John Harker was evolving.
There were no catchy songs or brats with eternal youth to marvel at his growing power. There were no numbers going up, or texts trying to explain something as fundamentally alien as the power of the blood through legible English.
Yet as he remained in that bed, Killer Frost still panting in his grasp, all the while keeping him loosely in hers, John knew it was happening all the same.
He might have looked stable, perhaps even peaceful in the embrace of his newest ghoul. But his insides were quite literally melting, his muscles ripping themselves apart of their volition, that impossibly large pool of blood that both made and was his being, depleted itself and moved about in frenzy.
Yet he did not move, did not fear.
John felt naught but exaltation.
The boundaries of his powers were expanding, the vitae he had painstakingly accumulated was expended to change his body and spirit in a fundamental manner.
It was happening so fast, yet so slow, and so intoxicating.
He could feel every drop of blood he pilfered, the knowledge and information and sheer power he had taken from his preys' vital essence being finally used to their fullest extent, guiding the rest of his vitae, the rest of him in order to fully absorb those primal lessons.
To learn, to incorporate, adapt, improve, overcome past limits and become something more than a mere neonate.
The blood remembers.
A small river of vitae taken from countless kine was being used as fuel, burning away for John's ascension.
The dark gift remembered the countless nights of running and prowling, it remembered the way he used the quickness of body and mind to avoid harm and subdue his foes, it knew the delectable taste of Copperhead's blood which he indulged in without restraint, it learned the value of sheer speed and agility.
All of which bore the fruit of greater Celerity.
It peered into the blood of the countless minds who used words and charisma to make a living, those who understood the value of eloquence and poise and sheer beauty, the power of being seen and admired, the worth of perception.
It looked at his liberal use and abuse of Presence, and it empowered it even further.
The blood saw how he allowed his body to be battered and broken, either from hubris or sheer disregard for his own suffering, it remembered the feeling of a subsonic round tearing his chest apart, of assault rifles turning him into minced meat.
Then it looked at its prize, at the vitae of Nanaue, of King Shark, and the secrets of greater endurance and toughness, of the sheer brutal power mixed with night unbreakable skin.
So it remade his own flesh and bones into that image, compromising where needed, preserving aesthetics, adapting what it could, hardening skin and muscles and tendons.
What Fortitude he had enjoyed was now enhanced tenfolds, joined by an ember of strength, of Potence beyond his already considerable might.
Finally, as much of his vitae was depleted, it took its time to observe and almost cajole the brightest ruby of his inner vaults, that cold treasure he only absorbed this very night.
It consumed it, studied it, subsumed it and finally started working into true devouring of the power within.
Thermokinetic Cryokinesis, the ability to generate dangerously low temperature from her body, now being refitted to suit the needs of his own undead biology.
Within microseconds, the vampirism explored hundreds of configurations, before it finally reached the correct one, the ideal compromise.
The perfect solution.
Something similar, yet different, the application and basic principles remained the same. It was the creation of extremely low temperatures and its projection across varying mediums, but when a creature of the night stumbles on such a power, the outcome shifts into an elegant variation.
Thermal Vampirism, the ability to absorb heat into himself.
John's red eyes widened, and in that instant that seemed to stretch into a thousand more, an unconscious use of his enhanced speed, he felt like he would gladly give the whole world to Killer Frost for her contribution.
Even without testing it, or being spoon fed a convenient description from a video game screen, he understood much of the intricacies of his new power, and the sheer magnitude of theimplications.
In practice, it functioned as nothing more than a pale imitation of Killer Frost's own cryokinesis, one that was less flexible, more restricted in terms of ice constructs and sheer output and somehow still required a small use of his blood to function.
Beyond that, using it carried the risk of one's body no longer producing body heat, and requiring constant leeching from other sources to simply stay alive or avoid ending up looking like Mr. Freeze.
But like hitting on a woman while you are alone on a luxury boat drifting into the ocean, such an ability had implications, ones that changed everything.
When one considers that he was already a living corpse, that he did not in fact function as a normal human being, a cold one minus the appearance of a disco ball.
The disadvantages become minimal.
Now, account for his crippling weakness and existential fear of fire.
'...I could just absorb the heat and snuff it out before it could reach me,' John thought, having to physically hold back an insane grin from appearing on his face, as he looked at Louise who barely recovered from the ordeal, 'I could kiss her right now,'
Then he remembered that he had no fucks to give.
So he did allow an insane, fanged smile to form into his face, and he did kiss the murderous popsicle who was holding him.
A single night was enough for him to obtain greater speed, defence, physical might, an empowered presence and to obtain some very cool powers which somehow fixed one of his greatest weaknesses.
John Harker was a neonate no longer, but had finally become a true vampire.
An Ancilla.*
Killer Frost groaned, and was barely able to answer the kiss, she was clearly still enjoying the afterglows of the world's most pleasurable near death experience.
He broke it with a content sigh, before she could manage to gore her lips upon his fangs, then finally allowed himself to return to the mask of humanity.
His claws rescinded, his fangs returned to normal proportions and though he maintained the red eyes she seemed to like so much, he did force himself to stop focusing so much on the taste and power of her blood.
Lest he indulges once more.
"I guess asking you to come test out your powers would be in poor taste?" He spoke softly, and received no answer but an attempt to drag him into bed, which he allowed, "Okay, I guess we can do that,"
"Shut up," She grumbled, shifting them into a position where they could enjoy each other's non-existent body heat.
If being used as a pillow was the price for overcoming the weakness to fire, for being freed from the terror of rötschreck, then that was a sacrifice he was willing to make.
Though he did allow himself the luxury of running his fingers through those ice blue hair, something that was the right move, judging by the way she relaxed further as his nails grazed her scalp.
Again and again.
Within minutes, Louise's eyes were shut close, her breath deepened, and her noticeably stronger grip on him relaxed ever so slightly.
He allowed himself to stay like that for a while, just enjoying the moment, the feeling of her, of his own body, of the power he could feel coursing through his veins.
John let himself dream of bigger, better things, of all the plans he could enact, all the things that he could change, he let his ambition and hopes run wild as he caressed the hair of someone eligible for a death sentence in many states.
Only when the sun was about to rise outside of the windowless apartment did he raise his old pager, one of the rare pieces of technology he allowed himself to keep due to the sheer simplicity of the design.
He read through Bubbles initial report on the current territories of Gotham's criminal organizations, disguised using the most basic of codes, utterly surface level and almost mundane, though he was certain a better researched one would be found on his desk as soon as the day bleeds into night.
It was still informative however, as he had told his first ghoul, street knowledge was better than no knowledge.
Falcone held most of the city, it was clear with a single glance, from the modern Docks in Port Adams to the lower half of Old Gotham, and the whole Island of Tricorner on top of everything from New Gotham to Cape Carmine and Gotham Heights.
Except for the financial district and the better part of downtown, along with the county in Bristol, he had a finger in every pie.
Either directly or through confirmed subordinate gangs and families, the Roman ruled Gotham's underworld, he was the hegemon, one with a stupid heir to boot.
Classic.
The five families of the Cosa Nostra was an almost close second, holding little Italy which at this point might as well be part of Sicily, the old docks at Addam's and much of Somerset include Morrison Harbor and Dixon Docks, which they allowed the triads to use for a fee, though they also held everything up Otisburg to Miagani Channel, even if they couldn't really stop others from operating in that area.
Then came the smaller players, from the various foreign groups trying and failing to truly get a grasp onto Gotham, from the Odessa Gang to the Hammer and the Triads, they were smaller than even the newest boys in town but held as many grudges.
Penguin was an anomaly, in that he operated from the Iceberg Lounge in the safe and expensive Diamond District, one of the most select clubs in town, but he held no real territory per say, despite having a whole lot of money, men and guns.
He was known to work with anyone from the Sicilians to Falcone or even the Triads so long as they let him use their ports to do his work, paying them with one hand, then taking twice as much back with smuggled goods.
Weapons, drugs and any illicit goods a crook could desire.
Then came the Sionis Crime Family, or 'False Face Society' as their deluded role players preferred, holding the Bowery and itching to get more, despite being surrounded by bigger dogs.
Black Mask had a reputation for enjoying medieval torture instruments, being as cruel to his men as he was to everyone else, having a knack for making money in all the wrong ways, and not having access to any port in Gotham.
Something that made him a very upset little boy.
Which for the head of a criminal organization meant buying up a whole lot of guns, from groups which he did not especially like, such as Cobblepot, or who did not especially like him, like Falcone or the Cosa Nostra.
It was all so very charming.
Of course, the East End was smack dab in the middle of it all, right next to Black Mask, as if bordering Park Row wasn't bad enough.
'At least, we don't have a port,' He thought, feeling the torpor getting to him as the sun went higher and higher.
John did not resist it and allowed himself to sleep, holding Killer Frost tighter, but knowing that after the sweet rest would come a long and busy night.
. . .
1: Ancilla: Ranking below the elders but above neonates, the ancillae (sing. ancilla) are vampires who have proven themselves as competent enough to survive the first centuries of unlife.
. . .
Yo! It's Hamtaro!
Well, it's been another week, lads, and we're stilla live! Still no WWIII despite some people giving it their best shot.
Life is stranger than fiction, no? If I wrote shit like the US government doing market manipulation and betting on the wars they started, AI companies diverting billion or the CEO of a computer Hardware company with gamer clients saying he is Pro-War...Well, a freaking vampire in DC would make more sense.
The Epstein Files are still getting diddled in the dark by Bubba and the Orange Man.
At least Sora got discontinued, it's a shame, I wanted it to burn more money.
Anyway, drink some water, leave a comment, pet a cute animal and hug your parents.
Oh, and have a nice day!
Discord: