FIC sniplet #3
Sep. 17th, 2005 01:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wiseheartContinuing on as before. Grammar corrections still welcome. :)
The repeated gunshot sounds made the hunting vampire stop on his track. A shootout in a big city always meant an easy meal, especially in the outer districts, where the victims often were left behind, dead or not far from it, unattended. Some finicky Camarilla types thought such a meal barbaric and unworthy their refined tastes – especially the Ventrue and some overbred Toreadors – but the Anarch weren’t so choosy. A meal was a meal, and a freshly shot victim practically as good as a living Vessel – sometimes even better, as the extra shot of adrenaline gave their blood some added spice – and not having to hunt it down personally lessened the risk of being discovered.
Consequently, Salvador Garcia changed directions and continued his hunt following the smell of gunpowder and the scent of freshly spilled blood. It was very strong; the shootout had to be happening in the direct neighbourhood. His senses were sharp, but he couldn’t compare himself with those of a Gangrel, of course. Thus he couldn’t be much farther away from the fight scene than two or three streets.
He’d seen people beaten up brutally in his native Spain often enough – in fact, such an event had earned him his eternal life in the Dark – but the sight that greeted him was outrageous, even by his own measures. At least half a dozen thugs – not starving Indios looking desperately for a means to gain some money for their families but well-fed, muscular guys, probably in the service of some rich snot – were encircling an elegantly clad, slender young man who was at least a head shorter than any of them. The youngling had two revolvers, one in each hand, and apparently, he could use them rather well, as three other attackers were already lying around on the filthy ground, bleeding profoundly.
But some of the thugs had guns, too, and at the very moment as Salvador reached the battleground, one of them managed to knock one of the revolvers out of the young man’s hand with a lucky shot. It was obvious that they had orders to capture the young man alive – he, on the other hand, seemed not to worry about killing them, in order to escape. What was going on here?
The young man had only one revolver left, and probably only a couple of bullets. He made them count, though, shooting the closest thug straight in the breast and injuring another one on the upper thigh. But while he was distracted with them, one of the remaining attackers crept up behind him, and grabbing his arm, wrestled the revolver out of his hand.
“Got her,” the thug called out, making Salvador’s head jerk up in surprise.
“Good work,” the lead thug praised his guy, and, stepping up to the prisoner, backhanded him – her? – with a force that snapped her face to the side. Her sloppy hat fell to the ground, and unruly waves of thick mahogany hair tumbled over her shoulders.
She was a woman, indeed. Well, more like a young girl of nineteen, maybe twenty years.
A young girl, being attacked and beaten up by half a dozen men, twice her size. Just as it had happened to poor Iris, half a century ago.
Salvador’s eyes turned silver. He let go of his control, precarious already due to the scent of so much blood, and allowed the Beast to emerge.
Only two more sniplets to go from this part. ;)
The repeated gunshot sounds made the hunting vampire stop on his track. A shootout in a big city always meant an easy meal, especially in the outer districts, where the victims often were left behind, dead or not far from it, unattended. Some finicky Camarilla types thought such a meal barbaric and unworthy their refined tastes – especially the Ventrue and some overbred Toreadors – but the Anarch weren’t so choosy. A meal was a meal, and a freshly shot victim practically as good as a living Vessel – sometimes even better, as the extra shot of adrenaline gave their blood some added spice – and not having to hunt it down personally lessened the risk of being discovered.
Consequently, Salvador Garcia changed directions and continued his hunt following the smell of gunpowder and the scent of freshly spilled blood. It was very strong; the shootout had to be happening in the direct neighbourhood. His senses were sharp, but he couldn’t compare himself with those of a Gangrel, of course. Thus he couldn’t be much farther away from the fight scene than two or three streets.
He’d seen people beaten up brutally in his native Spain often enough – in fact, such an event had earned him his eternal life in the Dark – but the sight that greeted him was outrageous, even by his own measures. At least half a dozen thugs – not starving Indios looking desperately for a means to gain some money for their families but well-fed, muscular guys, probably in the service of some rich snot – were encircling an elegantly clad, slender young man who was at least a head shorter than any of them. The youngling had two revolvers, one in each hand, and apparently, he could use them rather well, as three other attackers were already lying around on the filthy ground, bleeding profoundly.
But some of the thugs had guns, too, and at the very moment as Salvador reached the battleground, one of them managed to knock one of the revolvers out of the young man’s hand with a lucky shot. It was obvious that they had orders to capture the young man alive – he, on the other hand, seemed not to worry about killing them, in order to escape. What was going on here?
The young man had only one revolver left, and probably only a couple of bullets. He made them count, though, shooting the closest thug straight in the breast and injuring another one on the upper thigh. But while he was distracted with them, one of the remaining attackers crept up behind him, and grabbing his arm, wrestled the revolver out of his hand.
“Got her,” the thug called out, making Salvador’s head jerk up in surprise.
“Good work,” the lead thug praised his guy, and, stepping up to the prisoner, backhanded him – her? – with a force that snapped her face to the side. Her sloppy hat fell to the ground, and unruly waves of thick mahogany hair tumbled over her shoulders.
She was a woman, indeed. Well, more like a young girl of nineteen, maybe twenty years.
A young girl, being attacked and beaten up by half a dozen men, twice her size. Just as it had happened to poor Iris, half a century ago.
Salvador’s eyes turned silver. He let go of his control, precarious already due to the scent of so much blood, and allowed the Beast to emerge.
Only two more sniplets to go from this part. ;)
