Vampire in DC

So, would you guys believe me if I said I was ready to post a good week ago but lost access to all internet connection?

Yeah, I wouldn't either.

On the plus side, this chapter is 3K words long, so please don't kill me? If I'm dead, you won't get a chapter tomorrow...put the gun down Jimmy, it's a bad idea I'm telling you.

Hehe, I'm in danger!

....

Vampire Rule N°24: Drinking your ghoul's blood might be cannibalism, but that ship has already sailed.

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John Harker was sitting comfortably in a house he could only afford thanks to Gotham's insanely affordable real estate prices, might have something to do with the pyschotic murder clown regularly escaping from the Asylum.

In his hand was a cup of coffee, one that didn't cost an arm and a leg because it contained the soul of a lobster, or whatever excuse the barrista felt like using at any given moment.

Yes, he was still bitter about it, sue him.

'Haha, bitter, get it?' John thought, but the voices in his head still didn't answer, 'Bloody hell, I'm really lonely...bloody.'

At moments like this, he wished the system was sentient and conveniently had the voice of a very attractive girl who'd somehow fall for him despite his obvious lack of sanity, integrity and tegrity.

Then he'd start thinking, and realize it was a very bad idea.

[ Level: 5

- Name: Jonathan Harker.

- Age: 16

- Titles: Started From The Bottom, Jailbait.

- Race: Vampire (Fledgling)

- Blood Points: 600/800

- Exp: 900/200 (level up?) ]

When he looked at that red pannel blocking his field of vision, John saw more than a few numbers and completion bars, more than the blatant manipulation to try and make him focus on the grind.

He saw the culmination of years of efforts and suffering.

There was no truck-kun, no celestial lottery ready to give him the jackpot, nobody took pity on him and decided to yoink him out of Earth-Prime and give him suck-em powers for shit and giggles.

Nah, everything he has, he earned it.

Every single thing.

If he could jump over whole houses, it's because he almost had cut off his leg when he was a but a frail human.

If he could twist people's hearts, it's because he did in fact cut off his own leg at some point.

He wasn't some weak, gutless moron obssesed with seeing numbers going up.

However…

[Level 5]

[Blood Points: 600/800]

[EXP: 900/200]

'Haha, numbers go brrr.'

[Level 6]

[Blood Points: 600/1000]

[EXP: 700/400]

'Moar,' He tweaked.

[Level 7]

[Blood Points: 600/1200]

[EXP: 300/600]

"Now that's a lot of levels." He said to absolutely nobody.

Reginald was off with the extensive team of lawyers and accountants he hired to make sure he didn't start bleeding money instead of making it through his increasingly numerous and paper-work heavy ventures.

John did make sure to keep them loyal through a very liberal usage of presence and just enough love bites to keep them honest and looking for more balm for their souls and deep-rooted daddy issues.

But when half your dough came from the hands of drugfiends both current and recovering, getting someone with actual street smarts to ride with the pencil pusher seemed like a good idea.

Pity it left him alone and bored.

'Should I call Max?' He considered, he could think of two very good reasons to go bother his very first blood doll...

Her dark humor and sharp wits, you filthy degenerates.

'Nah, she's too tired trying to make that cupcake thing work, I can't just go around keeping her awake at night before a work day.' He reasoned.

Because vampires could indeed be reasonable, and do normal, considerate thing like letting a broke girl sleep instead of waking her up or watching her all night like some bloody stalker...and yes it was a pun.

Vicky was also too tired, and way too lost in the sauce of her first time getting eaten...in more than one way.

She needed time to recover.

The rest of his bitey-calls were much too boring to call up for anything but a meal and some debauchery, something he wasn't really up for.

It only left one thing.

"Time to go bully some drug dealers." He announced, getting up and cleaning his cup like a proper civilized person, before leaving his non-rat infested home and enjoying yet another trip in a hallway that lacked piss-puddles, used needles and the smashed hopes and dreams of those who lived there.

Now one of the cons of living in the better parts of town was how far the nearest drug corner really was...it sounds much worse than it truly is.

John had no intention of ever buying drugs, he was only going there to physically and psychologically abuse the dealers for their carrer choice in order to maybe possibily scare them straight, something he enjoyed immensely.

Brideshead's biggest drug enterprises and their not so friendly owners were currently trying to keep a low-profile, their own boys got too battered and way too scared to start dealing in the same streets that saw them getting beaten to a pulp and robbed blind by the local self-righteous freakshow.

But there was still many an independent too bold, or foolish, to take the hint and go on some vacations.

Failing that, he could also take a look in Park Row, that place was less 'open air drug market' and more 'absolute hell on earth' but he'd probably find a couple working corners.

'Yeah, let's go for Crime Alley this time.' He decided on a whim, then went on a walk.

Park Row, known as Crime Alley to most, was infamous for its degeneracy, a hub for every illicit trade imaginable. It was an area that had fallen so far from grace that even the police barely bothered anymore.

If Brideshead was the heroin capital of Gotham City, then Park Row was home of the violent crimes, a pipeline to fill up both Blackgate and Arkham Asylum.

Rapists, psychopaths and other serial killers walked side by side with the more financially inclined organ traffickers, kidnappers and producers of high quality torture porn.

There were of course some more ordinary criminals in the mix, drug dealers, thieves and muggers taking advantage of yet another land abondoned by the city and thus safe from the boys in blue and their batons of justice.

Or guns of justice if your skin was darker than average.

Now the only problem was the bat and his little batlings, but that guy was mighty considerate, very rarely inflicting irreversible damage and sometimes even saving the criminals from their fellow violent scumbags.

A price worth paying for those who choose a life of crime, and there were enough of them in this one place that they could sleep easy knowing that the stats were in their favour...if they were smart enough to understand stats.

All lived in harmony until a f*ckmothering vampire attacked.

He heard them before he saw them—two thugs standing on a street corner, dealing to a group of desperate-looking addicts. The addicts took their bags of poison and scurried off, leaving the dealers to count their ill-gotten gains.

John stayed hidden in the shadows, listening to their conversation.

"Man, this shit is gold," the first thug, a short and scrawny guy with a ratty mustache, said as he pocketed the cash. "These junkies'll pay anything for a taste."

His partner, a larger, dumber-looking brute with a shaved head, grunted in agreement. "Yeah, but keep it low, man. Last thing we need is someone catching wind. The Bat might be gone, but word is there's some freak around Brideshead messin' with our business."

The bat is gone, they loved saying that, hoping that this time it'll be for good.

John however, knew that his lack of action was either the result of some heavy wound or trouble outside Gotham.

"Yeah, yeah, I heard. Monster at Brideshead or something," the first thug scoffed. "I bet it's just some crazy bum. Besides, we ain't in Brideshead."

"Whatever, man. Just keep watch. Ain't nobody messin' with us tonight."

John smirked to himself, lowered his hood and put on his improvised face mask, then decided to make his move.

He stepped out from behind a pile of garbage bags, moving like a shadow. Before the thugs could react, John was upon them. He grabbed the larger one by the back of his neck and slammed his head into the wall, hard enough to leave a dent. The thug crumpled to the ground, unconscious, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead.

'He's probably alright,' John thought, unless the Arkham Games lied to him, the thugs could take at least this much damage.

The scrawny guy stared in shock, fumbling for the gun in his waistband. But John was too quick. With a flick of his wrist, John slapped the gun out of the thug's hand, sending it skittering across the pavement.

"Look what we have here," John said, his voice way too jolly for someone who might've inflicted some permanent brain damage on somebody, "A couple of enterprising gentlemen, making a living the old-fashioned way."

"Wh-who the hell are you?" the thug stammered, backing away, his eyes wide with fear.

John smiled, revealing a flash of fangs. "Just a concerned citizen, doing his part to clean up the neighbourhood."

The thug's eyes went even wider. "Oh shit, you're the Monster of Brideshead!"

John raised an eyebrow, slightly amused that his nickname had spread this far. "So you've heard of me? Good. That'll make this easier."

The thug turned to run, but John was on him in an instant, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him off the ground. He held him there, dangling, as the thug struggled and kicked.

"Let's have a little chat," John said calmly. "You're going to tell me who you work for, where the stash is, and why you're stupid enough to still be dealing in my city."

One minute and a puddle of piss later, the poor guy received the sweet mercy of John's fist of love right in the face, this time carefull enough not to accidentally kill the man..

*thud* He let him go casually, allowing him a nice nap in his own urine until he either woke up or got done in by some sickos.

Hopefully, the booty warrior won't pass by.

John then turned his attention back to the unconscious brute. He rifled through the guy's pockets, finding a few hundred dollars, a switchblade, and a couple of bags of dope. Pocketing the cash, John tossed the rest into the dumpster.

"One down, a few more to go," John muttered to himself as he melted back into the shadows.

As he moved deeper into Park Row, John encountered more small-time dealers and their runners. Each encounter was a variation of the same theme—he'd appear out of nowhere, incapacitate the muscle, and interrogate the lackey. Sometimes he'd test his Dominate ability, planting a single word in their minds and watching them follow it like obedient dogs.

"Run," he'd whisper, and they'd sprint off into the night, not stopping until they collapsed from exhaustion.

"Drop," and their weapons would clatter to the ground as they stood there, dumbfounded.

He found it amusing, but the power had its limits. He noticed that more complex commands, like "Tell me everything you know," required a heavier dose of Presence to make the thugs pliant enough. And even then, the stupider ones needed a bit of physical persuasion—an arm twisted behind their back or a knee to the gut—before they'd spill their secrets.

"I often fantasize about dropping the soap in prison," a two meters tall, tattooed hulk of a man blurted out when John asked what he was hiding.

"You know what, forget it, go to sleep." He told him, using dominate on the final word.

John's favorite part, though, was messing with them. He couldn't resist the opportunity to have a little fun at their expense.

Following on an unwillingly given tip guiding him to the oddly quet second floor of some dingy bar with way too little traffic to stay open, he came across a group of three thugs standing around a makeshift table, counting money and divvying up bags of heroin. He crept up behind them and, with a quick flick of his fingers, knocked over one of their stacks of cash.

"Whoops," John said, as the money scattered across the table.

The thugs jumped, their hands going to their guns. But before they could do anything, John had already grabbed one of them by the collar and yanked him back.

"Easy there, boys. I'm just here to help," John said with a grin, flipping the guy he was holding over the table. The thug landed with a grunt, knocking over more of their neatly piled cash.

"Fuck your help!"

The other two thugs pointed their guns at John, but he was quicker. With a flash of movement, he disarmed the first one, twisting the gun out of his hand and tossing it into the street. The second one, a twitchy guy with a face full of acne scars, tried to pull the trigger, but John was on him in an instant, slamming his head into the table and sending him crashing to the ground.

"Now that was a very mean thing to say." John said calmly.

The first thug, now gunless and panicking, took a wild swing at John, but John ducked easily and landed a punch to the thug's gut that knocked the wind out of him. The thug doubled over, wheezing.

"Listen," John said, picking up one of the bags of heroin and holding it up to the light. "This stuff is garbage. You're peddling poison in a place that's already rotting from the inside. Have you no shame?"

The thug on the ground groaned, trying to push himself up. "We're just trying to make a livin', man! We ain't got no other way!"

"You could always try getting a real, honest job, like a minecraft youtuber or cypto influencer. But I guess it's too late for that now, isn't it?" John shook his head, tossing the bag aside.

"What?" Was the man's simple answer.

With that, he grabbed the thug by the collar and slammed him against the wall, holding him there as he rifled through his pockets. More cash, more drugs. John pocketed the money and tossed the rest on the ground after breaking the vials.

"Tell your boss that Brideshead is off-limits. And if I catch you here again, well... let's just say it won't end well for you."

The thug nodded frantically, and John let him drop to the ground.

"Sleep." He ordered, and with the slighest drop in his blood reserves, the man was gone in the dreamland.

The vampire was nearly gone, when he remembered that his mother didn't teach him to waste good money.

She didn't teach him anything, but that was neither here nor there.

"You know what? On second thought..." John scooped up the cash, stuffing it into his coat pocket. "Consider this a donation to the 'Keep the Boss Entertained' fund."

He walked away, leaving the thugs groaning in the alley behind him.

By the time John reached the edge of Brideshead, the moon was starting its descent, and he could feel the first hints of dawn creeping closer. But he wasn't done yet. He still had one more stop to make.

He found the last group of the night huddled around a fire in a trash can, smoking and chatting like they didn't have a care in the world. Independent dealers, most of them still in school from the looks of it—small fry trying to carve out a piece of the pie while the bigger players were distracted by the chaos in the city.

John approached them silently, his presence masked by the darkness. He stepped into the light of the fire, his face illuminated by the flickering flames.

"Nice night, isn't it?" he said casually.

The dealers jumped, startled, and reached for their weapons, but John was already moving. He disarmed the first one with a swift kick, sending the gun skittering into the fire. The second one swung a crowbar at him, but John caught it mid-swing and yanked it out of the thug's hands, tossing it aside.

"Hey, hey, take it easy!" one of the thugs shouted, backing away with his hands up. "We don't want no trouble, man!"

John smiled, fangs concealed, "Too late for that. Now, why don't you boys tell me what you're doing in my neighborhood?"

"W-we didn't know it was your turf!" the thug stammered, his eyes wide with fear. "We're just trying to make a few bucks, that's all!"

"Is that so?" John said, stepping closer. The thugs flinched, backing away further. "Well, let me give you some advice. The next time you think about selling your junk in Brideshead, you might want to reconsider. Because if I catch you here again..."

He let the threat hang in the air, his red eyes burning bright in the night.

The tiniest bit of presence was enough to make sure they'll never forget.

The thugs nodded frantically, stumbling over each other as they tried to get away. "Yeah, yeah, we got it! We're gone!"

Well, he could've started beating on school children selling a package for pocket money, but that wasn't really his style.

Leave the children to the priests, his uncle would always say.

He was a clergyman.

John watched them scramble into the night, then turned his attention to the fire. He fished out the gun with a stick and tossed it into the dumpster, then kicked dirt over the fire, smothering the flames and silencing that voice that kept telling him to stop being stupid and get out of there.

"Well, that was fun," he muttered to himself, brushing off his hands. "Maybe I'll do this again tomorrow night."

What he didn't know was that his next night in Gotham would be much, much more interesting.