Vampire RP!
The following is insane. We have accepted that. WIP.
Juilliard smiles, languidly, and tosses a glance over his shoulder. "Yes, I'm sure I'm fine, Hayes, darling," he says, his voice low and convincing. "They aren't completely uncivilised bastards, as much as we might like to claim they are. I was just in a cell, nothing more. And if you do not speed up your excruciating pace, we will not reach the safehouse before nightfall, and they will become rather less civil."
Hayes shoots him a glare, although he does speed up, slightly. "Just a cell? Makes me wonder what I went to all the trouble for, right?"
"No, your rescue was a go-- boon," Juilliard amends, "beyond compare. Do you think I particularly enjoy rotting away?" It's true that he looks remarkably healthy, especially compared to Lien, out there in the snow. He's fit, hale, full of colour, smiling in that obnoxious way of his, eyes bright.
That doesn't stop Hayes' paranoia from tingling.
"So," he says, eyeing Juilliard suspiciously as best he can. "What'd they do then? Threaten to bore you to death unless you talked?"
"Yes, and when they threatened to pipe in pop music I cracked and told them everything," he says, brightly.
"So I guess they just decided to politely provide you room and board as a thank you," says Hayes. "You going to share the complimentary bars of soap?"
"Of course not. Nor the complimentary cologne." He shrugs. "You'll have to survive with one of the towels. They're monogrammed."
"Not taking anything with your initials on them," Hayes growls. "Cut the crap, Mr. Vichy, what'd they do? Just so I know you're not going to bludgeon me to death when I've got my back turned."
"They implanted a chip in me," Juilliard says, shortly, "for tracking purposes, which I neutralised. They also attempted to convince me, mainly through bribery, to switch allegiances. It didn't work. And I certainly would never bludgeon you to death, Hayes, darling. It's so ... indelicate."
"Wouldn't exactly admit to switching sides, would you?" Hayes mutters. Then he continues, at normal volume, "Good to know. And how far's this safehouse of yours, now?"
"No," says Juilliard, completely tranquil. "I wouldn't. Twenty minutes brisk walk from the palace. How far's Lien? Can we get her back to headquarters? No, we'd better not, if she's injured."
Hayes starts, not having really expected a response to his first remark, but he recovers himself. "She is," he says curtly. "Shot her up full of something, anyway." He curses, under his breath.
Juilliard's face becomes a little sharper, and his voice is emotionless. "They hurt Lien, did they. Well, well." He quickens his pace. Again. And yet he doesn't really seem to be running so much as ... gliding. "
Hayes is just distracted enough not to notice. "Yeah. They did. Since, you know, they're not very nice people. Understand why I'm a little surprised by your good health."
"I do, dearest Hayes. Do understand as well that I am not entirely as well as I seem." He shrugs. "I don't have time for that now, however. Here's the doors. Where's Lien?"
"Somewhere," Hayes says, "uncomfortable. She has a tent. Thing."
"Excellent description, Hayes mon petit, and now give me a direction." Juilliard is practically snarling; it's probably protectiveness.
Hayes raises a hand, and then a second later points in a direction. Although that's not the finger people generally use to point out directions.
Juilliard smirks at that, and strides off in the indicated direction. Still failing, somehow, to run, though he's moving very, very quickly.
Hayes stares for a moment, and then sets off after him. "Then what the hell did you want the safehouse for?"
We'll take her there," Juilliard explains, patiently, as if talking to a very tiny child. "And there we will barricade ourselves until we're sure there's no bug on any of our handhelds, and that my chip is inactive. And then we will return to headquarters. And then you will get a biscuit for your excellent rescue, won't you, Hayes, you good boy."
If it is possible for Juilliard's voice to drip with more scorn, Hayes can't imagine how.
"Do you think," he says, very, very slowly, "that if I killed you now, I could pass it off as completely not my fault?"
Juilliard's voice is quite cheerful. "Not at all."
"Maybe I ought to give it a try anyway, you annoying bastard. Do I look like a dog, or something?"
Juilliard pauses for a second, and turns, giving Hayes a considering look. "Sometimes. More like an imbecilic guinea pig."
Hayes's hand twitches. "Fuck you."
"Likewise," Juilliard says, and continues moving. Lien's shelter is visible up ahead.
Hayes opens his mouth to shout something back, but chokes back the retort, and instead speeds up at the sight of the makeshift camp.
And inside the tent and its scant protection from the snow and cold, Lien is lying on her side, a blanket pulled up around her chin giving some additional warmth.
She is very, very pale.
"Jung!" Hayes, who has gone into a full run by now, comes to an abrupt stop next to the small shelter.
Juilliard is already there, leaning over her, solicitously. "Lien, I'm sorry. This is entirely my fault."
"Shut up, y'poncy bastard," Lien hisses through chattering teeth. "What’s important is that you're safe."
"Oh, he's safe," Hayes says. "Lot fucking safer than you are."
Juilliard turns around and shoots Hayes an actual glare. The first sign of real emotion he's given, honestly, except for that Hayes can't be sure this is real emotion at all.
"Doesn't stop me from feeling dreadfully guilty," he says, seriously. "They didn't do anything horrifying to me, wench. Nothing like what they did to you. Shall we send you back?"
"Should you like to see my innards in twenty-six dimensions?" Lien bites out. "I wouldn't, I can tell you that much."
"Yes, but Lien, dearest, you can't stay," he says, and now his voice is a little urgent. "Especially not with me. The safehouse won't hold against two tracking chips."
"Tracking chips?" She struggles to sit up, her face going from pale to gray.
"One in you, one in me," Juilliard says, shortly, and bends down, pressing an undistinguishable spot on her leg. "There's yours."
She stifles a scream, biting down hard enough on her lip to draw blood. "Fucking hell," she mutters faintly. "Must've- must've been when, when they--"
"Jung!" Hayes swears under his breath. "You didn't have to hurt her, dammit."
"See?" says Juilliard quietly. "I'm fairly certain I've neutralised my own, but it took some time. Which we don't have. We'll have to send you back and take your chances, because otherwise, it's certain death for all of us."
"Fine," Lien agrees at last, and shrugs the blanket up a little higher on her shoulders. "Do it. Do it now."
Hayes has a short internal battle with himself about whether to argue about this, then finally decides reluctantly that Juilliard makes sense, dammit, and that she does need medical care. "Good luck," he says finally.
Juilliard raises an eyebrow. "Your handheld, my dear Hayes. Mine has been unfortunately lost, or do you not recall?"
Hayes glares, but retrieves the thing from his jacket pocket. Then he throws it at Juilliard. To Juilliard. Same thing.
Juilliard catches it effortlessly, punches something in, and bends over Lien again, solicitously. "You simply must be all right," he says softly. "You have to keep hold of my dignity for me."
She chokes out something like a laugh. "If I die, Hayes gets it, and much good may it do him."
Juilliard sneers a little. "As Hayes deserves it so utterly? Very well, then, Hayes will get whatever he deserves."
"Hayes deserves it," Lien insists, pulling a pained sort of face at Juilliard. "Fuck. Mel ready yet?"
"Soon, pigeon," he says, showing her the message. "In fact--" It's beeping. "Now. I'll--" he shoots a look at Hayes. "We'll see you in a week, or two."
"Yes, we will. Keep safe."
"See you--" and Lien is gone, leaving the blanket to settle to the tent floor with an outward sigh of air.
"All right, then," says Juilliard, and sighs. "To the temporary abode, then." It's said in much the same terms one would say "To the tentacle-monster-infested sewer." Well, that bodes well.
***
"So." Hayes eyes the building a bit suspiciously; this expression is starting to feel familiar, damn it all. The safehouse is not quite what he expected. "I was kind of expecting a shack."
"We are remaining here for a long while, you know," Juilliard points out. "And can you imagine myself in a shack? I know I cannot. A horrid thought. Bound to provoke nightmares. Come inside." He strolls over the threshold, pausing a little bit at the door, and then continuing through.
Hayes trails after him. "So, remind me how you know about this very convenient place again?" He tries to avoid contemplating the prospect of remaining a long time anywhere with Juilliard Vichy.
"Because," Juilliard drawls, stroking the side of an antique cabinet affectionately, "I plan ahead. There was a rather eccentric lord who lived here, who died while I was at court. It was left empty. They're still squabbling about its ownership, and shall be for years, and in the meantime I moved in and set up lock systems beyond those known to -- the usual run of mortals."
"Really talented, huh?" Hayes stands awkwardly by the door. "You sure no one's going to find us here?"
"Absolutely certain. Do come in. Or do you need to be thrice invited?" Juilliard pauses in front of a rare mirror, angled away from Hayes. He inspects the surface carefully, and then smiles, glitteringly. "Like a pixie. Dear me."
Hayes obeys, albeit slowly. "So how long am I stuck here with you, then?"
Juilliard presses a button, and a door slides away, leading to a bedroom. There's a window, and through it can just be glimpsed the oncoming light of morning. "Oh, a week, I think. Somehow I shall survive the experience. This room's yours. Try not to wander the halls during the day; the previous owner of this house had a preference for booby traps."
"...Booby traps?" Hayes pales. He takes a moment to digest this, then continues. "What does the time of day have to do with it? You expect me to be nocturnal?"
"Yes," Juilliard says, shortly. "As I plan to be. Less activity here at night. Less chance of an attack being made on the house if we're only awake at night. If we're lucky, they shall take us for poltergeists, then."
Hayes frowns at this, but it makes sense, and so there's no arguing there. He shrugs.
Then, "Um. Your planning ahead include food?"
"It included food for me," Juilliard murmurs, and then raises an eyebrow. "Your provisions can be found underneath the bed, if I recall correctly. There's a refrigerator."
"...Thanks," Hayes says, frowning. "And what're you having for dinner, then?"
"I am quite sure you shall survive without the pleasure of my company for dinner. I've provided for myself." Juilliard lifts a hand in what could be farewell, if one is kindly inclined, and pressed the button again. The door slides closed on Hayes.
"Okay."
A few moments later, Hayes shrugs and turns to search for food items. The demands of one's stomach are important, after all.
Juilliard smiles, languidly, and tosses a glance over his shoulder. "Yes, I'm sure I'm fine, Hayes, darling," he says, his voice low and convincing. "They aren't completely uncivilised bastards, as much as we might like to claim they are. I was just in a cell, nothing more. And if you do not speed up your excruciating pace, we will not reach the safehouse before nightfall, and they will become rather less civil."
Hayes shoots him a glare, although he does speed up, slightly. "Just a cell? Makes me wonder what I went to all the trouble for, right?"
"No, your rescue was a go-- boon," Juilliard amends, "beyond compare. Do you think I particularly enjoy rotting away?" It's true that he looks remarkably healthy, especially compared to Lien, out there in the snow. He's fit, hale, full of colour, smiling in that obnoxious way of his, eyes bright.
That doesn't stop Hayes' paranoia from tingling.
"So," he says, eyeing Juilliard suspiciously as best he can. "What'd they do then? Threaten to bore you to death unless you talked?"
"Yes, and when they threatened to pipe in pop music I cracked and told them everything," he says, brightly.
"So I guess they just decided to politely provide you room and board as a thank you," says Hayes. "You going to share the complimentary bars of soap?"
"Of course not. Nor the complimentary cologne." He shrugs. "You'll have to survive with one of the towels. They're monogrammed."
"Not taking anything with your initials on them," Hayes growls. "Cut the crap, Mr. Vichy, what'd they do? Just so I know you're not going to bludgeon me to death when I've got my back turned."
"They implanted a chip in me," Juilliard says, shortly, "for tracking purposes, which I neutralised. They also attempted to convince me, mainly through bribery, to switch allegiances. It didn't work. And I certainly would never bludgeon you to death, Hayes, darling. It's so ... indelicate."
"Wouldn't exactly admit to switching sides, would you?" Hayes mutters. Then he continues, at normal volume, "Good to know. And how far's this safehouse of yours, now?"
"No," says Juilliard, completely tranquil. "I wouldn't. Twenty minutes brisk walk from the palace. How far's Lien? Can we get her back to headquarters? No, we'd better not, if she's injured."
Hayes starts, not having really expected a response to his first remark, but he recovers himself. "She is," he says curtly. "Shot her up full of something, anyway." He curses, under his breath.
Juilliard's face becomes a little sharper, and his voice is emotionless. "They hurt Lien, did they. Well, well." He quickens his pace. Again. And yet he doesn't really seem to be running so much as ... gliding. "
Hayes is just distracted enough not to notice. "Yeah. They did. Since, you know, they're not very nice people. Understand why I'm a little surprised by your good health."
"I do, dearest Hayes. Do understand as well that I am not entirely as well as I seem." He shrugs. "I don't have time for that now, however. Here's the doors. Where's Lien?"
"Somewhere," Hayes says, "uncomfortable. She has a tent. Thing."
"Excellent description, Hayes mon petit, and now give me a direction." Juilliard is practically snarling; it's probably protectiveness.
Hayes raises a hand, and then a second later points in a direction. Although that's not the finger people generally use to point out directions.
Juilliard smirks at that, and strides off in the indicated direction. Still failing, somehow, to run, though he's moving very, very quickly.
Hayes stares for a moment, and then sets off after him. "Then what the hell did you want the safehouse for?"
We'll take her there," Juilliard explains, patiently, as if talking to a very tiny child. "And there we will barricade ourselves until we're sure there's no bug on any of our handhelds, and that my chip is inactive. And then we will return to headquarters. And then you will get a biscuit for your excellent rescue, won't you, Hayes, you good boy."
If it is possible for Juilliard's voice to drip with more scorn, Hayes can't imagine how.
"Do you think," he says, very, very slowly, "that if I killed you now, I could pass it off as completely not my fault?"
Juilliard's voice is quite cheerful. "Not at all."
"Maybe I ought to give it a try anyway, you annoying bastard. Do I look like a dog, or something?"
Juilliard pauses for a second, and turns, giving Hayes a considering look. "Sometimes. More like an imbecilic guinea pig."
Hayes's hand twitches. "Fuck you."
"Likewise," Juilliard says, and continues moving. Lien's shelter is visible up ahead.
Hayes opens his mouth to shout something back, but chokes back the retort, and instead speeds up at the sight of the makeshift camp.
And inside the tent and its scant protection from the snow and cold, Lien is lying on her side, a blanket pulled up around her chin giving some additional warmth.
She is very, very pale.
"Jung!" Hayes, who has gone into a full run by now, comes to an abrupt stop next to the small shelter.
Juilliard is already there, leaning over her, solicitously. "Lien, I'm sorry. This is entirely my fault."
"Shut up, y'poncy bastard," Lien hisses through chattering teeth. "What’s important is that you're safe."
"Oh, he's safe," Hayes says. "Lot fucking safer than you are."
Juilliard turns around and shoots Hayes an actual glare. The first sign of real emotion he's given, honestly, except for that Hayes can't be sure this is real emotion at all.
"Doesn't stop me from feeling dreadfully guilty," he says, seriously. "They didn't do anything horrifying to me, wench. Nothing like what they did to you. Shall we send you back?"
"Should you like to see my innards in twenty-six dimensions?" Lien bites out. "I wouldn't, I can tell you that much."
"Yes, but Lien, dearest, you can't stay," he says, and now his voice is a little urgent. "Especially not with me. The safehouse won't hold against two tracking chips."
"Tracking chips?" She struggles to sit up, her face going from pale to gray.
"One in you, one in me," Juilliard says, shortly, and bends down, pressing an undistinguishable spot on her leg. "There's yours."
She stifles a scream, biting down hard enough on her lip to draw blood. "Fucking hell," she mutters faintly. "Must've- must've been when, when they--"
"Jung!" Hayes swears under his breath. "You didn't have to hurt her, dammit."
"See?" says Juilliard quietly. "I'm fairly certain I've neutralised my own, but it took some time. Which we don't have. We'll have to send you back and take your chances, because otherwise, it's certain death for all of us."
"Fine," Lien agrees at last, and shrugs the blanket up a little higher on her shoulders. "Do it. Do it now."
Hayes has a short internal battle with himself about whether to argue about this, then finally decides reluctantly that Juilliard makes sense, dammit, and that she does need medical care. "Good luck," he says finally.
Juilliard raises an eyebrow. "Your handheld, my dear Hayes. Mine has been unfortunately lost, or do you not recall?"
Hayes glares, but retrieves the thing from his jacket pocket. Then he throws it at Juilliard. To Juilliard. Same thing.
Juilliard catches it effortlessly, punches something in, and bends over Lien again, solicitously. "You simply must be all right," he says softly. "You have to keep hold of my dignity for me."
She chokes out something like a laugh. "If I die, Hayes gets it, and much good may it do him."
Juilliard sneers a little. "As Hayes deserves it so utterly? Very well, then, Hayes will get whatever he deserves."
"Hayes deserves it," Lien insists, pulling a pained sort of face at Juilliard. "Fuck. Mel ready yet?"
"Soon, pigeon," he says, showing her the message. "In fact--" It's beeping. "Now. I'll--" he shoots a look at Hayes. "We'll see you in a week, or two."
"Yes, we will. Keep safe."
"See you--" and Lien is gone, leaving the blanket to settle to the tent floor with an outward sigh of air.
"All right, then," says Juilliard, and sighs. "To the temporary abode, then." It's said in much the same terms one would say "To the tentacle-monster-infested sewer." Well, that bodes well.
***
"So." Hayes eyes the building a bit suspiciously; this expression is starting to feel familiar, damn it all. The safehouse is not quite what he expected. "I was kind of expecting a shack."
"We are remaining here for a long while, you know," Juilliard points out. "And can you imagine myself in a shack? I know I cannot. A horrid thought. Bound to provoke nightmares. Come inside." He strolls over the threshold, pausing a little bit at the door, and then continuing through.
Hayes trails after him. "So, remind me how you know about this very convenient place again?" He tries to avoid contemplating the prospect of remaining a long time anywhere with Juilliard Vichy.
"Because," Juilliard drawls, stroking the side of an antique cabinet affectionately, "I plan ahead. There was a rather eccentric lord who lived here, who died while I was at court. It was left empty. They're still squabbling about its ownership, and shall be for years, and in the meantime I moved in and set up lock systems beyond those known to -- the usual run of mortals."
"Really talented, huh?" Hayes stands awkwardly by the door. "You sure no one's going to find us here?"
"Absolutely certain. Do come in. Or do you need to be thrice invited?" Juilliard pauses in front of a rare mirror, angled away from Hayes. He inspects the surface carefully, and then smiles, glitteringly. "Like a pixie. Dear me."
Hayes obeys, albeit slowly. "So how long am I stuck here with you, then?"
Juilliard presses a button, and a door slides away, leading to a bedroom. There's a window, and through it can just be glimpsed the oncoming light of morning. "Oh, a week, I think. Somehow I shall survive the experience. This room's yours. Try not to wander the halls during the day; the previous owner of this house had a preference for booby traps."
"...Booby traps?" Hayes pales. He takes a moment to digest this, then continues. "What does the time of day have to do with it? You expect me to be nocturnal?"
"Yes," Juilliard says, shortly. "As I plan to be. Less activity here at night. Less chance of an attack being made on the house if we're only awake at night. If we're lucky, they shall take us for poltergeists, then."
Hayes frowns at this, but it makes sense, and so there's no arguing there. He shrugs.
Then, "Um. Your planning ahead include food?"
"It included food for me," Juilliard murmurs, and then raises an eyebrow. "Your provisions can be found underneath the bed, if I recall correctly. There's a refrigerator."
"...Thanks," Hayes says, frowning. "And what're you having for dinner, then?"
"I am quite sure you shall survive without the pleasure of my company for dinner. I've provided for myself." Juilliard lifts a hand in what could be farewell, if one is kindly inclined, and pressed the button again. The door slides closed on Hayes.
"Okay."
A few moments later, Hayes shrugs and turns to search for food items. The demands of one's stomach are important, after all.