Vampire in DC

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

Is there a lore reason why I didn't post yesterday? Am I stupid?

More seriously though, I had to rework a bunch of stuff including but not limited to Johnny Boy's personality, morals and goal.

Amma be honest, I didn't expect this level of engagement with my first real fic out there, we're almost 2K reading my ramblings on a daily basis and that's bloody awesome.

It also means I have to put more thought and work into the fic to live up to your expectations.

Chapter is 2K words long.

Anyway, enjoy the chapter and don't forget to leave yer stones!

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Vampire Rule N°11: A vampire is only as good as his retainers, nurture and refine them into proper tools, for every stain and mistake of theirs might result in your final death.

… … … … … … …

John Harker was no fool.

He might not be nearly as much of a stone cold, heartless monster as he'd like to be, but he was still far from the kind of naive buffoon who could ignore reality even as it flipped them the middle finger.

Working with a Junkie was not sustainable.

No matter how good a job Bubbles was doing, no matter how street-savvy and well-versed an informant he was, no matter his relative honesty and loyalty to him.

He was still an addict.

Worse than that, he was an addict who happened to be intimately familiar with most of John's ventures, one who was too bright not to have at least some insight into his immediate goals after so much time spent working under him.

That made him a weakness, the most obvious vulnerability in John Harker's otherwise ironclad armour.

The kind of weakness one must purge mercilessly.

That what the vampire told himself as he entered Bubbles shit-brown truck, it had barely been two weeks since he got him that car and it was already halfway through paying for itself.

Yes, Bubbles was an efficient worker.

"Hi there Boss-man!" The older man said with a mock salute, a cheeky smile on his face.

John took a second to study his appearance, he still had the gaunt cheeks and bloodshot eyes of a bona fide drug addict, but his clothes were clean and he got something for the scars and abscesses that used to cover his skin.

Convincing him to see a doctor was a hard task, but a necessary one, John couldn't let some miserable-looking wretch represent him in the street now could he?

"Evening bubs," His greeting was more tame, but he reckoned that anything warmer would be in bad taste given his plans for the night.

As for Bubbles, he quickly caught on to the solemn mood, he didn't like it though. He didn't know how to deal with it, the streets were all fake-cheer and bravado, with the occasional bout of horror, he was in foreign waters.

"Where we going? Off to see your lady friend?" He tried to lighten the mood.

"Nah, we're gonna meet someone at Widows Avenue, two streets down from the old Solomon Wayne Courthouse..." John said, and for a moment Bubbles relaxed.

This was business, so it was a good thing, he could deal with John when he was in business mode.

"...Then we'll have that talk." He continued, and the poor man's heart dropped.

'Having a talk' was never a good thing.

He remembered vividly the 'discussions' John had with that foolish, thieving dopefiend making his life more difficult than it already was, as if he needed more trouble.

Or his little chat with Gary, who tried to threaten his way into a share in the scrap hustle they've got going.

Bubbles gulped, Gary had never been the same since that day.

"Solomon Wayne...that's in Park Row, you ain't planning to do me in Crime Alley, are you?" Bubbles laughed, half-joking but mostly making sure he would survive the night...yet only got a strange look.

"No, of course not." John said with his usual smile, the one that said that everything was going to be fine...for him, at least.

Yeah, Bubbles wasn't feeling to good about this Park Row Business.

Part of him wanted to just open the door and run away as fast as he can, but he knew this wasn't an option, the last two weeks working for John Harker were the easiest, smoothest ones he's had in a long time.

He can't give that up.

Also, he was fairly certain that John would catch him and break his legs if he did, so there was that.

"Alright," He turned the key and heard the engine roar, it's rumbling was the only sound in the car for the entire ride.

…

Driving through Park Row was like peeking at the gates of hell.

There was no fire and brimstone, but the damned were present, the despair everywhere.

To John's enhanced sense, it was even more true.

Brideshead was the hood, it was the housing projects and rundown buildings and vacant houses turned into drug stashes to feed the heroin business.

It was born of desire and greed, two very understandable things.

But the Park Row District, or Crime Alley as literally everyone also calls it...it was different.

It was just evil.

Every minute, a child screams in terror, a man is beaten to death and a woman is assaulted just because someone could.

No greed, no drug money, no one pretending there was a game being played or the illusion of rules and fairness.

Only violence, the people who revelled in it and those caught in the quagmire.

That was Crime Alley, senseless murder.

For Bubbles it was much more simple, as long as John didn't tell him to stop the car and get out, he was a happy man.

Things got better when they approached the old Courthouse.

By the time they reached Widows Avenue, the 'kill me' atmosphere had subsided.

"Turn left." John guided him to their destination, still unwilling to just tell him where he wanted, "That's the place, let's go."

"Wait, am coming too?" Bubbles asked, and had half a mind to just press on the pedal and drive away, but the younger man was already outside and opened his door, grabbing his shoulder with that iron grip of his.

"Of course you are." John said calmly.

They arrived at the building, a place that looked rundown but functional. Bubbles followed John inside, his eyes darting around, trying to make sense of their destination. When he saw the sign for the Gotham Narcotics Anonymous, his confusion deepened.

'This sure ain't the best place to put down a nigga' He thought, looking at the crowd of addicts seeking help.

Some of them came willingly, some had to come here to avoid jail time, others were brought by friends and family.

He even recognized some faces from Brideshead.

John led him to a seat, and they sat down, listening to people's stories.

A young girl who went from one vial with her friends to taking multiple men at once to pay for her habbit.

An old man, a regular addict who spend decades on the needle yet survived to tell the tale, just because he got lucky.

A tattooed biker guy, with all the bulging muscles and glorious beard and leather clothes one could expect, scary as hell till he started talking.

Then folks realized he was the most wholesome fella in the whole building.

As Bubbles absorbed the testimonies, he began to understand what John wanted from him. The tales of redemption and change were moving, but Bubbles couldn't see himself in them. He didn't think he had the strength or the will to follow that path.

He loved getting high.

'Are you sure?' A small voice whispered in his brain, and he did his best not to think about all the thing he's done to get that blast, all the bridges he's burned.

The meeting wrapped up and Bubbles stood up more than ready to leave. But John was right behind him, a look of disappointment etched on his face.

"It's time for you to make a choice, Bubbles," John said, his voice low and commanding. "You can continue living like a rat in the streets, or you can become something bigger, something you can be proud of."

John's presence washed over Bubbles, a powerful, almost tangible force. It wasn't just Bubbles who felt it; the entire room seemed to be under John's spell, their eyes fixed on him with a mixture of awe and reverence.

Such was the power of the blood.

"I... I'll try," Bubbles stammered, feeling the weight of the vampire's gaze.

John's expression hardened.

"There's no 'try,' Bubbles. You either do it, or you don't. Make a decision."

Bubbles felt a surge of conflicting emotions. The fear of losing his current life battled with the hope of becoming something better. John's presence intensified, and Bubbles felt an overwhelming urge to please him, to live up to the expectations that had been placed upon him.

But it wasn't enough, until his dopefiend mind remembered.

Until he remembered all the beatings he took, all the money he blew, all the people's hurt.

How his only living relatives, his sister and his niece, were now strangers to him because he couldn't resist, because he was a slave to that needle.

All the time he tried to quit, only to fail and return to his old way.

But now he wasn't alone.

So maybe, just maybe, it could all work it.

"I'll do it," Bubbles finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

John's expression softened, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Good. There's a 28-day program here. You'll start tomorrow."

The next morning, Bubbles walked into the program, still riding the high of the previous night's events. The journey to recovery was just beginning, and despite his doubts, he was determined to see it through. For John, for himself, and for the future he dared to dream of.

The days in the program were a blur of therapy sessions, group meetings, and solitary reflections. Bubbles struggled at first, the cravings for his old life gnawing at him. But John's words echoed in his mind, and the memory of John's presence gave him strength.

Each day, he felt a little stronger, a little more in control. He started to see glimpses of the future John had painted for him—a future where he wasn't just surviving, but thriving.

By the end of the 28 days, Bubbles emerged from the program a changed man. He was still the same in many ways, but he was no longer a slave to his addiction. He had a purpose, a direction, and the unwavering support of John Harker.

As he walked out of the building, he saw John waiting for him, leaning against the hood of his baby, the shit-brown ugly arse pickup truck that changed his life. Bubbles approached, a mixture of gratitude and determination in his eyes.

"Thank you, John," he said, his voice steady. "I couldn't have done it without you."

John nodded, a proud smile on his face. "You did well, Bubbles. Now, let's get to work. We've got a lot to do."

Bubbles felt a renewed sense of purpose as he climbed into the car. He wasn't just an addict anymore. He was a man with a future, a man who had taken control of his destiny.

"No," He shook his head, "Name's Reginald."

And he knew that, with John by his side, there was nothing he couldn't achieve.

As for John, his mind was preoccupied with other matters.

After all, he has been very, very busy in Bubbles...in Reginald's absence.

[Task Completed: First Retainer Obtained]

[Reward: 10 Exp, Ability: Ghoul Familiar.]

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Hello! It's Hamtaro!

This is the end of Bubbles Arc and the start of the end of John's Crackhouse lifestyle.

I tried to be less 'preachy' without going full nutjob, worked the plot forward and introduced that Ghoul Making Ability you guys voted for.

Thanks for reading, as always, give me yer stones, comment or write a review if you want. The support is much appreciated, and criticism is welcomed.

Next Chapter: A Stick Up to Rule Them All.

We're gonna see what exactly John did during the last 28 days, and how far he's come from that frail kid being shot in the alley.

Have a nice day!