pennysheets | Vampire cult nonsense (PSL for Natasha)

Natasha is very good at her job, and one of the most significant aspects of that job is showing her targets exactly what they expect to see until it's far too late for them to muster an appropriate response. And so she doesn't roll her eyes at the senior cultists' coyness. She maintains the air of slightly nervy, slightly vicious anticipation one might expect of a newly-minted member of a death cult, glancing over to meet the pretentiously-named young man's eyes like she's hoping he might share a secret.

She isn't really, of course, not with the senior members in attendance, so close to the ritual. The cultists are paranoid, even if they're not particularly skilled at actual information managment. Security through obscurity only goes so far, and only when paired with discipline and proper lines of communication.

She takes note of the room as she takes her assigned place, the positions of the coffins and the cultists, points of cover, lines of escape. The last are piss-poor, like for all their paranoia, no one in the cult has ever given thought on how they might get out if there security were breached, notwithstanding the obvious answer.

There is literally one way in or out: the door they came in through.

Which, frankly, is on purpose.

Stolen Moon flashes Natasha a smile and holds his finger to his lips, then turns his face away from her. The senior members hold up their hands once there's silence, and everyone is in place, and start chanting. It's not a language Natasha will recognize, sounding maybe like something from Eastern Europe, but perhaps simply not modern enough to recognize. Three of the junior members freeze, holding their breath, and the one face Natasha can see, Stolen Moon, actually looks nervous.

One of the coffin lids cracks open, then crashes to the side without any further warning. A man climbs out, deathly pale, fangs protruding over his lower lip, clinging to the edge and looking around with wild eyes. One arm is elaborately tooled metal, but seems to move just like a biological arm.

She knows Eastern European languages. This is...not quite right for any of the major ones. It could be an obscure dialect, could be something old enough that linguistic shift has obscured all but the bones. She memorizes what she can, something to bring to the linguists in hopes of determining an origin.

And then her concentration is disrupted as the coffin crashes open, giving her a view of what's inside. Her first thought is hoax, because vampires are a story lately used to titillate teenagers. But there's something wrong about the way he moves, and the difference between 'powered individual who remarkably resembles a vampire' and 'actual fucking vampire' is completely academic.

Bozhe moi. She's enough of a professional not to say it out loud, but it rings in her head loudly enough that it's almost a miracle the others standing in the circle don't hear it anyway.

There's definitely power of some sort here. One moment he's clinging to the coffin, the next he's right up at Hawk's face, snarling, wild-eyed still and shaking like he's as much panicked as he is murderous. The movement was too fast to see. Hawk holds her ground, keeps chanting, and he shrinks away. Then he's at Star, metal arm clutching her robe's neck-- Star flinches but doesn't stop the chant, and again he backs away with an animal whine, both hands, metal and flesh, pressed to his eyes.

Then he turns on the junior members, though this time he's going slow, circling like a cat, eyes focused, like he hadn't just tried to make an attempt to murder their leaders. The chant changes, slows and goes more repetitive.

He stops finally in front of Natasha. "You're new," he rasps, voice softer than one might expect from a large man who looks like he's about to kill someone, and hoarse like there's something wrong with his throat. He's only barely audible over the voices around them. "I don't know you."

The chant serves as some sort of shackle, that much is clear from the fact that neither Hawk nor Star is bleeding out on the cold stone floor of the chamber. Something about that is viscerally repulsive. It's also very, very good to know. Natasha may be accustomed to working without a safety net, but there are emergency channels, so infrequently used that she can count each instance on one hand. This, she suspects, will be worthy of another instance.

She watches the pale figure circle within the ring of bodies - looking for a weakness? For someone out of place? It seems likely, seems almost certain when he stops in front of her, and it says something about their recruiting practices that she's the only one singled out. She meets his gaze and inclines her head ever so slightly. No one had warned her not to speak to him - and while she has no doubt that the omission is down to the group's paranoia, it also means that doing so probably won't cause some sort of cascade failure.

Probably.

"First time," she says quietly. "Is the music always this painful?"

'Do these assholes always torture whoever comes out of the coffin, or are you the troublemaker of the bunch' would probably be a bridge too far, even if no one's likely to overhear the exchange.

He looks, back, and there's a cant to his brows that says he's maybe surprised by it, though whether by her bold gaze or his own response to it is up in the air. Then he smiles, just a little, lip curling up over one fang. "Think it might just be because they love me so much. They pull out all the fucking stops." He even sounds a little dry. Whatever control they have, it isn't limited to tone, apparently.

Hawk shifts and spits the next phrase out more insistently, and he bares his fangs at her, before looking back to Natasha. "What's your name, first time initiate?" Yeah, yeah, he's getting on with it. Assholes.

They have control over action, then, not thought and expression - at least not at the level of effort they're currently exerting. That's something to look into further. That, and whether the entire ritual is needed in order for the cult to hold that leash. If they can't deploy powered predators on the fly, that would make the inevitable raid much less dangerous.

"Snakeroot," she says, letting one corner of her mouth tick up ever so slightly, wry smile an admission that she finds the shadow name just a little bit ridiculous.

(Appropriate, too, if he's at all familiar with the little flowers, pretty and delicate and lethal enough that people used to die from drinking the milk of cows that had grazed on them.)

He's not familiar with the flower itself, but the word combination itself says something, as does her expression when she says it. It says more than just her amusement at having to pick a special name for his masters. Novices aren't usually amused, they're reverent. Or afraid. Even if they play at confidence, their heart is racing and their skin clammy. He knows this. He's seen this so many times.

He's not stupid. There's something else going on here.

And if they've brought a novice to his waking, he knows what they want him to do. Interesting. "Give me your arm," he says. He's not taking her neck. That means something different.

There's the unease that was lacking - not true, bone-deep fear because she has nearly as many years of practice controlling her emotions as she has years of life, and she's committed to this path, but a spike of adrenaline that kicks her heartbeat up from its resting rate.

She bites her lip, more for the extended audience, and notes the anticipation in some of their expressions, but holds her arm out. Better, in this instance, to comply than to be forced, and she has little doubt that force would come next, whether by his choice or that of the senior cultists.

Good girl. If they make him force her-- if he has to force her-- he has less control. And he knows what he wants to do here. He takes her wrist and holds it up to his mouth, watching her neck and the pulse beat there rather than her eyes, and bites down. There's no pleasure to the bite, no venom, nothing to make a victim pliant-- he's not going to do that when he doesn't have to.

They can't wake him up and then not feed him or he won't be as effective at whatever they're planning to send him out to do. Even more, it's the ritual. It's habit. It's rote. It's the closest thing to comfort he ever gets.

And if there's someone new, he's supposed to kill them. He can feel the intention in the chant, in their chains on him. If she was meant to survive, they would have woken up one of the tamer monsters. He's their assassin, not their welcome wagon. But he likes this one. And if there's something else going on here, then he wants to find out what that something is.

So he drinks and listens to her breathing, the strength of her heart, but he leaves her only a little light-headed from the loss, with plenty of life still left. When he lets her go and steps back, the chant has stopped. The chains are in place, he'll do as he's told. For now. "What is my mission today," he asks flatly, mouth still stained, though his eyes are still on "Snakeroot". Maybe there will be time to look up what that combination of words means, while he's out, see if someone's actually trying to send him a message. Who that might be, he doesn't know, but it's worth investigating.

"Your instructions are waiting in the usual room," Hawk says briskly, and the two nearest the door unclasp their hands and move aside. He looks around at each of them, ignoring the kids now, then strides out.

It hurts, not the sharp sting of a needle, but a rawer pain. There will be bruises tomorrow, and her hand will be stiff for a few days. (If I survive, that little voice in the back of her head whispers, and she thrusts it firmly away, not because she trusts him not to do her lasting harm but because it isn't useful right now.)

Outwardly, there's a sharp indrawn breath and tensing of her muscles, but she fights the urge to jerk away - it would only do more damage, lay her wrist open, possibly leave her down a hand for the near future. She may never have seen a vampire bite before, but she's seen bites from other creatures with sharp teeth, and they're never as neat as people tend to assume. She turns her head aside, eyes almost closed, studying the circle from beneath her lashes. Anticipation, relief, jaded boredom...she can guess the experience of the cultists from where on that spectrum they fall.

She's starting to worry as he pulls away, and she doesn't have to feign her slight stumble as she pulls her arm to her chest, fingers clamped tight around the wound in lieu of bandages. The dizziness recedes, though it doesn't quite vanish, won't until she's had a good meal and enough fluids to begin replacing volume.

Which won't happen right away. She needs to find out what he's been tasked with; whatever it is, it can't be anything benign. Benign wouldn't need his sort of power, or the control they've exerted.

Shimmer looks maybe a little baffled, Raven annoyed, and Fox thoughtful. Star just seems relieved enough to maybe pass out, herself, and Hawk is... impossible to read. Whatever she's thinking, it's locked behind her eyes. Stolen Moon catches an arm around Natasha when she stumbles, and his expression is clear: he'd been sure she was a goner, and is relieved she's not.

"You did good," he murmurs, and Raven shoots them a warning look, presumably for speaking at all.

"The ritual is concluded," Fox intones. "Until the death is complete and our instrument returns, you may rest, children."

Shimmer leads the junior members out again, back they way they came towards the baths, but the hall continues in the opposite direction, as well, and there's an open door with light spilling into the corridor, and the sound of metal fingers collecting... something... from a stone table. Just loud enough to hear if one strains.

Out from under Raven and Hawk's watchful eye, Stolen Moon dares speak again. He's trying to keep an arm around Natasha for her support, and also because she's gorgeous, okay, and he's like 22. "Wow, the last time they let that guy out, he made a mess of the new guy. You are really lucky."

She leans on the young man perhaps a little more than she actually needs to, and if it frees up enough of her faculties to listen and note the direction the fanged man must have gone from the faint sound of metal on stone, well. There are benefits to appearing less dangerous than she truly is.

"I was born under a lucky star," she says, and she doesn't have to entirely feign the edge of unease in her quiet laugh. "Do we have an infirmary? I think I want to get this wrist bandaged up before I lose any more blood."

(That, at least, is true.)

"Oh, yeah, sure. I can take you there if you want. It's, uh." Stolen Moon pauses, looking ahead at Shimmer, then jerks a thumb back the way they came. "That way."

Back over next to where where the vampire is still gearing up. Lucky? Maybe. More like it's prudent planning to put the infirmary next to where they keep the violent monsters.

It's not the worst planning, though the part of her that's been trained to consider all the angles notes that it would be a large, tempting target should the vampires the cult has caged break free. Which could be part of the point - lure them to an easy food source and trap them there until they can be contained again. She doubts anyone in that room would balk much more at sacrificing one of their own than they would at sacrificing an 'initiate'.

She hesitates a moment, then nods carefully. "That would be great. Thanks. You won't get in trouble for it, right?"

She cares far less than would be kind. He's still the closest thing she has to an ally here.

"Pretty sure they don't set the awful vampires on people for just getting an initiate a bandage," Stolen Moon says, and slows to start getting them turned around. Shimmer doesn't even look back, and the others have all filed out and gone the other direction now.

They have to pass the vampire's prep room, and when they do, he's looking over his shoulder at them, as if he heard them coming, though the lower half of his face is covered by a black cloth mask. A lot of him is covered in black and gray, now, all the clothes lightweight and matte, clearly a stealth suit, but one meant less for protection and more simply for silence and invisibility.

Stolen Moon twitches, but then pulls up a bright (if nervous) smile and... waves at the vampire who he's seen tear people apart.

She notes that laxity, though it's far from unexpected; they're not incapable of keeping secrets, but these are not people who have been trained in security practice.

Then again, they can just feed anyone they catch spying to vampires. Apparently.

"Good to know," she says, with a quiet huff of something that sounds like it would probably be laughter if she weren't light-headed.

She sees the door to the prep room standing open - choice, or compulsion? do they afford their weapons any privacy at all? - and is unsurprised to see the vampire watching them. They're taking no pains to be silent, and even aside from whatever enhancements he might have, his would be a role that would require alertness.

The suit is...familiar, in general form if not in any specifics, and specialized enough to take as confirmation that someone in the organization has some serious ties - bought and paid for, probably, but notable nonetheless.

She doesn't wave, and resists the urge to jab an elbow into Stolen Moon's side. It's harder to resist the urge to roll her eyes in commiseration with the vampire, and she settles for a careful nod of acknowledgment.

They move past before the vampire can really do much, but Natasha might catch a sound like a snort. It's probably an amused sound.

Stolen Moon gets her settled in on one of the infirmary beds next door, and bustles about getting her bandages and disinfectant. The wounds aren't big, so stitches aren't necessary. He readily answers any questions she has. He's seen two other of the vampires be woken up, and only one of those two got the chant, the other just climbed out and greeted the cultists pleasantly. The other chant-receiver was hardly intimidating at all, more timid-seeming. He's been fed off of before, but not by this one. He doesn't know what the vampires are sent out to do exactly, but given the cult's purpose of cleansing the world of evil, he's assuming it's murder-related.

It's also clear that, despite being relatively friendly and even a little charming in his own way, Stolen Moon is a true believer. He's not stupid, either, he's just... fanatical about creating a paradise free of abuse and hate, even if they have to use some nasty tools to do it. Those tools are in the hands of the righteous, so surely it's fine, right?

"We'll be expected to sleep here tonight," he says as he helps Natasha off the bed again. "They might not want us there when he comes back, but they might. We can get you some juice and dinner, before we have to turn in, or you're going to feel awful in the morning."

"Like Red Cross," she says, with a wan smile that masks all the ways she wants to shake Stolen Moon until something in his brain rattles loose enough to make room for the realization that the cult is exactly the sort of evil they purport to be against. Fanatics are always the hardest to deal with, even when they don't belong to a death cult. Push back against their beliefs, and they'll only take it as reinforcement.

"Do they always keep us here after one of the vampires has been out?"

"Usually," Stolen Moon answers apologetically. "Whenever it's on a weekend, anyway."

This is a cult, not a job. They're still expected to work, so their money can support the cause.

He tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, clearly hopeful that she'll stay close as they head back out into the hall again. The vampire's prep room is empty and dark, now, the vampire himself long gone. "Do you want to go to the kitchen, or back to your room? I can bring you something if you want to rest."

She leans into him a little, playing up her lightheadedness. Playing up, not feigning - it's at least half adrenaline drop, but she is drained after being, well, drained. It's not enough to bury the brief flicker of frustration that she can't inspect that prep room now, when there's the best chance of the vampire being gone long enough for her to be in and out without getting caught.

"I'll come with you," she says, because that will at least allow her to see a little more of the complex, if not the most useful parts. "I'm pretty sure I'll be out cold about five seconds after I stop moving."

"I know the feeling," Stolen Moon says, clearly sympathetic, not just happy to have the pretty new initiate in his care for a little while longer. "That one hasn't fed from me before-- and thank god, that's the first time I haven't seen him murder somebody-- but the other two have. It does leave you pretty woozy. Here, it's this way."

The complex isn't really very big, in the end. There's three wings off the entrance hall, which is the only room with any windows at all. There's the vampire's wing off to the right with the infirmary, coffins, the prep room full of weapons, and (perhaps incongruously) a small library. The dormitories and baths are off to the let, where the initiates had gotten dressed, and where a couple higher-ranking members have offices. The a third wing goes straight back, with a couple conference and meeting rooms, a big dining room, and a kitchen.

Stolen Moon takes her straight back to the kitchen. All the doors on the way are shut tight, and Stolen Moon holds a finger to his lips as they pass. Natasha might overhear muffled voices coming from one of the conference rooms: Raven, Fox, and Hawk. Raven sounds irritated, Fox still thoughtful, and Hawk impatient.

Now that's interesting, and while Natasha is certainly grateful that the vampire hadn't drained her dry, she can't help but wonder why he'd made an exception, and what it might mean for her cover.

The warning to silence buys her a little time to consider how to ask after the vampires' patterns in a way that won't sound like anything more than curiosity and perhaps a little bit of unease over being expected to provide sustenance again. The voices catch her attention, and she strains to hear anything of note as they pass, regretting the fact that a sudden spell of dizziness that forces a pause would probably be suspicious.

Stolen Moon does slow a bit, too, as they pass, as if he, too, is listening. (It's possible he might have yet another motive for taking her down this way.)

They can make out a couple words as they pass, Raven saying, "--should check the spell."

Fox puts in slowly, "Maybe."

Hawk replies, "No, we would know if--" and then they're past the room, the voices fading to muffled sounds again.

Stolen Moon doesn't speak again until they hit the kitchen, and then it's to brightly say, "Have a seat, then, Snakeroot. And let me know if there's anything you absolutely hate, or are allergic too."

"No grapes," she says with a small, chagrined smile as she eases herself into a chair, tucking her bandaged wrist up against her abdomen.

She's silent for a moment before venturing quietly, carefully, "That sounded bad back there."

Privately, she's not sure it did. On the one hand, if the magic binding the vampires could be severed, there would be vampires on the loose. On the other hand, on the loose means not under the control of a death cult.

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