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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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?

Of course he doesn't know what email is. In the quiet of her small apartment office, Natasha drops her forehead into her hands, prompting an interrogative mao? and a soft bat of a paw at her hair from the elderly tabby ensconced in the fluffy basket next to her.

Not giving him transport had been inefficient. This...this seems more like a bid to keep him isolated, dependent, restricted beyond what even the bindings had allowed.

Electronic mail. Better way to send documents than this, faster than a PO Box.

Which he may not even be able to get - if the cult had bothered to set him up with a solid ID, it would be one they could trace.

Shit.

I'll set one up for you, and send you instructions on how to access it. For now, though, give me a call.

There are a handful of fake IDs and passports in each of the main temples, should he need them. He doesn't have a single one with him, and he's not braving the temples themselves any time soon. So he might as well be completely adrift in the world, records-wise.

He's torn between annoyed at clearly needing help and grateful that she's just going to give it. It'll be another thing she can trace, surely. It takes him a long couple minutes of pacing around his current hide-out before her phone rings.

He opens with, "So how much trouble did you get in for cutting me loose?"

"Nothing I can't handle," she replies, and reaches out to scratch between the cat's ears to quiet her before there's much more than a quiet mrrp over the phone line.

"You doing all right?"

"You don't know? Figured there were trackers all over this phone," he counters, but not with any heat. Not like he's annoyed by it. He's not, not really. If he didn't want to be tracked, he would've thrown the phone away.

He answers, either way. "I'm fine. Haven't killed anybody else yet, if that's what you're worried about."

"Pity," she says, voice gone desert-dry. "I have money riding on you taking out at least a few more cultists while they're distracted."

There's a faint creak of leather as she shifts in her chair, tucking her legs up beside her. "The trackers tell me where you are. They don't tell me if you're experiencing side effects from having a hundred-year-old spell ripped out of your head. Something my contact reminded me of in detail when he found out you were in the wind."

"Gotta get to them first." Which he is not really rushing about doing, clearly. He's been on foot, for the most part, not wanting to leave any stolen and hot-wired cars in his wake. And also, you know, not really rushing about anything but hiding.

He scowls at the floor as he continues to pace. "No, uh, side effects that I'm noticing. But who knows if I'd notice." He doesn't know what long-term freedom feels like, and he doesn't know if this paranoia is something normal. "Nothing hurts, the headache went away after the first sundown. Mostly I'm just."

He stops, scowls more, and finally admits, in case it is related, "Just sure there's more out there. We didn't even get a third of the top squad who operated me, and that can't have been the whole organization. But my memory is crap. I don't know if that's a binding thing or a binding-removing thing not."

"Seemed like your memory was kind of a mess the first time we talked," she notes.

If he wasn't lying about not remembering his own name, which he could have been. She doubts it, given the emotional response that had gone along with that admission, but it's possible - she isn't exactly an expert on vampire psychology.

"But I'll pass it on. How's your recall of the past couple days?"

"Fine. So probably a binding thing, not a binding-removing thing," he admits. He's had a moment or two of vagueness, but he thinks those were just him freaking out. Vampires are probably not supposed to freak out, he's just a wreck, and pretty sure that's not a binding-removal thing. "Or just an old as fuck thing, I don't know. Nobody told me how this is supposed to work, either. Did you tear the coffins apart?" The last part pops out almost unbidden, but he has to know. "Both of them? There was another one in the back. One for you, one for me."

There's a brief, startled pause at the turn in the conversation, before she replies quietly, "Yeah. We pulled them apart. I'm guessing that's going to be your recommendation for every temple we come across?"

He doesn't breathe, so he doesn't sigh, but there's a little shudder of relief that goes through him at that. She might catch the sound of the pieces of his arm rattling together briefly with the motion. "I mean, you're not gonna find a lot of empty ones, unless these bastards get smart and start relocating their other... instruments. But yeah. They're part of the whole binding thing somehow." And the destruction of his means it's one more complicated step to get the spells back on him.

Edited (better word for previous story) 2023-01-02 03:30 (UTC)

"So they're unique, then. That's good to know."

She doubts somehow that most of the vampires will be as friendly as this one, but damaging the mechanism by which the cult controls them still seems like a good idea. Doubly so when there's still the possibility of other cultists operating within SHIELD, making simply removing the things to a secure facility a non-starter.

"Do you know how many others there are?"

"At least the four I was housed with. Maybe a couple more than that, but not many. They shipped us out more often than they let local branches have their own." He makes a frustrated little noise. "I only even saw two of those four, a black guy a little younger-looking than me, and a kind of round guy with a mustache. And I only saw them in passing. We didn't exactly work together." One fang worries at his lip, and he adds, "Round guy isn't bound the same way as me. Black guy is." He might have wanted out more than he wanted to go back and free the others, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel-- bad-- for leaving them there. The ones he knows weren't there by choice, anyway.

"Different kind of binding?" Natasha asks. "Or is he there of his own volition?"

Not outside the realm of possibility, she thinks. Some of the cult had seemed to be true believers - she can easily imagine the sort of fanatic who might be willing to be turned for their cause.

Ugh.

"Might be his own volition. We're still predators. Working with a bunch of people who keep hunters off our backs and give us a steady stream of meals might appeal to some of us. And some of the kids who aren't scared witless of us probably think we're some kinda god-touched monster or something."

Even some of the ones scared witless, for that matter. He sounds sour as he says it. He's seen the looks on some of their faces.

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