The Universe's Mixer

Since Evey's crash, Peter had narrowed his focus. There was a steady monitor on the older version of Evey, constant (though non-invasive) awareness of her status. He didn't read her thoughts, but made certain she was still there. Her efforts to shield herself were non-existent, forcing Peter to devote enough energy to the link to protect himself from the feedback of her despair. The link to the younger Evey was feather-light, only touching upon her once in a while. It was easier on him.

The Leeloo he'd known on the island had found solace and even happiness with the younger version of Eric. Peter wished them both happy, and had withdrawn his monitoring of this version of his beloved. So it was with full devotion and will that he had given himself up to his Leeloo, his perfect being.

Which wasn't to say he didn't occasionally check up on his friends.

There had been a chord in the air, a hint of something ethereal, something somber and sinister. The truth of it eluded him. Peter had kissed Leeloo's sleeping form, wrapped a warm blanket around her, and then ventured out to find what was troubling him.

He did a tally in his mind as he walked, following that subtle sensation. His mind touched on those he knew, but found a chilling blankness when he tried to focus on the younger Leeloo. And when he reached toward the younger Eric, there was more of the same.

Emptiness, where there had once been a mind.

His pace quickened. On the lingering touch to Eric's mind, Peter reached and found the other, the changed one, but that presence was filled with nothing good. His footfalls were taking him in that direction, and suddenly, he couldn't run fast enough. Peter took to the air and, moments later, settled to the ground beside his friend.

The disturbance in the earth was clear. There was nothing subtle about it. The stone was marked in blood, and Peter didn't need to be told whose blood it was. He put his hand on Eric's shoulder, kneeling beside the grave to offer his own ( sorrow. )

Family parties were always quite the event when they happened. It was almost expected to be loud, to have someone go to jail or get maimed, for there to be alcohol flowing like water and for a fight to break out. The dramatics were always quite the spectacle to behold and a birthday was as good of an excuse as any to get the antics ready. But t wasn't just any birthday party, it was a belated celebration for Effie and the chance to meet whatever sucker his daughter had picked up for the occassion. His daughter had mentioned something alluding to the fact that she had found someone to keep her occupied and Eddie was curious to see what Effie had dredged up and from where. Anything had to be better than Bruce.

Honestly, Eddie was glad Bruce was out of the picture. He wasn't their type nor had he been good enough for Effie. And it was with that glee that Eddie finished decorating for the party.

The warehouse had been the venue of obvious choice since it was large enough to hold them, and also any of their crazy theatrics. It was also appropriately boobytrapped in case the Police did happen to drop by unexpectedly.

Though the four of the invited guests would not likely make enough noise to warrant a visit from The City's finest. Or the Bat. There was one person that was not attending on account of being locked up and currently unconscious from a good torturing. A certain Clown Princess. Eddie squealed with glee when he thought of Harley down in the basement of Arkham, passed out from the pain, chained to the floor with a broken hand...amongst other things.

He sighed with contentment and hung up the last of the streamers.

"Jonathan, are you ready? Is everything all set?" Working with one hand was a feat in itself but Eddie managed. He climbed down from the ladder he had been standing on, tucked it away behind a door, and made sure the cake was fresh. The warehouse was decorated in a sea of green, gold and purple. The symbols appropriate to their lineage also decorated the walls and floors, the question mark.

"Oh this will be perfect!" There was alcohol to be had, and fun times ahead. Eddie did love a good party.

Eric needed time, and Macklyn understood that. His mate's hurt and anger still flooded him, he would not block out the pain. He had been the one to cause it. He had his own sorrows for what he had done, but he would not share them until Eric was ready. Right now, the Dark Avenger needed space.

He introduced Mara to her new home, showed her the garden and the animals within it. Let her fly and explore the roof where Bran liked to sit. Then he brought her inside to show her the rest. It was then that Macklyn heard the small mewling.

"Oh." He shook his head. He'd forgotten about the kitten.

He was still in the dish box, sitting in the center, looking up. It didn't appear to be distressed, just lonely. Macklyn bent and picked him up, and Mara inspected him closely, her head turning this way and that.

From the fridge, the fairy got some milk, realizing he hadn't even prepared for the kitten correctly. There wasn't food, or a litterbox, or toys, or anything. He really really had not thought the whole thing through. Much like a child, he'd seen the kitten and hadn't considered the rest of the responsibility. Before turning away, he grabbed a bag of grapes as well.

Macklyn put the milk in a teacup and set it on the table, then put the kitten next to it so that he could drink. He sat in one of the two mismatched chairs - he was hunting for a better situation, a matched set, but they needed something to hold them over - and urged Mara from his shoulder. For her he opened the grapes and put a handful onto the table. He knew she would like them. She grasped one between her toes so that it could not move, and began to eat it.

There was a moment that he was able to forget the mess he'd made, and instead think of the family he'd created. How fantastic they all were. Eric, Bran, Mara, they were all extraordinary. Even the kitten, who was the most normal thing of them, was extraordinary because of his ordinariness.

He sat watching the animals eat, waiting for his soulmate to return home.

The aftermath of the incineration of Leeloo had been short. Aidan had managed to get himself home, despite the swimming of his head and depth of his drunk. He had chattered with Bishop over philosophical nonsense and how much better it was to be free of restrictions and conscience-ridden rules. Once home, he had stashed the precious backpack and had the wherewithal to get into the shower. But by the time that was over, he'd reached the point of intoxication that too much drinking will reward any person with. He stumbled from the bathroom to his bed and fell upon it face down.

Aidan passed out hard and slept soundly.

It was almost two days before his eyes fluttered open. His head was filled with cotton, his eyes heavy. It was hunger that woke him, he was sure that if he fed himself he would be able to sleep for another two days. He felt ill at ease and almost hung over. There were only flashes of memory in which he drank an entire backpack filled with bloodbags. There was more, he was sure of it. Scratching at his brain from a hidden doorway, urging him to recall it was there.

The hunger was deep, unlike the normal need to drink blood that he got, even if he'd let a few days pass. He chalked it up to how much he'd had and that his body wanted to feed like that all the time. Which was a thing he was definitely not going to let happen.

There was no blood in the fridge when he looked, and Aidan sighed. Of course he wouldn't have any. He'd devoured his two remaining bags before he'd gone to the hospital to begin his binge. His mind wandered to the backpack. Maybe there was one forgotten bag in there, something hidden in a side pocket.

That thought twisted in his belly uncomfortably. As he walked around the apartment trying to find where he'd put it, flashes of the night before started to roll around in his mind. A mugger. He recalled a mugger. The backpack was not in his bedroom or the closet in there like it should be. Drinking the mugger wasn't so bad on its own, since it was a criminal, but the live blood... The backpack wasn't in the livingroom, either. A homeless woman. He'd eaten a homeless woman. Aidan's mouth twisted in distaste and his brows knit in disappointment in himself. An innocent woman. The backpack was not in the hall closet. Two more faces flashed before his eyes, but memory here was hazy, though it did make the vampire worried. The backpack was not in the pantry or the fridge or the freezer, nor anywhere else in the kitchen. Aidan's memories began to walk him through the streets to a strip club.

Focused more now on the events of the night than the bag, his muscles moved him through the apartment to the second bathroom. His legs turned him toward the wall behind the door and his arms reached to open the linen closet there. He had gone into the strip club and sat down, at home in the darkness and wanting to hide, thinking that with the hour there wouldn't be many patrons inside, and he'd been right. His torso leaned into the depth of the awkwardly placed cupboard. His hand grasped at the backpack, which was shoved as far back as possible, so far that he had to pull with fingers to urge the canvas forward so he could get a better grip. The girl at the strip club, the first one who had come up, she'd been offering him a dance. She looked at him... she'd looked at him and screamed.

The backpack was much heavier than it should have been, Aidan noted. It should have been empty, or at least mostly empty. Instead, he was greeted with a solid weight that made him frown. Focused again on the bag and not the memories, disturbing as they were, Aidan pulled the backpack fully from the linen closet and set it on the counter. He opened it up and gazed at what was inside.

Blood.

He remembered killing that girl, tearing open her throat while she screamed, the sound of it gurgling in her mouth.

So much blood.

He remembered laughing as he hunted the next one down.

He remembered twisting along the poles on the stage as he taunted dancers.

He remembered the fatally brave bouncer who thought that a baseball bat would solve all the world's current problems.

He remembered the scene of slaughter he had reveled in while he stalked the last one.

Aidan's hand reached into the backpack and pulled out a blood bag. Not quite halfway full. A second that was shy of 3/4ths full. The rest of them were plump. Maybe a little bit too full. He counted twelve very full bags.

He remembered the orange hair.

Everything hit Aidan all at once, and he doubled over in agony. There was nothing physical harming him, the psychological impact of what he had done tore through him as swiftly as he had torn through the flesh of those innocent people. He had killed. Not just one or two. Not just the people in the strip club, though that would have been more than enough for Aidan Waite to hate himself.

He had killed Leeloo.

In an act so evil that he could not think of anything worse that he could have possibly done, or had done at any point in his long life, Aidan had killed somebody who was loved by one of his friends, somebody who embodied purity and love. He had devoured her and coaxed her into thinking that she was safe and everything was going to be alright. He had hoarded her blood in fourteen bags, two that were recently fresh when she was taking her last breaths and twelve he had used to leach her life from her drip by drip.

Aidan's knees gave out. He didn't even realized that he'd crumpled onto the bathroom floor. He was devastated by what he had done. This was a betrayal of the sort he didn't think he would ever be capable of. In the depths of his life with Bishop, when other vampires feared him because he was so good at killing, he had never been this heartless, this evil. This cruel.

He wished then that Dean had killed him. Or that the world had swallowed him. He wished that Evey had left him in the ruins, he wished that the curse the witch had placed on him was still in tact. For the first time since he was newly turned, Aidan wished for death.

His hand squeezed the bag of blood, intent on bursting it, or throwing it. The seal gave and introduced the aroma of Leeloo into the bathroom. All the cells in Aidan's body awoke. He remembered why he'd done what he'd done.

Eyes blackened and fangs exposed, Aidan drank. When he was done, he ripped the bag open to clean the inside of it with his tongue. Somehow, he had the fortitude to stand again, and the willpower to not dig into the backpack for more, but instead hide it again, deep in the tallest part of the linen closet, so high up that he had to climb on the other shelves to get there. Nobody would be able to see it on accident, find it while looking for something else.

Aidan giggled.

"My monster." Bishop said gleefully as he appeared at the doorway. "If I'd only known that all it took to make you forget all friendships was a little divine blood, I would have searched for it a long time ago."

Peter couldn't know, Aidan knew. The feelings he wouldn't be able to hide. The guilt and sorrow, the rage. Even most of the killing was far too vivid. But he could hide one. He could hide Leeloo. Lock her down and throw away the key. Replace her face with that of somebody else. Exchange that part of his memory. He needed to practice. Aidan found all the magazines in his apartment and looked through them, constructing an amalgam of a girl to take Leeloo's place in that memory, he walked himself through it over and over again. He felt like his mind was working faster than it had ever in his life, taking in information and sorting through it, assimilating what he was attempting to teach himself at a rate unheard of previously. It should have been agonizingly complicated. It wasn't.

"Fucking devious." Bishop chimed. He was leaning over Aidan while he worked through the pages. "Brown hair and blue eyes, common and innocuous. But why did you go to such great lengths?"

"She was special somehow, I don't know how."

"Actually, your lack of detail there can only help."

Aidan ignored Bishop the rest of the night, despite the fact that his Father said many more things to him. He didn't stop until he could run through the scenario without using the magazines and without prompting himself. He knew that if Peter really wanted, he could dig. Dig deep deep deep and see the truth. He could only hope that this surface memory would be satisfactory should Peter look in. His friend would surely feel the guilt, sorrow, and agony. Most of it could probably be explained by what he'd felt when finding the other Evey, but if it lasted too long... if there was any suspicion, this needed to be the explanation Peter found.

Playing out the false scenario again was how Aidan fell asleep on he couch.

It had been weeks since she first saw Aidan Waite on the streets of the City - and days since she'd spoken to John about it. His response had settled all throughout her until she was saturated with it. She lost sleep over it - over all of it, the implications, the probability of its truth - all of it. And, in the end, she came to conclusions.

She needed to see Aidan. There were things left unsaid.

There was entirely too much time spent on preparation. She scrubbed her skin - every part of it - until it was glowing, then carefully brush-dried her hair straight and smooth. She had long ago given up cosmetics. They'd been difficult enough to find in London, and they had been all but impossible on that dying planet, and then truly impossible on the island. Now that she had full access to it here in the City, she found that she didn't want it.

But she dressed very carefully. The soft black pants were slim, but on her frame seemed fluid and graceful instead of stern. The sleeveless blouse was satin under a navy blue bit of flotsam, too sheer and delicate for any sort of work. Perhaps that's why she'd selected it. The clothing made her feel... less like a worker. More like... something else. Maybe something beautiful, or at least, something that could have been beautiful once. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, then turned away, pushing her hair over her shoulder as she bent down to slip on a pair of low heels. It was time to go.

The grand hotel she remembered was easy enough to find. The doorman took one look at her, then opened the door immediately. She walked through the lobby as if she belonged, and with the way she was dressed, she felt like she might. There was a sharp-eyed attendant at the desk who gave her a long scrutiny, but she returned his stare with a cold, hard look of her own, and he turned away with a touch of an index finger to his nose.

She took the elevator up. She knew exactly where to go. The thick carpeting muted her heels as she walked. Three times, she rapped her knuckles against the door she knew, after some research, was Aidan Waite's.