Night 58: Chapel

[sainted]

[from here]

The room he walked into was larger than he'd expected, but it wasn't hard to guess its purpose, not with the very deliberate arrangement of long red pews. A chapel. Stefan's grip on his knife still didn't relax as he wandered further inside. He'd been in a few churches in his time — what faith in God he'd possessed as a child had waned with too many decades of undead existence, but... call him cliché, he liked Gothic architecture. In his worst moments, he'd enjoyed hunting for victims in church, for the spice of ironic pleasure in knowing they believed themselves to be in a safe house, protected by all those popular fiction vampire deterrents. Save for wooden stakes, fire and the sun, they were all myths. Not that there were any crosses he could see from his cursory glance from the door, or even...

Holy water.

In the dark, the liquid burble of the fountain could've been confused for normal water — or, to the least, one of the less threatening noises in the hospital. You could even convince yourself that the sinister shape rising out of the water was something else from this distance, but Stefan, being able to see in the dark, had no such luxury. Still, the demonic face of the statue barely registered to his mind as he came closer to the fountain. He walked slowly, circling around it, unaware of what he was doing. All of his attention was fixed on the liquid churning in the fountain. Black, blacker than water should've been in the darkness. A deep red flooded the whites of Stefan's eyes. His gums itched. The scent of blood — human blood — hung so heavily in the air around him, he could hardly breathe.

Of course he could tell. Damon might joke that his taste buds had shriveled up after so many years of his diet, but it might as well have been the difference between white wine and vinegar. Human blood and animal blood. And it hadn't been so long either since the last time he'd had a taste of the former, fresh from the vein...

...but he couldn't do it again. Never, no matter how desperate he was. He was starving, yes, four nights and counting, but if he started it up now, under these conditions... There was no guarantee he could reclaim himself again. And he thought of his brother, trying to scheme his way out for all of them, and of Elena, putting on a brave face for their sakes, and of adding another burden on their shoulders. Stefan slapped a hand over his nose and mouth, which helped just enough to let him turn his face away.

Keep fighting.

Stefan spun around, almost faster than humanly possible, and ran.

[to here]

Comments

[thesadist]

Daemon's eyes widened slightly at this sudden show of abilities - completely unexpected from the man, especially when he did it so nonchalantly. Daemon was impressed, both by the display and the man's composure about it, although it was overshadowed by his momentary worry for Chipp, who was flailing about trying to make sure all the flames were out, struggling with a persistent tongue of flame on his sleeve.

"Are you alright?" he asked Chipp, resisting the urge to lay a hand on his shoulder, not wanting to injure him further if he were burned beneath his charred and smoking clothing. Daemon turned a narrowed gaze on Harrington, his eyes cold, the temperature around them dropping a degree in response to his honed temper. It was a sharp contrast to the momentary heat of Harrington's flames.

"That was entirely unnecessary."

Although Harrington's answer had intriguing possibilities. "If Landel's the creator, the one with the answers, then how is Aguilar here now? And what does he want?" Daemon added, almost as an afterthought, his temper still dangerously on edge.

[damned-soldiers.livejournal.com]

It appeared as though neither the loud one nor his friend was particularly pleased with the 'heated' development. The latter even held a bit of influence, if the sudden chill and the pointed look meant anything. In the end, all Claude could do was purse his lips and smile. "Sorry, sorry!" he responded to both, holding a hand up to show the utter lack of malicious intent. (Sort of.) "Next time dun just grumble things out without thinking, a'right? I get enough heat fer what I can do--no pun intended."

Onto the next item, then, one the major felt torn on. He could give his conjectures, of course, but doing so was crossing the line between loyalty and betrayal. Perhaps a compromise would be best. "Well, the General pretty much spelled it out that one night," he mused. "He's lookin' ta make ya the finest men and women this project has ta offer. As for how and what, can't say much, sadly."

Classified information and all that.

[zanuff]

"I can grumble whatever I want!" was Chipp's only reply to Harrington's "apology" of sorts. If he were a more perceptive man, he might have been relieved that Demon's icy stare was enough to get Harrington to back off, but instead, he just continued to grumble under his breath, occasional curses of "chicken shit" and "really freaking unnecessary" being heard as Harrington continued to explain himself. Or explain the Institute. Chipp was getting a vague idea of what was going on, but since he was new, some of it was flying right over his head. Granted, even if he wasn't new, such a vague answer would have flown right over his head and into the trash can.

He turned to Daemon, apparently sick of speaking to the soldier any more then he had to. it wasn't like this prick was giving them any real answers anyway.

"Wait, what's he talking about?" Making them into... the 'finest men and women' for a project? Now that Chipp thought about it, it sounded... an awful lot like training. Like forced training. Wait, was that what this was all about? "Is he like... trainin' us or something?"