Hacks from Hell, Unlimited
in co-operation with
Evil Entities for a Darker Tomorrow's
Department Three
and
The Whip Cream and Razor Blades Corporation's
North American Division
presents
Dawn of Darkness: Into the Abyss
A Vampire Princess Miyu / Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter
Crossover
by
Joey O'Leary
aka
The Apprentice
Anita Blake, Jean-Claude and all other characters taken from
the Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter novels are property of Laurell K.
Hamilton.
Miyu, Larva, and all other characters taken from Vampire
Princess Miyu are the property of Toshihiro Hirano and Narumi
Kakinouchi.
Unless otherwise noted all other characters are the mine.
Please get permission before using them.
Thank you's go out to:
Megazone, Gryphon, ReRob and everyone else who's wrote
something in that epic tale known as Undocumented Features. You're
the ones responsible for getting me interested in Manga and Anime,
again.
Darren Steffler (aka Twister) for Twisted Path and Twister.
For showing me the joys of Ranma 1/2 and reminding me that it *is*
possible to have a great self-insertion fanfic without reading UF.
And for Puck, the Canadian god who, it seems, is about to father a
race of half-elves all on his own.
Bert Van Vliet. For revealing to us that it is possible to
be more of a pain to Sylia than Priss and Mackie combined. Frankly,
I'm surprised you haven't given her an ulcer yet.
Hitomi Ichinohei. For amazing me with the number of fanfics
she can have going at once, yet have all of them be of superior
quality. I'm still working (some) on that BGC 'fic I told you about,
Hitomi. Believe it or not, it's what's caused me to create this one.
Barry Cadwgan. For giving me (in no particular order):
spellchecking services; inspiration; ideas; comments and criticism;
encouragement; and assurances that just because I'm able to write
characters like Set, is no reason to see a psychiatrist.
For White Wolf and the rest of the FFML. For great stories
and a chance to have this thing looked at.
To Toshihira Hirano and Narumi Kakinouchi, for giving us
Miyu.
And, finally, to Laurell K. Hamilton. For showing me that it
was possible to mix horror, fantasy, mystery and a bit of romance
together. For giving us vampires that are truly monsters, but showing
that humans could be monstrous as well. For Anita Blake herself; a
strong, smart heroine who doesn't shriek when the monsters are after
her, but instead gives them nine millimeter headaches. And for
Jean-Claude; a hero and villain all at once whom I can't help but
root for.
Any praise, comments, corrections, advice or out-and-out
flames that you decide shouldn't be made public should be sent to:
tjolear@ibm.net
But, please, put something in the header so the other people I share
my account with will know it's for me.
Thanks.
_____
Act 1
Of Pain and Pleasure
Chapter 3: Contractual Arrangements 101 - Give and Take
Part 2
"No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only
mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks."
- Mary Godwin Wollstonecraft
<The Morning After - Faith No More - The Real Thing>
Darkness; calm, soothing, peaceful, quiet. It cradles him.
It holds him close. Nothing would hurt him in it, because nothing
can reach him through it. A blaze of Light suddenly intruded;
bright, blazing, painful. With it comes a lilting voice, "This won't
hurt a bit... It's going to hurt like HELL!" The joyous laughter
fades as the Darkness swallows the Light, swallows the pain.
But the darkness isn't as black, as all-absorbing, as all-consuming
as before.
The Light flashed into existence again; stronger, brighter,
more painful then before. "You're a jerk, but your still my brother.
So, yes, I do care." The Darkness swallows the Light, and with it
the storm of feelings these words bring with them. Love and hate.
Annoyance and appreciation. So many things left unsaid, too much
said that should not have been.
The Light, again brighter and more painful. "I've always
wanted to see if you actually could skin someone alive with a dull
knife, thank you for volunteering!" Darkness once again swallows
the voice, with it's sing-song quality and the emotion felt but
the hate felt leaves a metallic aftertaste behind.
The Light, burning even more of the darkness away, if only
temporarily. "I'm glad you like the game, we play here every
Saturday. Consider yourself given an open invitation to play."
The Darkness flows back in, enveloping the light and the satisfaction
I feel, pulling it away from me. But I don't want it to!
I? What is I?
The Light burns into the Darkness again. "There's an art to
using a branding iron. It's a rare, and in these days seldom
practiced, art. But you're in luck, I'm a certified practitioner!"
Screams echo forth from the core of the Light. The Darkness envelops
them. It tries to muffle them, to suffocate them. To suffocate the
hate that fuels them. To suffocate him.
With that the screams grow louder and the Darkness is forced
back from them. Pushed back until, creaking and moaning, it shatters.
The black shards of Darkness rush back towards him, riding on flaming
waves of Light. Before he can react they are upon him, pushing upon
him, into him. They eat away at the pain in him, and at other parts
of him, but he doesn't care. He welcomes them in, even as sight grows
dim, because he recognizes them now. They are the cool, cold, calm
Darkness of a well planned vengeance and the flaming Light of hot
rage. They are him.
***
"Someone stop the heavy metal concert in my head," the man
groans as the drum solo subsides enough for him to find his voice. As
the room starts to come into focus he forces himself upright, in
stages. First he forces himself to his knees and, after a few minutes
of idly wondering why there was plastic on the white carpet, convinces
his legs to straighten up. He grabs at the cold grey stone wall while
negotiating for his legs to stay straight. Only then does he spare
the energy to turn his head and take in his surroundings.
The other walls and the ceiling are all grey stone, just like
the wall he continues to use for support. Two wooden doors, one to
his left and the other in the wall he was facing, both a with a glossy
black coat of varnish. Fluorescent lighting in the ceiling. White
carpet on the floor, covered by plastic sheeting. One bed against
one of the walls, a single with black sheets and a white pillow. A
perfect stranger sitting on the bed's edge, looking at me. Dead goat
in the center of the room, with bodily wastes...
Hold on one second, the man's still foggy brain struggles
to fit together the last few items it had entered. One, stranger,
looking at me. One, goat, dead. One very big mess. What the hoek?!?
"Ah, hello," the man's voice sounds rusty in his own ears
as he spoke to the stranger on the bed. "Would you mind telling me
why there's a dead goat in the room? And perhaps you could tell
me who you are and where I am?" The pounding in his head was gone,
so the man felt he could try to speak at his normal volume without
chugging a bottle of Tylenol. He kept his eyes trained on the
bed, and the person seated on it at all times and readied himself
to make a dash towards the door he was facing. It wasn't as quite
as close as the other door, but it wasn't as close to the bed either.
Part of his rapidly clearing mind spared an instant to be thankful
that his stomach wasn't doing three-quarter twists right now.
The stranger smiles like a proud parent as he slowly stands
up. His arms are wide apart, and his hands are visible. Almost as
if he doesn't want to spook the man. The man can't help but feel
a flicker of envy as he realizes he's dealing with a GQ covermodel.
The stranger starts to calmly speak in a calm and soothing tone, "My
name is Jean-Claude, you have been my guest these last few nights.
We are at the Circus of the Damned. As for the question about the
goat, I'm surprised you don't remember why it's here or why it's dead.
I would be more then happy to tell you however, if I knew your name."
The man could feel the voice calming him down, even as he
mentally grumbles at genetics for giving him the `John Q. Public'
model while Jean-Claude got the `Apollo' treatment. "I can't remember
seeing you before, or hearing of this `Circus of the Damned' either.
But, if it will get you to tell me what that goat's doing here, sure
I'll tell you my name. I'm..." The man's voice suddenly flounders
to a halt as he tries to cover his embarrassment. "My name is..."
His face contorts as he tries to remember this one basic fact. A
fact that is one of the cornerstones, if not the cornerstone, of
his existence.
Jean-Claude's voice is touched by sadness as he starts to
speak again. "I was afraid of this, between whatever was done to
you before and what I have been doing, there would almost certainly
be some memories and information lost." A deeply sympathetic look
flashes across his face before it once again assumes a pleasantly
concerned look. "There is, unfortunately, no easy way to tell you.
So I will just state what is; you are now a vampire. That is why
there is a dead goat in the room, you drained it of all its blood."
As the man just stares incredulously at Jean-Claude he
continues on, "Whoever brought you over was not gentle about it, you
`woke up' insane, and I have spent over forty minutes putting your
mind back together." Silence rushes into the room as Jean-Claude
just stares at the man, waiting for his reaction.
After a few open-mouthed minutes the man laughs nervously for
a few seconds and starts to speak in an incredulous voice. "A
vampire! Oh, come on! Vampires aren't real..." The man's voice
trails away as a memory pushes itself up from the bowels of his
subconscious. Of his head pressed against the goat's neck. Of
fangs, his fangs, piercing it's flesh. Of the hot tangy taste of
its blood. And swallowing, and swallowing and swallowing.
As the now pale-faced man grabs at the wall for support
another, an even more unwanted memory surfaces like some deep-sea
Leviathan. Of being tied down by bonds he can't see or touch. Of
seeing his blood spatter on the white jacket of the person slowly
peeling back the skin of his foot, and hearing his captor's
laughter. Laughter at his screams. Laughter at his futile struggles
to move. Laughter as he prays and curses every god and demon he's
ever heard of. Laughter as he begs and pleads and promises to do
anything...
When he opens his eyes again, he finds that he's back on the
floor, leaning against the wall. Jean-Claude is looking down at him,
a concerned look clouding his face. "Who did this to me?" The
question is asked with a hoarse voice, before Jean-Claude can do more
than open his mouth the man is speaking again. "Why did he do it?
And, what's going to happen to that sick S.O.B.?" By then end his
voice surprised both the man and, although he doesn't show it,
Jean-Claude. It is absolutely neutral. No change in tone or emphasis
after the first sentence was uttered. Just a flat, even monotone.
The man can't help but think that it would be called dead, as he
tries to hold in the laughter that thought produces. Barely. He
holds it in because it isn't funny, and because he gets the feeling
that if started to laugh right now that he'd never stop.
Jean-Claude stares at the man for an instant, deep blue eyes
meeting those amber orbs, which for a second had turned into cold
black pits of nothingness. "First," he calmly replies, "I don't know
who did this to you. Second, I can't say why for sure. One
possibility is that some have always enjoyed the pain of others. And,
third, whoever did this to you has broken the law. But you said `he',
can you describe him? It would make finding the culprit much easier,
anything at all?" He crouches down besides the man and stares
intently into his yellow eyes.
"No, I don't remember anything..." The man's voice dies away
for a few minutes as his eyes are draw by Jean-Claude's. Then he
suddenly starts to speak again. "There was only one of being
responsible. Male and... white? For some reason I seem to associate
that color with him." His voice trails away for a second before
resuming, "I'm sorry but that's all I can tell you. I can't even
remember what his voice sounds like."
After a few quiet moments the man's head shot back up to
meet Jean-Claude's stare as he licked his lips and began to talk,
hesitantly, again. "You said that you did something to make me
sane again, can you also help me get my memories back? Help me
sort out what's real and what's not real? I'm so messed up that
part of me doesn't even believe in the supernatural in general,
or vampires in particular." The raw emotions in his voice are
echoed by those in the scents he's giving off, hope and fear.
Hope that he'd be able to remember who he was, that his mind
wouldn't be so messed up as to disbelieve in vampires. And fear
because he wondered if his mind couldn't be fixed or, even worse,
that the memories that were locked away from him would drive him
insane. And that, this time, there would be no escaping the
insanity.
Jean-Claude was suddenly on his feat again, as if reality
had skipped a few frames of him. "It is possible, we will try first
thing tomorrow night. However, I would not get my hopes up. In the
meantime someone here will run some tests to see what effect, if any,
your experiences have had on you."
"But, first, you can take a shower in the bathroom," his arm
seemed to float as it pointed to the door on my left. "By the time
you're done the mess will have been cleaned up, and the plastic
removed. There are towels in the bathroom and clean clothes will be
on the bed when you are done." After getting a nod of agreement from
his guest Jean-Claude left the room. His graceful movements making
the stranger wondered if he was actually walking or just flowing.
***
The man gladly stumbles into the shower after putting his
clothes in the wooden hamper by the door with a near glowing finish.
He immediately turns on the hot water, partially because he remembers
enough to know that he detests cold showers and partially because he
wants to clear some of the cobwebs still in his head. Until
Jean-Claude had mentioned a change of clothes he hadn't noticed the
state the current ones were in. Which, considering the sight they
presented and the smells they gave off, could be considered a minor
miracle. He grimaced at the though and made a note to learn better
table manners, immediately.
He scrubs himself clean vigorously, since not all the mess
got on his clothes. But, after a while, he admits it's not a state
of physical cleanliness he's trying to achieve, it's a mental ones.
His mind has more holes then a piece of Swiss cheese, and many of the
things he does remember seem to either be incorrect or out of place be
he remembers enough of what was done to him to hate. To hate the man
who did this to him, because even if he regains all the memories he's
lost he will never be that person again. That person had been human,
he wasn't. But, even more importantly, that person had been clean,
innocent, pure. He wouldn't, couldn't, be any of those things, not
with his memories. His memories, that gave him just enough to know
some of what had been done to him. His memories, that gave him
enough glimpses at the life he had lived to know just how much he had
never appreciate it as he should have, because he took it for granted.
His memories, that showed him just enough to know just how much had
been taken from him.
***
True to his word Jean-Claude had seen to the room, it looks
spotless and absolutely normal when the stranger comes out of the
bathroom, wearing only a thick white towel. The goat, the mess, and
the plastic are all gone. There isn't even any marks on the wall he
had leaned against. As he moves towards the bed, his toes being
swallowed by the thick carpet, he goes over the clothes that have
been put out for him.
A pair of white Nikes, with black trim, lying besides the bed
are the first thing he notices. Although he couldn't really care if
it had been made by President's Choice, the fact that they were
sneakers endeared them to the stranger immediately. The dark brown
short-sleeved shirt met with his approval as well, and the white
socks were per the course. He, however, wasn't crazy about the
denim jeans. They were better then leather, mind you, but he just
preferred slacks to jeans, as he found the former almost always more
comfortable then the latter.
A few moments latter, after putting the slightly damp towel
in the brown hamper with its wet twin, he stood before the other door.
As he stared at the doorknob as if it were some strange lifeform he
wondered if going along like this was such a smart idea. This
Jean-Claude could be stringing him along for a ride. He could even
be the one responsible for his present situation. A second after that
thought flashed across his cranium the stranger shook his head. No,
when he did meet the one responsible for this, he'd know him, his
hate wouldn't let him down. But Jean-Claude had to have a reason for
helping him, TANSTAAFL after all. That, however, didn't change the
fact that Jean-Claude was the best chance he had.
As he began to open the door, one of the stranger's free
floating thoughts slid to the front of his mind. He had always
hated tests.
***
The pair the stranger was following were definitely not a
matched set. The lady was wearing the standard Doctor/Mad Scientist
ensemble. White lab coat, top and pants all appearing even brighter
due to her dark dress shoes. The style her dark brown hair was in,
a bun, and tinted glasses that were so thick he had to restrain
himself from asking if she had welding as a hobby added the finishing
touches to that impression. She was alive, about five feet and seven
inches tall, in her mid twenties and would have been pretty if she
didn't look like she was still ticked that she didn't get reincarnated
as a drill sergeant. While nothing showed on her face she smelled
excited and curious. Probably due to the fact that she had a new toy
to play with, the stranger guessed.
The other one was... different. If you went from his clothes
he was a color-blind clown who had been convinced to wear a
three-piece suit. The tomato-red clothing made his short, dark and
slicked-back hair seem even darker then it really was. It also did
nothing to hide how pale his skin was. He was about five foot three,
and he was a vampire. Nothing to worry about though, he's less then
a year old, and nowhere near as powerful as I am. Of course, he's
not a Master vampire...
The stranger stopped suddenly as he realized that he knew
several things he shouldn't have. First, that the woman was human
and the man was a vampire. Second, that he knew what emotions the
woman was experiencing. Third, he knew how old the vampire was,
and how powerful he was. Fourth, why is his not being a master
vampire important and why didn't he remember why it's important!
As he tried to find answers to his questions with his
meagre memories, preferably answers that didn't include the words
`because you're not human any more' he realized that the previous
objects of his attention had stopped as well, and were starring at
him. He thought about complaining but decided not to. After all
he had just been doing the same to them and, anyway, it didn't seem
like a good idea to tick off people you're asking for help from. So
the stranger decided to just stare back.
After a few minutes of silence the vampire starts to talk.
He sounds like a two-bit gangster from `The Untouchables' as he
talks. "Ya feelin' any better now kid?" Concern, honest concern
seemed to be in his voice. The stranger can't help but wonder if
it's because The Hood is afraid that he'd attack him, just like
he almost did back in the room. It's all the stranger can do to keep
himself from laughing, partially because of the utter absurdity of the
question and partially because he couldn't believe someone would
really that way in real life.
"Sure," The stranger answers back, "I feel like a brand new
man." The urge to laugh vanishes as soon as he says this because it's
both extremely true and very false. True, because he was different
than what he was before. False, because he wasn't a man, wasn't
Homo Sapiens now. And even if he had still been human, he still
wouldn't be a man. A man wouldn't have begged for death, or screamed
for pity or had... those things... done to him. No, he wasn't a man.
The chill gloom that had almost tangibly enveloped him suddenly
evaporated away as hatred, the lovely dancing flame of spite, burst
forth from him, to him, again. The stranger can barely keep himself
from physically hugging himself as he mentally embraces the warmth
of the flames. Embraces it with all that makes him, him. He knows
it will keep the cold away. He knows that it gives him a reason to
go on. Revenge. Mr. White had done these things to him, taken these
things from him. And Mr. White would pay for them as well.
When he looks at The Doctor and The Hood again he sees that
they're staring at him again. Although they control their faces, they
either can't, or won't, control their scents. He can smell their
fear, and he revels in it. It is like a subtle perfume to him, or
perhaps the smell of a good meal. This isn't the kind of associations
he likes to have with fear so the stranger tries to push them back to
the dark depths of his subconsciousness. And succeeds, for now.
After a few seconds of silence The Hood shrugs his shoulders
and they continue on their trip down the featureless, silent corridor of
grey stone. Torches in metal wall sconces provide the corridor's only
lighting. The shadows fence continuously with the flames, attacking
and giving ground in a constant battle. Finally a door of gleaming
brown wood, breaks the stone's unchallenged rule. The Doctor pulls
out a much scratched key from one of her lab coat's pockets and steps
into the room. The Hood takes up what could only be called a `guard'
position to one side of the open portal as The Doctor continues to
hold the door open, with the first impression the stranger's yet to
see faintly twisting her face. Impatience.
The stranger cautiously examines the room, from the corridor,
hoping to have his nervousness vanish. What he can see isn't all that
encouraging. He can't quite decide is the grey stone room is supposed
to be the fitness center from hell or Dr. Frankenstein's
lab-away-from-lab. A computer center is next to a Nautilus, a table
with multiple beakers and bunsen burners on it is next to a set of
dumbbells. And from their, things get confusing. Despite a small
voice that screams at him to run he enters the room. It takes more
then he'll ever admit not to freeze in fear when The Doctor promptly
closes the door behind him and locks it.
Part of the reason he keeps from doing so is pride. Another
part is a burning need to know what he now was, what he could do.
But, mainly, it was the flame he had embraced. A flame he would never
let go. No, he would let go of it, but not before he had his
vengeance. A childhood saying starts to echo in his mind as he
watches The Doctor start up a computer system that looks like it came
from Mission Control. The saying builds up from a whisper to a shriek
as he waits for The Doctor. It is a mantra to him. It is a promise
to Mr. White.
Do unto others as they have done unto you.
***
Concluded in part 3 of Chapter 3.
