pennysheets | Vampire cult nonsense (PSL for Natasha)

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Vampire cult nonsense (PSL for Natasha)

It had taken her a while to get far enough into the ranks of this... organization. They have half a dozen names for themselves, depending on where one gains entrance, and most people don't ever go beyond those half-dozen entrance groups. Natasha is good, but these people are paranoid, and death cults are not a thing that you get access to immediately.

But because she is good, here she is finally, fresh from the ritual bath and dressed in undyed cotton, barefoot, ready for her first ritual. She's the only new one today, but there are other junior members walking in their two lines from the baths to the ritual room and its five sealed coffins. Natasha has yet to be told what's in them, only that they are very powerful.

"Which one is it today?" the young man who'd introduced himself as Stolen Moon (junior members tend to pick very pretentious ritual names) asks, quietly, of the senior member walking in front of him, who was known by the (slightly less pretentious) name Fox.

"You'll see when we get there," Fox says.

"Don't ask questions in front of the initiate," adds the senior at the head of the second column, an older woman called Hawk.

There are already three senior members waiting inside: Raven, Star, and Shimmer. Fox and Hawk motion for everyone to take their places, in an outward-facing ring inside the circle of coffins, and then join them, each standing between two of the coffins.

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Going by breathing, it's hard to tell for sure, but it sounds like there's seven people down there, and they're all either nervous or excited. While they came down the stairs, they'd been shuffling into some kind of formation, probably a circle like the ritual before. The room isn't huge, but it is relatively empty aside from the cultists.

The vampire carries her across it in four brisk strides, and lays her down in something cold and hard. The coffin. This one, at least, doesn't have any kind of cushioning.

Then he steps back, three steps, and one of the cultists comes to lean over the coffin. Hawk, reaching in to investigate the soon-to-be bound vampire and former SHIELD agent.

In quarters this close, her gun's a liability. She still has a long knife within easy reach, and draws that instead, thrusting upward as she comes up into a sitting position, eyes snapping open in time to adjust the angle of her knife slightly so it punches through flesh and muscle and comes up beneath Hawk's ribcage.

She gives the knife a hard twist as she yanks it out again, and then reaches for her gun. Seven - six, now, unless Hawk is something other than human - is an ugly number, even with the vampire on her side, but fortunately there's backup just waiting for the gunfire to start.

The vampire is in motion the moment she is, as Hawk makes an awful (beautiful, he loves that sound coming from her throat) "urgk" sound as the knife hits home. He leaps for the nearest senior cultist silently and crushes his whole neck in his shiny metal fist before spinning to take out the one reaching impotently for the pair.

Someone shouts, but he doesn't pay attention to what it's said. Someone else-- Star, it looks like; she's reached her high rank not for bravery or belief, but for spellcasting ability-- throws up a ward around herself. That's fine, she's the one they're supposed to save, anyway. A third tries to throw a weak confusion spell directly at him, which slides right off with barely a shiver, and he charges for him, next.

That's right, kids. Focus on the vampire and ignore the nice lady in the coffin with the gun.

That's three down before Hawk even finishes falling; she counts the cultist the vampire lunges for as the fourth. The remaining cultists seem focused on that blur of violence and motion, forgetting Natasha entirely. She can't really blame them for that. There's a small, primal part of her that screams that she needs to keep track of him too.

She's used to locking down her emotions, chaining fear at the back of her mind until she has a private moment. She takes aim at one of the junior cultists and fires twice, the sound almost deafening in the closed space of the basement. Both bullets strike home. The man folds over, blood blooming in wide bursts across his chest, expression startled and a little betrayed.

It looks like there's actually eight down here, which means they're down to three plus Star. The vampire leaps off the one whose throat he just tore out with his teeth and knocks down another, leaving the last two for Natasha to shoot. He stays crouched on the last body, scowling at him, because he recognizes the one. The stupid kid who'd helped Natasha. Who'd waved at him.

Maybe he'd never tried to help him, maybe it was all bravado and trying to impress a pretty woman, but hell, it was more than anyone else did. And maybe Natasha will have a soft spot for him-- or a grudge, and would want to shoot him herself.

So he makes a decision, and doesn't break his neck. "Hold very still, kiddo," he grins, face bloody and fangs bared. "I might let you live a little longer."

Stolen Moon, probably mercifully, just cowers, head under his arms.

The hands of one of the remaining cultists twist in a spell, desperate and fumbling. They don't manage to produce more than a flickering glow before Natasha's shot catches them in the temple, and they go down hard.

The last junior cultist seems to have some sense of self-preservation, or else is reacting in sheer mindless terror - she wheels and grabs for one of the heavy, floor-mounted candelabra, presumably intending to use it as a weapon with some reach. She takes another two shots to the chest, though she doesn't fall quite as quickly, instead slumping slowly down along the length of metal.

It's barely been half a minute. Natasha's heart pounds, temples throbbing with adrenaline. Eyes on Star, she levers herself over the edge of the coffin and stands the rest of the way up, only then reaching in to retrieve her knife.

"Drop your magic," she says, voice steady, calm. "Don't do anything stupid, and you get to walk out of here."

"Probably," the vampire adds, hand on Stolen Moon's throat, just in case he gets any ideas.

Star lets out a little whimper. "Who are you?"

"SHIELD," Natasha replies. "Agent Romanoff. But the what you should be focusing on right now is the part where I'm your best bet for surviving until daybreak. If you cooperate with my team--"

There's the sound of booted feet overhead. Clint has excellent timing.

"--I'm even authorized to negotiate with Kamar-Taj over your recent activities."

That's a name any spellcaster worth their salt will know, whether they trained under or have been desperately avoiding it and the sorcerers linked to the sanctums. Star doesn't have to know that the current Sorcerer Supreme has a strong merciful streak, and would almost certainly be the one advocating on her behalf in any such negotiations.

Star and her protective shield are both trembling, but as the SHIELD agents start to fan out through the house, and Clint pounds down the stairs to get to his partner, her resolve wobbles even more and she finally sags back.

"Please. Please don't kill me," she says. Then, swallowing, she adds, "Keep him away from me."

The only "him" she might mean is the vampire, who makes a face and heaves himself and his current burden to their feet. "Somebody take this idiot child," he says sourly of Stolen Moon, who is wisely not trying to struggle against the hand around his neck.

While Clint may not like the vampire, the look he levels at Star as he reaches the bottom of the staircase is one of pure disgust. "Do we have to?" he asks, glancing toward Natasha.

She just shrugs and allows that, "It seems prudent."

She tips her head in Stolen Moon's direction, and he hands off a thin, black metallic strip before heading over to take the sorry cultist off the vampire's hands. "What's your name, kid?" he asks. "Real one, none of this warlock bullshit."

Natasha, meanwhile, moves toward Star, stepping lightly over the pool of blood spreading out from one of the fallen cultists, a move that's more a matter of footing than squeamishness. "He'll keep his distance," she says. "As long as you don't try anything stupid."

"Jackson," Stolen Moon-- Jackson, apparently-- says in a small voice, as the vampire moves away from him, from all of them, crouching at each fallen cultist's body to give a little kick and make sure they're all the way dead.

Star's shield finally drops when his attention comes off of her and she wraps her arms around herself, instead, watching him with terrified eyes as he moves on to systematically dismantling his coffin. She lets Natasha cuff her, if that's what that strip is for, so long as Natasha stays between her and him.

Clint or Natasha might, if they look at one of those bodies, recognize... another SHIELD agent. Not as high-level as they are, but definitely somebody Clint specifically has worked with before. And definitely not somebody in infiltration.

Edited 2022-12-28 22:41 (UTC)

It is indeed what the strip is for - magnetic cuffs, solid and difficult to manipulate, and applied tightly, though not so tightly that it will cut off circulation to Star's hands, though that's more a matter of professionalism than of any sympathy. Clint is busy securing Jackson in a similar fashion, and - if possible - with even less sympathy.

"When do your friends expect you to check in?" Natasha asks.

Clint, meanwhile, leads the junior cultist over and directs him to, "Sit. Don't move." before going to check on the bodies himself, though he seems more interested in looking for anything identifying than in checking for vitals.

He's professional enough not to curse when he comes to one in particular, or to overtly react in a way that's likely to arouse the suspicion of either of the cultists. The soft intake of breath isn't audible to anyone human. "This remind you of Milan?" sounds normal - that is, irritated with an edge of wry amusement.

"Not enough spiders," Natasha replies, sounding almost absent - but her heart rate has picked up, too.

Neither one is going to hide that from a vampire, and he looks sidelong at each of them in turn before taking the dead Hawk's face in his hand and turning it this way and that. Then clenching his fist until her jaw shatters under the strength. "Serve you fucking right," he hisses at her, than stands up and wipes the blood from his face with a sleeve.

He doesn't ask what the hell is up. He'll ask that later. Provided he doesn't have to make a run for it, himself, if the SHIELD people try to take him in.

"Not for hours," Star is whimpering. "We were supposed to-- to interrogate you and then Hawk would decide whether to keep you. Then both of you were to be put into coffins and we would all take you back to the temple. Hawk. Hawk might have been planning to call someone if we learned anything useful. I don't know."

Natasha looks up at the sound of splintering bone, and even from this angle, the ruin of Hawk's face is faintly nauseating.

"Fuck," Clint mutters under his breath. "Hey, Widow, why don't you and Dracula go supervise the search. I'll keep your new friends company."

He flashes fangs at Clint, but he does turn and stalk up the stairs, away from that damn coffin and the remains of his captors. He doesn't have more than an hour or two until sunrise, and he'll have to be away from here by then. Might as well give the house a thorough going-over on his way out.

Natasha can follow or not. He's assuming she's going to. They're not going to let him wander around among their people alone.

She does follow, not quite immediately on his heels, but close enough to give a warning look and a, "He's with me." to the young agent posted by the basement door.

Close enough to brush past him so she's first through the next door, better to minimize the risk of confrontation with any of the more trigger-happy agents under SHIELD's banner. Given the vampire's mood and Clint's warning, she's not sure that would go well for anyone involved.

The sudden, slight weight in his pocket in her wake is certainly not a coincidence.

Considering his bloody state, it's probably for the best. He wipes at his face with his sleeve again, glaring at the young agent in question, then at Natasha's back, then lets himself follow after her, instead. Patting the pocket absently. "So what's the plan," he asks, voice relatively flat, unlike his conversation in the hotel and the car.

That was, apparently, him being personable. Or at least more at ease than this.

Whatever's in his pocket, it's roughly the size and shape of a small phone.

She gives him a sidelong look, something almost like concern in her expression before she buries it beneath crisp professionalism. "I'm going to look for interesting papers, or electronics I can break into," she says. "You're going to clean up a bit, and go clear your head."

A risky suggestion, if she's planning to bring him in, willingly or otherwise. Which implies she's expecting him to disappear.

Combined with the phone, it's less of an implication and more of a strong suggestion. She's giving him a clear out, and on top of that a means to communicate. Possibly also a means to track, but he can ditch the phone later once he's tried it out, or gotten any numbers out of it that he wants to keep. If he wants to.

"And your boy down there?" he jerks a metal finger back at Clint.

"Knew what he was doing when he sent us up here," she says evenly.

Which is not entirely true. She's fairly certain he'd only meant to separate the possible targets, on the off chance there was a mole in the strike team - and to separate the vampire from his captors in case his temper fully slipped the leash.

She's also certain he'll understand why she's making this call.

He watches her for a long moment, expressionless. But he's not going to get a better chance, and he does not want to be caught with these bozos at sunrise.

So he lowers his voice, hitches up half a smile, and says, "If you get in trouble, you can always say I made you, or somethin'." He waggles his fingers at her, then turns away to find the bathroom in this place. He can sneak out the window there, climb down the wall, and slip away in between whatever patrols they set up.

"Oh, and make sure you tear that coffin apart," he tosses over his shoulder. "Just in case."

"Will do," she says.

In the end, they tear everything apart - though most of it more metaphorically than the coffin. That they find less than they probably should have is...disquieting. It is not, however, surprising.

It's two nights later, just after midnight, when she gets a text from the phone number she gave the now-missing vampire. If she's tracking it at all, it's gone far inland, towards Michigan, moving only at night.

you still owe me intel on ssr

It's less a demand and more an offering for additional communication, somewhere to start.

But it's still kind of a demand.

She has been tracking the phone - herself, using her own resources. After Clint had calmed down, he'd told her what he'd seen in the basement. One agent doesn't necessarily mean there were more - but there had been the previous failed attempts to infiltrate the cult, other missions going wrong in ways that weren't quite suspicious.

She isn't expecting to hear from the vampire this soon. Has, in fact, been halfway expecting that she'd have to be the one to contact him once Strange finishes analyzing the binding spell.

I thought we left that as maybe.

After a moment, she adds: I can give you the 101, but if you want a deep dive, you need to give me an email address.

Or an actual address, but she doubts that's in the cards. Not now, at least. The longer they're in communication, the greater the possibility that he'll decide to extend a little trust.

It's possible-- not that he would ever admit it, mind, and would probably snarl at anyone who dared suggest it-- that he might be a tiny bit lonely. He's been torn between hunting down what temples he knows exist and destroying them with extreme prejudice, and going deep into hiding in terror of being captured again. There's still danger out there, somewhere. He doesn't remember where, but something in him knows it.

So he reaches out to the only person whose name he knows. Who can maybe give him direction.

Sadly, his reintegration into modern times has some holes in it. He can use a tablet for map functions, sure, and he's definitely used the map function on the phone she gave him, but he's never been taught how to actually communicate over the internet.

a what?

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