The Independants/Rap Sheets/DanimetJay

From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe

Lyin' on your back, the pulse loud in your head, even through the chems. Sunlight bright, through shades and closed eyes, burnin' away the worms in your head. Hearing the music from the D, which is crazy since even though the door's fifty feet away, the damn club is a million miles away, and nowhere at all. Still, you hear it.

Despite the noise, your head is quiet, and you're muzzy and warm.

And watched.

Look up. Young guy, twenties. Red rag. Warrior tats. That's nuts. No Warriors this low in the Isles. Who'd be crazy enough to fake it, though? If he's here for trouble, there'll be one fewer in a sec.

He's not. He's smiling, allll cocky. For a minute you winder if it's all in his face or he's got it in his pants too. He's kinda cute.

Some sob story. BS about him bein' in trouble with his bros. You're not listenin'. It's been a while, you're feeling all right, you're horny. He dresses like a bum, but he's clean. And cute. Maybe.

Light a spliff, add to the humming silence.

He wants a hit. You ask what he has to trade. He makes some hardass joke about how maybe he doesn't need nothin'. Like he's gonna take what he wants, no matter what you got to say. Silly little boy, he doesn't know. Doesn't know you're a skinwalker, a vampire, death in a C cup...

He gets it when the lights start shattering, the floodlights on the billboard, as one Ingram makes its cute little barfing noise. He never saw you draw it. You're not even looking, point and pull, and the line of bulbs become rainbow sprays in the bright sun, one at a time ohsofast in order.

He stares. You laugh. The last one was pure luck, any sane world you'da missed. You tell him. He laughs, too, nervously. A loud laugh, but a nice one.

You tell him to show you his eyes, as always, like everyone. He does. Pretty eyes, deep, sad. Way too old for his age. Eyes like yours, only darker. The twinge in your crotch becomes a throb, works its way up.

You give him the joint.

Later, much later, he comes to the crib. Brings the case of Scotch you lifted together, prize from a buncha wannabes who thought wearin' skull masks on their faces makes 'em badass. You showed 'em the truth, together, and the case was his prize.

Yours? One bottle. And his red dorag, his red badge of courage, wrapped around your upper arm. Challenge, offer, and promise. Stupid, maybe, to let him come to the crib. But you've only just moved in, cam move again if needs be. Somethin' says he's got his own probs, is just looking to party, not jam you up.

Stupid. Always a sucker for the eyes.

Together you dance. No stereo in the crib, not yet, but you dance anyway, slow an' close, to the music only you can hear. Maybe he hears it too. You help each other peel away the outer skins, the ones that hides what hides you. He's got scars, too. More'n you. Stupid, slow, brave? All, none?

He pours Scotch, you drink together, sharing a glass. Then you drink each other, side by side on the crappy carpet, lips tongues and teeth, grunting and leaking like the animals you are.

On to the main event, rugburn ride. He's rough, savage in his anger and his need, dangerously tender in his fear and sorrow. Sore as hell after. It's wonderful.

Quiet whispers, hands teasing each other without mercy, you talk a while. Nothin' important, dirty jokes, Isles gossip, 'do you know this jackass?' He's not that bright, though there's more behind the eyes than he shows- so what? Even if he can't see the black crows circling your head, can't hear the thunder over the horizon, it don't matter. He'll be gone in the morning. Or a day. Week, tops.

Comforted, you do it again. At the peak, you can't remember his name, because it's so bright and you are so...

Hot. Hot in the crib, hot side by side in the crappy cot. Daylight's leakin' in, and he's still there. Who's still there? Who the hell is he? Why is he? Here, now?

A tiny drop of sweat is still on his cheek. It tastes like blood, and sex, an loss. Fuckit, he's there. get a leg over, do what you do best. Hurt yourself in a good way, insteada hurtin' other folks in bad.

Next day, he's still there, bringin' breakfast.

Three days later, he comes round again. Stays a while. Week goes by.

Still here.

Jason. His name is Jason.