Waking Cards

Cast: Alex Apolo Ricardo
Location: The Tower — Downtown
Time:
Synopsis:

Fifty-fifth Floor - Library Tower - Downtown(#1712RAMsU)

This floor requires a special key to unlock the elevator. It's easy to see why
once one steps off the lift. What would normally be office space on any
other level has been gutted and transformed into living quarters. Most
of the room's dividing walls have been removed, so that the space is
large and airy.

Gleaming hardwood runs the expanse of the floor, broken up here and there by
splashes of brightly colored area rugs. Functional spaces are
delineated more by carefully chosen paint schemes instead of
view-blocking walls; the living space is done in a rich burnt orange,
the studio area is eggshell white, a seating area is done in dark blue.
The furnishings are eclectic with a heavy emphasis on Spanish-mission
style wood pieces and carnival glass lamps. Fine art is everywhere one
looks; sculptures dot the area, a museum quality painting collection is
on display on the few walls or on easels, textile pieces are proudly
shown on large wooden racks.

This room has places.

Contents:

Alex

Ricardo

Obvious exits:

Bedroom (NW) Elevator (SE)

You think . o O (Silence is golden)

You think . o O (The devil's in a blue dress!)

You think . o O (many who is the Question and the Answer…)

You think . o O (I am but a leaf caught in the Core…)

The apartment is the same as it ever was. Beautiful. Cold. Emotionless. The art
in the gallery has changed, not that Ricardo would notice, but Alex
might. Claudia bustles around in the background, looking hen-pecked and
put out. Apolo is seated on the wooden floor, cross-legged, calm and
patient where his ghoul is frantic. There's an expectant air about him,
something that spikes when the elevator doors open and two of the
security guards wheel in a hospital gurney. There's a corpse on it —
not that this seems to bother the long-term residents here. Claudia
spares it a glance and continues with her chores. Apolo straightens up
and smiles at no one at all.
'

Alex is a one-man No Fun parade. When the elevator doors open he comes out of
the hallway, barefoot and wearing jeans and a loose t-shirt — gives it
one look and scowls, eyes narrowed. Rather than coming close, he
circles around to the kitchen, avoiding the elevator area altogether.
In the kitchen, he pesters the hell out of Claudia. "Does he have any
Coke? How about bourbon? Rum?" He rifles through cabinets, knocking
over a salt shaker, putting boxes out of place. "Where's the bottle
opener? My god, you'd think he'd have beer at least…"

Claudia has few defenses. Each of Alex's footfalls bothers her in a way that
Ricardo's corpse does not, making her shoulders hunch, and her mouth
slowly begin to disappear into a flat line. "Why would he have any
-beer-," she spits, like its a curse word. "What's he going to do, get
loaded on Friday night and go out trolling for…" A dark look for
Alex's thin figure. "Whores?"

"Hmm, no, why would he," Alex muses, as if to himself, now with his head
burrowed in the refrigerator. "He's had better at home for the last few
months, enough to keep him perfectly satisfied. Oh, wait, no, he hasn't
—" He shuts the refrigerator, scowling, and opens another cabinet.
"Fuck, there has -got- to be something worth drinking in here that
isn't fucking wine."

Apolo refrains from clapping his hands together in delight, but the appearance
of the dead body seems to be just as exciting as Christmas morning.
"Thank you, Julio…. just wait. We might need your, uh, help in a few
minutes." The Malkavian scrambles gracelessly to his feet. "Alex? Come
here. Help me with this." Control of the gurney is taken over, to be
wheeled into the living room. The stake protruding from the corpse's
chest is given a little flick with his free hand.

You think . o O (Santa Monica is restless.)

At Apolo's call, Alex leaves the cabinet hanging open and in disarray, and pads
over to the small vampire and the gurney. He eyes it — more
specifically, its contents — suspiciously, and reaches over to help
Apolo push and pull. "Where are we taking it…and what the fuck is up
with the dead guy? As decorations go, that's kind of gross, even for
you."

And in response, Apolo begins to unbutton his shirt. The implication is pretty
gross, even for him. "This is Cards. He's.. a cousin. I'm going to wake
him up." The shirt is abandoned on the couch, and he kicks the brake
into place with one foot. "You'll like him. Nice guy. Friendly."
There's a beaming smile, to reassure Alex that there's nothing at all
odd about the scene.

"Wake him up?" Alex echoes, looking down at the corpse. It takes him a good
thirty or forty seconds to register what -that- means…and then he
looks up to watch Apolo removing his shirt. This one takes about a
second and a half, and his face washes very white. "Please don't tell
me you're going to do what I think you're…-fuck-."

"Fucking is not necessary. We warm ourselves in other ways." One long finger
points out a bit of wood that juts out of Ricardo's chest. It was
probably a stake, just like in the movies, except someone sawed off
most of the handle, so that it was less obvious at a glance. "Until we
remove that he can't move. He won't wake up and try to move until I
give him life again." Apolo makes a graceful gesture with that same
hand, including all of the dead man in the movement. "This is important
for you to know. Open his mouth."

Alex looks from Ricardo to Apolo, protest all over his face, but it never makes
it to his voice. Instead, he clenches his jaw like he's trying to break
his teeth in half and roughly pulls the dead man's mouth open. And when
Apolo gets closer, Alex turns his face away, but of course, he can't
really resist cornering his eyes over to look.

You think . o O (Silence is golden)

There's the sickening pop of ruined skin and veins before the rich copper smell
of Apolo's blood crowds the room. Quickly, careful not to waste any of
it, the ruined wrist is pressed to Ricardo's mouth. "Pull the stake
out, Alex," the elder whispers, his voice husky, eyes darkened slits.
His free hand strokes Ricardo's head — the gesture would be sweet,
comforting, if this were any other situation.

At the smell of the blood, Alex closes his eyes, just for a moment. He doesn't
-say- anything, but the way his jaw works, his fists clench… When he
wrenches the stake out, he's not gentle.

Auspex on Alex notes:

«Great explosions of feral hunger, wild need, utter fury.»

There is an immediate violence. Despite Apolo's promises that Ricardo is a nice
guy, a blood-curdling howl erupts from behind the ivory of Apolo's
wrist and limbs lash out frantically — the fingers of one hand
latching onto Alex's shirt, and pulling him by the cloth toward him.
His other hand wraps around Apolo's arm, holding it tightly to his
mouth as he immediately slakes his thirst on the blood readied for him,
the howl fading immediately. His legs kick out as well, but meet only
open air.

Apolo seems to have anticipated the violence or fakes expecting it well —
there's no instinctive jerk away from Ricardo, no move to pull his arm
from the man's mouth. But the hand that had been stroking the boy's
hair immediately moves to pin a shoulder down, far more strength
pouring down that straightened arm than Apolo's wasted figure should
posses. "Its /alright/. It's alright," he repeats, voice calm, to sooth
both of the others. "Its /alright/. You're safe." There's a glance
spared for his ghoul. The pressure on Ricardo's shoulder increases,
like he's trying to push right through the other man's body.

Alex is nearly jerked off his feet by the pull on his shirt — he ends up
falling forward and bracing against the gurney with one arm, which
pushes it slightly on its wheels. "Fuck —" he exclaims, and it comes
out as something of a yelp. "-Jesus-, Apolo, get him the fuck off…"

You think . o O (ENOUGH!)

Posed to Aura-Readers:

«Pleasure. The elder enjoys this, the chaos, Alex's fear, the potential for it
all to go so wrong.»

Something is yelled from Apolo's wrist, but it does not make the least of
sense. It only succeeds in causing the older vampire's blood to spurt
in every direction from the wound, down over Ricardo's chin, up his
nose, over his cheeks. He is pinned down, easily enough. His strength
only comes from the need deep inside him. His legs begin to slow as
they attempt to kick out, but his grip on Alex does not fail. His
knuckles are bloodless and white (though it is only a bare difference
from the rest of him).

Auspex on Alex notes:

«Alarm, but not panic or terror — just enough to keep the nagging desperate
-need- at bay.»

Apolo assesses Alex's situation in one glance. "Take off your shirt," he points
out in an infuriatingly calm voice, like it should just be so /obvious/
to the ghoul. "He's not going be able to hurt you too bad, even if he
gets a better grip." That's likely a lie, but its a well delivered lie,
and Apolo doesn't waste too much time making sure Alex believes him. A
little animalistic whine crawls out of the elder's throat, and a
shudder of pleasure shakes him, drags his attention back to Ricardo.
Fingers curl in against the man's shoulder, digging in, and the wounded
wrist is pressed firmer against Ricardo's mouth.

Easy enough. The t-shirt is already loose, and it's being stretched out by the
pull of the prone vampire — Alex just has to squirm out of it, and
he's a skinny fucker. He doesn't stop and give a lot of thought to the
potential downsides to this, he just does it, leaving his shirt in
Ricardo's grip.

As the shirt begins to lose its pull, the grip is no longer what Ricardo's body
seems to need. He releases the shirt almost as soon as it goes slack,
hand flailing out again — but this time it wraps around Apolo's other
arm, the one holding down his shoulder. It tightens around it — but
only the way in which a snake can tighten around a tree branch. His
legs continue to kick, but the motion is less aggressive, and less
frenetic as he fills his throat with Apolo's thick, strong blood,
taking great gulps from his wrist, and showing no signs of intending to
stop.

You think . o O (So it is spoken, so shall it be)

You think . o O (So it is spoken, so shall it be)

Apolo shudders again, and his dark eyes flutter closed, so that any effort made
to pretend he's not enjoying it — the feeding, the chaos, the
potential for violence — is just swept away. Another shudder — at
least he stopped growling. "Enough," he murmurs, regretfully. "Enough."
Eyes opened, watching Alex now and not Ricardo, his free hand switching
so that the heel of it is pressed against Ricardo's forehead to give
him leverage to shove the boy away, "/Enough. Stop drinking./"

Alex hangs back several paces away, his arms wrapped around his middle, and his
face is a knot of expressions: naked jealousy, frustration, dubious
mistrust, anger. He watches Ricardo's face closely, the mess of blood
spilled over it; he doesn't meet Apolo's eyes when Apolo looks his way.

Ricardo's face is gaunt, though his eyes remain closed — at least until Apolo
forced that command upon him. They open immediately, and his adam's
apple stops pulsing just as suddenly. His lips part from Apolo's wrist
and he beginst to frantically lick the blood from his lips. Wildly, his
eyes roll around in his head, trying to gauge his surroundings. Despite
the fact that he has stopped feeding from Apolo, his arms continue to
clutch onto his as tightly as he can. The massive, gaping wound in his
chest is already closing on its own. "No," he whispers gutterally.

Apolo smiles paternally, and bows his head so he can examine Ricardo
closer, carefully, thoroughly flicking his eyes over the other's face,
like there's something there for him to read that's invisible to
everyone else. "Yes. You can not take too much, little brother, or we
will both be in the same position. I have brought you food." A hand is
waved to indicate the rest of the apartment; Alex, Claudia, and even
the two guards are included in the movement. "It is alright. You are
safe here."" in Spanish.

You think . o O (I miss Jazz.)

You think . o O (I miss Jazz.)

As things settle down, Alex unwraps his arms from around his body and shoves
his hands in his pockets. "That was pretty fucked up," he mumbles,
quietly, and the expressions on his face — so raw as he was watching
Ricardo feed — start to melt into a scowl again.

There is a look of terse confusion, and perhaps even pain on Ricardo's face. He
is not completely aware of what is going on. The only satisfaction to
be found in this fact is that he is /often/ not completely aware of
what is going on. His hunger guides him, and though he would cling to
Apolo forever, Apolo's indication draws him by his need — and the
voice is the hook that is reeled in. Ricardo releases Apolo's arm, and
almost immediately, as he attempts to move, falls off of the gurney and
knocks it over. But he is on his feet again in a heartbeat, lurching
with a monstrous quickness toward Alex and swiftly sinking his
blood-glistened fangs into the first bit of flesh he can get his mouth
to; his arm, the inside of the elbow.

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