Oh, cool, I can post a topic, too.

I am dying to get storytelling. Maybe I'm being a bit impatient, but I HAVE THIS REALLY STRONG URGE TO DEVELOP MY CHARACTER SO BADLY, can I please have permission to get a back story going???

EDIT: YES, I HAVE PERMISSION LET CHAOS ENSUE

He felt like he’d seen experienced this scene before. Experienced it, kind of like deja-vu, or some other form of total crap.

Vick licked his lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood, cleaning whatever had spattered on him. Luckily, the kill was quick; less screaming to deal with and less laundry bills he’d have later.

The blood had splattered a bit on his black clothing, but it was barely noticeable and easily concealable, though it became more obvious as it hardened into futile scabbing, a permanent stain. Not that Vick minded, he could care less for his clothes.

Night was cold in London. Foggy, too. The young man sheathed his dagger, after wiping it clean of blood, and hugged himself to retain whatever warmth he had left. He tried looking for the moon as guidance, but the early morning fog was quickly blinding his view of the sky. Groaning in frustration, he walked off towards the general direction of his living quarters, leaving the dead body in the middle of the road. Seriously, the police these days are some of the most unreliable gits since they’ve begun accepting bribes.

Tough life with the economy, Vick mulled before reaching the street corner. He located the name of the street, finally knowing where exactly he was, and navigated accordingly to go back home.

The fog seemed to thicken as the sky in general gradually got brighter. He squinted a bit; he and the sun never seemed to quite agree. He wasn’t a bloody vampire, no, but he was more of a night owl. A yawn escaped from his lips. He’d better go find his apartment before the day crowd awakens.

absoullette wrote:He felt like he’d seen experienced this scene before. Experienced it, kind of like deja-vu, or some other form of total crap.

Vick licked his lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood, cleaning whatever had spattered on him. Luckily, the kill was quick; less screaming to deal with and less laundry bills he’d have later.

The blood had splattered a bit on his black clothing, but it was barely noticeable and easily concealable, though it became more obvious as it hardened into futile scabbing, a permanent stain. Not that Vick minded, he could care less for his clothes.

Night was cold in London. Foggy, too. The young man sheathed his dagger, after wiping it clean of blood, and hugged himself to retain whatever warmth he had left. He tried looking for the moon as guidance, but the early morning fog was quickly blinding his view of the sky. Groaning in frustration, he walked off towards the general direction of his living quarters, leaving the dead body in the middle of the road. Seriously, the police these days are some of the most unreliable gits since they’ve begun accepting bribes.

Tough life with the economy, Vick mulled before reaching the street corner. He located the name of the street, finally knowing where exactly he was, and navigated accordingly to go back home.

The fog seemed to thicken as the sky in general gradually got brighter. He squinted a bit; he and the sun never seemed to quite agree. He wasn’t a bloody vampire, no, but he was more of a night owl. A yawn escaped from his lips. He’d better go find his apartment before the day crowd awakens.

...

Loneliness was something Vick often experienced. But that didn't bother him too much. That's what the red light district was for.

He roamed the streets, ladies dancing in scanty clothing trapped behind glass tinted red. One black-haired beauty squished her naturally large breasts against the glass as he walked by. He passed by without so much as a glance to her seductions. There was only one place he went to for comfort: The Bar. Not the most creative name, but it didn't really make a difference. The Bar was a small little corner pub, the black wood clearly worn from years of service. There were only four windows; two on the top floor, two on the bottom.

He neared The Bar, the red lights a bit dimmer, the moans a bit quieter, and he opened the door. Inside was very plain, but the place had a subtle homey feeling. The only seating available were the few couches scattered about along with a small bar nestled in the back corner. Vick sat on the worn, plush seat at the bar and ordered a glass of scotch. The bartender, a young man dressed in casual clothing (t-shirt and jeans which actually fit) placed the glass in front of his customer.

"You didn't feel like fucking around today, Vick?" he asked, trying to make conversation.

Vick downed his drink before answering, "Nah, Grease, I just need to drown my sorrows like a proper lady by having at least two bottles of alcohol. Hit me." He pushed the glass towards the bartender.

Grease wasn't the bartender's real name. He got the nickname when Vick spotted him at another one of his jobs working at a car garage. Needless to say, their meeting wasn't exactly heartfelt.

"Didn't I tell you to stop calling me that fucking stupid name, hell, why can't you call me Zack like everyone else?" he protested, refilling Vick's glass and roughly shoving towards his general direction.

"Careful with that, Grease! You're gonna waste the precious potion!" he whined, ignoring Zack's protesting.

"'Precious Potion'??? What are you, a fucking poet?"

"Shut up and watch your language; you'll never get a lady that way," Vick scolded, quickly drinking half the glass before setting back down. His face began to flush. The potion was working its magic.

"I never wanted a fucking lady, I'm a faggot, remember?" Zack countered, his voice becoming hushed near the end of his sentence. Although he had come out to Vick—he knew he could trust him, after all the dude was a fucking assassin—he was still very embarrassed about it. Liking guys, for him who was raised in a Catholic family, was not normal, and definitely not something you'd want to show off the the world.

Vick paused after finishing off his second drink, the empty glass held loosely in his hand. "You're one manly fag, then," he retorted quietly, murmuring another request to refill his drink.

Zack scoffed at him. "Not all gays are hellishly flamboyant." He poured yet another glass for the buzzed customer, "That's the last one, alright? You're gonna kill yourself."

"Hell," Vick groaned snatching his refill. He was never a heavy drinker, though sometimes he needed to binge on it to forget. To forget all that blood. To forget... everything. "I'm not a wimp," he managed to say without slurring. The man had incredible muscle control, though currently in his drunken state, that prized control was slipping. "Just hand me m'drink." Oops. He couldn't hide that slur.

"You're fucking wasted," Zack said, "I'm not giving you another fucking scotch."

"But Greeeaaaaaaaaaase," Vick whined loudly, just like a child, "I want my drink." Vick started to climb up onto the counter, reaching desperately for the empty glass, "Give it to mee."

Please...

"Oh, hell no, get off the fucking counter, shit, DON'T TOUCH THAT, FUCK, you're gonna make me lose my fucking job, GET THE FUCK DOWN—"

"Greeaaase, I don't wanna kill people anymoore, I wanna love someoooone—"

"GET YOUR STINKY-ASS FACE AWAY FROM ME YOU DRUNK—"

"GREASE!!!"

CRASH

((Wow, I'm on a ROLL here))

BEEP... BEEP... BEEP...

Zack hated hospitals. The building was always too clean. And they had a hellish blood room. Every doctor was as pale as fuck; he was convinced that every single one of them went into that red room for a snack now and then. Every single fucking one.

He was sitting in the hallway, waiting for any news Vick. The stupid shit... he wasn't some helpless girl, he was a fucking man. A faggot, but a MAN, god, he could protect himself.

The EMC doors finally opened to reveal a pale, stocky man wearing a lab coat which almost touched the floor. The top of his balding head was sunburnt (probably because he was on vacation the week prior in Hawaii; fucking rich people) and beginning to peel. He had small eyes magnified by a huge pair of square glasses sitting on top of an up-turned nose and dangling off two Dumbo ears. What a picture.

"So," the doctor said in a nasally voice, "Luckily, the glass did not hit any vital nerves, and everything else that got hit are mere flesh wounds. He will heal, but he is guaranteed a few scars." He paused before lowering his voice to a whisper, "Speaking of scars, this man has way too many. Do you know if he is being abused, or if he is in a gang...?"

He is not going to go into this.

"I don't know, he's just one of my shittier regulars, so I fucking felt bad when he...," Zack hesitated,"...nevermind, I just don't fucking know, alright?" The doctor frowned, disapproving of Zack's colorful language in the hospital, but didn't mention it as the little man straightened his too-long lab coat.

"Whatever is going on," the doctor said in the most condescending voice he could muster with that squeaky tone, "you should call the authorities–"

Fuck those corrupt bastards.

"–and get him out of whatever trouble he is in. I do not know how many more scars his body can handle." And with that, the little prince left with his posse of nurses. Zack put his head in his hands and sighed. He glanced at the closed doors. He really wanted to go in and give that little shit a piece of his mind. But he was forced to sit out here until the guy was stabilized. Guess the guy needed to be sanitized from his life, even though he would just get himself filthy again.

...

Vick couldn't really remember what happened.

His head was pounding. He felt like he slept on a bed of needles. Every movement he made to get up was hindered by those sharp needles digging deeper into his back. He was face-down on a white bed... with handles?

Oh.

"Vick?" a voice called out to him through the haze. He moaned in acknowledgement, and he could hear a sigh of relief from his bedside, "God, you gave me a fucking scare."

Who... who was that...

Vick tried to organize his thoughts, but to no avail. He tried to piece together what happened.

"Jesus, fuck, after that stunt, I'd think you'd remember me."

He had said that aloud? He needed to be more careful with his big mouth. "Who...?"

"Wow, you really do sound like shit," the mysterious voice echoed painfully in his head. This is the worst hangover he had in years.

Wait, hangover? Right... he went out to go drinking somewhere near the edge of the red-light district at his usual spot... his last job was more gruesome and emotional than usual, so he went there to erase that memory... so much for that plan. Vick attempted to sit up again, but was quickly stopped by that mysterious voice's hands.

"Vick, you are going to fucking stay there until you at least get over your hangover. I don't know how bad it is, but I'm sure it's hell."

"...shut up," Vick croaked out. Was that really how he sounded? "I have the biggest headache, you wouldn't believe how painful it is."

"And I don't wanna fucking know." Vick managed to turn his head to put a face to that voice.

"Oh, it's you."

"Why do you sound so fucking disappointed?!"

Vick winced, "Please not so loud... and could you close the blinds, it's blinding... no pun intended."

Zack made a frustrated growl as he promptly stood up, walked over to the windows, and closed the blinds and pulled the curtains closed. As the room dimmed, Vick's headache eased a bit. At least he didn't have to squint.

"Happy?"

"Elated."

Zack sighed, sitting back down into the visitor's chair. He laced his hands together and rested his chin atop the little platform he created. Vick took a glance at Zack. He was still wearing the same clothes for, how many days now he doesn't remember, but he definitely looked more disheveled than before. Dark circles under his eyes, dirty blond hair completely untamed, and his thumb nails worn down from constant chewing. Vick had told him to stop that child's habit.

"...Is there something wrong with my face or what, stop fucking staring," Zack mumbled, turning his head towards the ground to avoid Vick's stare. Vick shook his head slightly and turned away, looking at the door.

He had to stop. But he knows that he can't. He's addicted to his job, no matter how loudly he protests to it in his head. He loved that adrenaline rush of seeing life being forcefully taken away, that sickly beautiful sight of absolute fear.

Vick closed his eyes. What a horrible man he is.

...

There was a moment of silence before Vick croaked out, "You should stop saying fuck all the time. You've overused the word."

Zack jolted up and opened his mouth to retort, but he stopped midway, clenching his jaw to swallow the volume of his voice, "...I'll say fuck as much as I fucking want, y'got that, you fucker?"

Vick sighed. Zack would probably never stop saying that word just to spite him.