simple barbershop, then continued on foot after locking the simple grilled door, not flinching when appeared right next to her soundlessly.
If someone stole the bike, the camera would catch them, and that person would have a very, very bad day.
They did not communicate verbally, upon reaching the target, a sleazy Romanian haunt with a name that sounded like a profanity, Whatever 'Tate e o curvă' couldn't possibly be good, the poor lighting didn't help either, it was piss yellow.
The sign said it was closed, but they could clearly hear the sound of drinks beyond poured, arguments being had, and the usual chaos of a working class pub only tripled and involving a lot more filth being said, passed around and promised.
John, however, took one one look with burning red eyes and found something more interesting to say.
"Twenty six people inside, six upstairs, the rest on the ground floor," He counted them all, took in the way they were carrying themselves, the sounds they made when they moved, and whatever he could understand from their talks, "four women, could be waitresses, but probably prostitutes, from the smell. Three men drank themselves into stupor, the rest aren't quite there yet. Eight people almost sober, and carrying assault rifles, one with a shotgun. The rest have small arms, and aren't even trying to be careful."
"Only two heavily armed, upstairs, close to one another," He turned toward her, and she didn't need more than that to start moving, he watched her nimbly scale up the building and open a vent without making much of a sound, using them to sneak her way into the second floor and appear on top of a room.
Before dropping them right above an unlucky gangbanger right in the middle of a line of coke, and choking him out till he went to sleep.
John found that strangely attractive.
. . .
She patiently waited for an opening, as she always did, but now the enhanced senses her patron/master/employer/man offered her a lot more certainty before moving.
It might be the single greatest advantage her new nature gave her, save for the freedom from age and illness, or the ability to heal from grievous wounds.
Though letting her body go beyond what simple training could achieve was only slightly behind.
Copperhead dashed out of the room, opening it just as the two incompetent sentries were laughing at a bad joke, her claws sliced through the flesh of the one with a shotgun so cleanly he hardly felt it before her venom acted and he fell unconscious.
Her second prey turned around only to be struck by a superhuman punch right in the jaw, shattering it, before getting choked unconscious soon after.
'tres eliminados… quedan tres.' She thought, just as two more mices ran out of their hole, opening the door guns in hand.
The former assassin was seen, but before they could raise their weapons and open fire, she already punched one in the throat hard with the metal of her claw, kicking the other in the face as she did so with her momentum, then put them both in a chokehold.
By the time the last rat opened the door, hands shaking, eyes red, looking utterly demolished, everyone else had gone too sleep, and all she had to do was kick him in the liver to send him down, nearly choking on his own spit and vomit.
Larissa heard a commotion downstairs as she tied everyone's hands and feet together with plastic zips, in uncomfortable positions. Then looted the floor, taking the money, real jewelry including their gold teeth and earrings.
She did not remove them gently.
Only then did she go down, and felt little surprise when all that was left was four shaking, pale scantily clad women. A smiling John Harker dressed in his fancy get up, fake scar and painted white hair, red eyes almost glowing as the lights flickered.
Some guns were bent out of shape, the men groaning on the floor, many of them likewise bent in unnatural shapes, but still very much alive.
She understandably found it very attractive.
"The place stinks," She frowned, unwilling to give him a bigger ego, though she did close the distance, "You weren't subtle this time, but I didn't hear them shout, or fire,"
"If you scare someone badly enough, their bodies forget about fight or flight, and go straight to freezing, only squealing incoherently," He said conversationally, tapping a groaning gangster's face with his boot, "the smell is the unfortunate consequence,"
He then looked at the women, and his eyes burned a bit brighter as their own terrified faces slackened, eyes glassy.
"Forget" He spoke, and she had to force herself not to flinch, as her own blood felt the command being issued, even if it wasn't at her, the blood remembers.*
It would never stop being unsettling, the way he could make someone's memories just go away, a cowardly part of her wondered if he ever did it to her, but she knew better.
John Harker was many things, but he wasn't someone who would abuse loyal subordinates.
Least of all her.
"And reconsider your life choices," He followed up, though the strength of the command was lesser as the words increased and the complexity grew, he put a couple hundreds in each of their pockets, then the fire lessened, though she felt the sheer awe he sometimes exuded with even the most mundane actions rise once more, "the Harker foundation has programs for people in your situation, Go home, and enter one,"
She felt her lips curve ever so slightly, but decided not to school her features this time.
Yes, her boss wasn't that kind of person.
Even if tried to pretend he was.
"Should I call someone to take the guns?" Larissa asked instead, looking at the AK47s on the floor, "they are probably in the basement, or some backroom,"
"No need, we already have more than enough weaponry, there would be plenty in reserve even if we tripled the amount of armed collaborators and security personnel," John shook his head, pulling out a burner phone and texting an associate, who in turn would move and tip the police with another burner, always two layers of separation, as is standard protocol, "let's just take their money, and go back to base,"
"Already done," She grinned, a small wicked thing, remembering the whimpers as she ripped away their fancy teeth and earrings, "the jewelry too,"
John even kissed her as thank you, it was indeed a pleasant evening.
Copperhead was feeling much better when she grabbed her unstolen bike once more, making it roar and enjoying the wind against her, though she wore a helmet.
Though she couldn't see him, she knew that Hijo de Brujha was keeping pace above her, watching over her, being with her.
If only he had the sense to do it more often.
As they return to the office, from the same rear-entrance that did not appear on the plans, she knew the records would say they never left, even as they went straight to the bathroom on John's personal floor and occasional shelter from the sunlight.
The water started falling, warm, and bloodied clothes were discarded without fuss, they entered the shower and enjoyed the heat and cleansing, her muscle relaxing, his own becoming warm without his little spell.
"You still owe me one hour," She stepped closer, pressing him against the wall, her tongue licking the droplets off his collarbone, "and you promised to do anything I want…"
John could do nothing but agree.
Enthusiastically.
. . .
It is a much more jolly John Harker who left the office through the main entrance this time, before sneaking into shadows and ending up once more amidst familiar rooftops.
He dashed at full speed, smiling and content, feeling lighter than he did in a long time.
He almost wished he took the scenic route when quickly reached the safehouse where Killer Frost had been left to marinate, ponder the life choices that saw her almost end up as a humanoid rotisserie chicken in the madhouse, and consider his more than fair offer.
It was one of the nicer apartment complexes in Brideshead, one of the first he had renovated by his crews, and rented out at sub-Gotham prices to some loyal men and their households, though he obviously kept a couple units for his own usage.
John went up to the fourth floor, and unlocked it, making sure it was loud enough for her not to be startled and try to freeze a moving corpse, he wasn't sure the blood inside her was thick enough to stop her this time around, it had been a day.
He stepped through the apartment, which now felt a bit more lived in, the kitchen had been raided and towels were left on the bathroom door, though he was surprised to see she was still in bed.
Which was fair.
Still wearing the same shirt and nothing else, holding a big spoon and a large box of dark chocolate ice cream watching none other than Vicki Vale for the Gotham Gazette reporting on the assault on Arkham and looking like she hasn't slept in thirty hours, counting the casualties among inmates, security guards, police and the many, many wounded during the whole thing.
"You're back," Louise barely looked at him when he entered, her voice as low and subdued, and a bit raw, like she didn't say a word since he left her.
But from the way her furrowed brows eased, the lower tension in her jaw, it was clear that she found the end of her solitude relieving.
That was ideal.
"Your offer, I'll take it," Killer Frost says before he could start with some pleasantries, or try to get into her good graces a bit more, "I know you're hiding a lot of shit, but if what you promised is real…then I'll do it, I'll work for you…and you better not be lying…"
Her last words were a threat, but carried no heat, pun intended.
'Well, if she's being that candid, then I'll give her the same courtesy,' John thought, once more defaulting to being relatively cash money with his (prospective) ghoul.
"I have many secrets. Some of them, you'll figure out on your own. Others, I'll tell you when I can," He says honestly, his eyes a brighter blue than hers, but not trying to hide his expression, nor evading her gaze, "many of them, I'll never speak out, not even in a hundred years, there are things that you simply do not need, and would not wish to know,"
He kept looking at her, before dropping the veneer of humanity and making his eyes glow red once more, almost slitted and utterly inhuman…or metahuman, as everyone around assumes upon seeing him.
Because Gotham, and the whole world had its rules, and it said that freaks with powers were a known quantity, they were metas, they were mutated, they were urban legends.
Sometimes all three, but they never were creatures from folklore.
"But one thing I would not hide, is what working under me, what working with me would mean," He continues, not understanding why she somehow was more relaxed when he showed those fearsome eyes, but unwilling to question it yet, "age and sickness would no longer be an inevitability, betrayal itself would become an impossibility, due to the innate nature of our bond. You would gain strength of body and mind, the ability to heal from wounds even without my direct presence and help…and perhaps, a growth in your own powers,"
Killer Frost simply looks at him, her gaze softer than when he entered, even as she calculated what his words meant, even as she found herself forced to believe that it was real.
Her hand touched the skin in her arm, feeling it, and exhaling softly before nodding.
"How does it work?" she asked, steeling herself as she looked at him.
John smiled, a pleased thing that only barely tried to mask the extent of his satisfaction.
"It can be done two ways," he spoke softly, unconsciously releasing the slightest bit of his presence, before pulling it back, knowing it was not needed, "the pleasant way, and the very pleasant way,"
She looked at him cooly, unimpressed, and raised a brow.
"Really?"
He nodded, approaching.
"Really," He crossed to the bed, looking for a sign of regret or discomfort that never came.
She did not move away, which was its own kind of answer. She didn't push him as he cupped her chin, caressing it before tilting it up with two fingers, feeling the almost pleasant cold of her skin, not the absence of heat he experienced when he wasn't under the blush of life, but something from within her.
Nor did she reject him when stroked her cheek with his thumb, then tilted her head ever slightly, gently coaxing her to bare her throat, marvelling at the cold feeling, the heat being negated by the power within her.
He pressed a soft kiss there, as his preference, before licking the skin when his fangs soon sunk, feeling the cold, feeling her taking a breath, feeling the blood flowing, vitae the likes of which he has yet to discover, then his teeth found the place they were looking for, and nothing in the world could have stopped him from biting.
So he drank.
And then…everything.
She was cold and bright and tasted like power and something cold and fresh and almost electric underneath it, the specific signature of her power woven through everything, and he had not expected that and found it extraordinary.
Somewhere at the edge of his awareness, in the visual register that only he could see, something flickered. A sound, a notification, though it sounded more like a whimper in his ears.
The last remnant of something that had once presented his own power to him in a format his transmigrated mind had found legible and logical and safe.
The system, a framework, the kind of scaffolding you put up when you're building something and take down when the building can hold itself.
He had not needed it for a long time.
He knew what he was.
He knew what he was becoming.
The sensation in his blood, the cusp of something expanding, some new articulation of power pressing at the edges of what he currently was…he could feel that clearly, directly, without any interface between him and the knowledge.
He didn't need the display.
So he closed it.
There were moans, and he did not know if it was hers, or his, perhaps it was both? But he did not care, he just kept drinking, more and more, feeling her hand pulling him closer, feeling the temperature drop around them and her bare legs keeping him in place.
He was cusp of evolution, of developing a new power, and reaching a higher level of existence all at once.
And his sweet, delicious future ghoul was on the cusp of death. A pleasant, drunken death she likely did not even register.
He did not stop, he could not stop, for while the pleasure would linger, the loss of his bite would likely return her awareness and subject her to needless horror.
Instead, he once more slashed his own wrist with razor sharp nails, and brought it to her moaning, whimpering pale lips, using his power to guide the blood inside her and restore her once more.
He stopped sucking, only licking the blood that spilled as his saliva closed the wound without scaring, a minor ability of vampirism, but a useful one.
John forced his own blood to reinforce her, to heal and go beyond, to give her the second level of the blood bond, and truly make her his precious ghoul.
There was one more offering needed before his power stabilized within her, perhaps in a week or two when she grew more comfortable with her new nature.
Only then could she retain his boons for months on end without needing to feed unless she got severely maimed, the true power of a ghoul the likes of which Reginald and Larissa enjoyed.
Until then, she was not yet a true ghoul.
But none could deny that Louise Lincoln was a servant of John Harker.
That Killer Frost was now his.
. . .
* 1 The Bowery is a district of Gotham City on the Uptown island and part of the notorious East End. It has a bad reputation as one of the worst areas in Gotham City and is infamous for its high rate of criminal activities.
* 2 Dominate is is a Discipline that overwhelms another person's mind with the vampire's will, forcing victims to think or act according to the vampire's decree. While undeniably powerful, its use almost always adheres to two important restrictions: the user must meet the eyes of the target and must speak in a language that is clearly heard and understood by the target. John is at level 3
Level 1: Cloud Memory: The vampire can make the target forget the past few minutes. Compel: The vampire can issue a short sentence command to the target.
Level 2: Mesmerize: The vampire can issue a longer, more complicated command to the target. Domitor's Favor: Makes it more difficult for a vampire's Blood Bonded thrall to act against them.
Level 3: Submerged Directive: The vampire can use Mesmerize to embed delayed or triggered commands. The Forgetful Mind: The vampire can rewrite previous memories in the target.
Level 4: Tabula Rasa: Wipes the victim's memory clean, save for learned skills, leaving them a pliant effigy of themselves. Rationalize: The vampire can make victims of their Dominate powers internalize the commands and not realize they were compelled.
Level 5: Mass Manipulation: The vampire can amplify their other Dominate abilities to affect greater numbers at the same time.
Terminal Decree: The vampire can now issue commands that are deadly or harmful to their targets.
No Life King: [Redacted]
. . .
Yo! It's Hamtaro!
This is the spot where I usually say some shit about current events…but well, do I really need to? Take your pick, the Epstein Files are still getting diddled in secret.
AI is a thing, yes, I consider that a freaking negative.
Scam Altman is still a thing, too.
But at least the chapter is pretty much 6000 words long, mostly character interaction, plot went forward, foreshadowed some shit I'm pretty sure you won't catch.
Okay, maybe that one gal on discord will, but that still less than 10% chances of her doing it.
Tried not to do the whole excessive narration, and instead more action, more actual stuff happening between actual characters taking actual decisions for better or worse.
So drink some water, pet a cute animal, hug your parents and have a wonderful day!
Peace!
Discord: