Bristol, All Week Up To Friday Night
This had been the shittiest week in the history of shitty weeks -- well, at least recent shitty weeks. Mitchell had had quite a lot of those in his lifespan so far. He had barely left for Fandom or the news had gotten in that yet more people had been killed: some vampire had offed two kids in a mall. Fucking nightmare.
At the same time, he'd had to get the Chief Constable his cash so he'd take care of the issue with the post-vamp-attack coma patient, only to get some more unpleasant news.
"Your coma guy woke up."
Oh, bugger.
"No, I can sort it."
And how the hell was he going to do that?
"We need Quinn."
Like hell that coroner was going to work for them from here on in.
Apparently the answer to that, though, was blackmail. Or rather, a threat. And now besides a headache about all the deaths going around, Mitchell was stuck with moral anxiety over the fact he now owned bloody pictures of Quinn's family. Was this what he was going to have to stoop to to get some order in this place?
"You know this is wrong, Mitchell," Quinn said, three hours later. "Sanctioning the killing of innocent people can never be a moral act."
And Mitchell twitched a little. "So what do you suggest?"
"You do what I've done. You walk away."
"We'll be exposed if I do that."
"Then so be it."
"If I do that, there'll be more suffering, history has shown that."
"No, history has shown that the ends never justify the means-- that's always the road to hell."
In the end, Mitchell gave him the envelope. What else could he do? His hands were tied. The future of Bristol laid in his hands now, and no matter how much it hurt, he couldn't-- couldn't.
"I misjudged you," was Quinn's only response. "You are scum."
It felt like a Phyrric victory at best.
That night, he was on edge. And then some. Stalking through the ranks of vampires in the Old Church, snarling. "Who was it?" No answer. "Who was it?!" Silence. "WHO WAS IT? THEY WERE FIFTEEN!"
"They were delicious!" And of course it would have to be Cara. Young, foolish, stupid Cara, Herrick's protege. "Young, fresh, warm blood. You should try it again, Mitchell! I'd forgotten what it was like. So wet. So black..." A happy sigh slipped through the room, as if every vampire was imagining it in unison. "I can still taste it."
Enough. Mitchell was riding the edge of his rage and he was more than happy to deliver it now. "We had a deal," he snapped, and hit her in the face like he had struck Hannibal once, too. Fucking fledgelings. "Anyone else?"
Silence, again.
"No? Anyone else?"
Not a fucking word. Perfect.
"Now who here has a suit?!"
And that was the day they opened up the funeral home again. Talk about coming home again, jesus fucking christ.
The next day, it was all over the news: coma boy had slipped back into his coma and died in the night. "No foul play was involved," said the Chief Constable on television. He looked severe, and sounded sympathetic.
"Stick with repeat offenders from now on," said the Chief Constable in private, to Mitchell. "That's a win-win for both of us. What happened to Balfour was... unfortunate. Collateral damage. But the main thing is, the system is back in place."
Well, whoopty-doo. Now if only Mitchell could stop feeling like he'd sold out his soul, that might actually be fucking worth something.
"What, so killing's okay again?" was what George said.
"This is just the short term," said Mitchell. It was the only thing he had.
George just stared at him. "And the long term?"
"I'm going to help them get off blood," Mitchell said, determinedly. And he determined all through George's scathing diatribe. He had to. It was the only way to keep himself going, keep himself from doing what Quinn had tried and walked away.
And all of it... all of it had been running towards this moment. This night, the culmination of over a week - of over more than that, of all the months since Herrick's death at George's hands. It was him, dragging Cara into the funeral home to find most of Bristol's vampires in there, waiting for him.
"What's all this?" he asked, incredulously.
Daisy smiled that smile of hers that was nothing like a smile, and leaned forward. "We all want to know if you've got the balls for this," she said.
"What the fuck?"
"Justice needs to be seen to be served, Mitchell," Daisy said, patiently. "Do it properly. You'll never have to do it again."
... Yeah.
Yeah. He knew what she meant. That didn't mean he had to like it. "Come on!" he shouted at the nearest flunkie, and grabbed Cara by the neck and shoved her down into the back. Down, down the stairs, into the small grotty pit of a place down below, deep in the earth.
The old way. The proper way.
She begged, Cara did. Of course she did. She was young. Herrick hadn't told her about any of this, about the savagery, the old ways, the way vampires used to be punished if they wandered off the path. She begged, and she cried, and he hurled her at the floor and she begged some more. Please don't leave me here. Please. I'll never do it again.
He ignored it. He picked up the rock and he ignored her cries as best as he fucking could.
He took her by the chin and stared down into her weeping face. "...I'm sorry," he said, in a rush, "I'm sorry, I don't want this, but I don't have a choice."
Mitchell brought the rock down onto her face. And a second time. Then he reached down and picked her fangs up off the filthy floor and left her there, weeping into the earth. Didn't think. Didn't let his conscience bubble back up to the surface.
He couldn't. He felt numb.
He slammed her fangs down on the table in front of the gathered vampires.
"Cara's been executed," he said.
That was it. He'd had enough. This whole bloody shitty week could go to hell, as far as he was concerned. He was out. He was going to walk.
He turned away from the table and started walking.
"The king is dead," cried one of them.
"Long live the king," cried another.
He turned to face them again, and they were all chanting now, like in a bad fucking dream. Something you only saw when you ate something wrong and stared at the telly for too long and passed out. Old ways. It always led to this shit.
"Long live the king! Long live the king! Long live the king!"
Only Daisy just sat there, silently, looking at him. Just... looking.
Fuck.
He needed a drink.
[[ nfb, nfi, ooc-okay. Warning: violence and murder under the cut and Mitchell being rather morally questionable. Spoilers for Being Human 2x03. ]]