ᴄʟᴇᴀɴᴇʀ (garcian) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2017-07-10 19:30:00 |
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Stalking. It was a such a nice way to hone the art of stealth, wasn’t it, and did he really expect an advanced notice? Katherine hoped not. There wasn’t any fun in that, and what better way to assess someone other than watching them, unnoticed. She was a shadow that followed in silence, inhuman speed and not even a sound of breath (and hell, she didn’t even wear heels, the clicks and clacks of designer-grade stilettos would have given her away). It hadn’t taken her long to find the person of interest. It also hadn’t taken him long to find work. In the back of an invite-only poker house, home of a reeking dumpster filled with bags of broken glass and banana peels was not a place for a classy lady - but really, the focus was more on the carnage. Katherine’s gut told her this was a home base for a sect of organized crime. What kind, you ask? Like hell would she know, but someone seemed to have owed someone something, and then things escalated to the point that things were taken outside, and two bodies were bludgeoned to death. Hence the mess. Blood was heavy in the air, but it didn’t have her salivating. Turns out that the perfume of fucking garbage and the natural decomposition of bodies wasn’t pleasant for her sensitive nose, who would have thought? And there was nothing appetizing about the sight of corpses anyway, not when one had a head that’d been flattened like a pancake - the skull was crushed and she was pretty sure brains were leaking out from the ears - and the other one was so stuck to the concrete that someone would have to peel him off the ground. Katherine’s viewpoint was from up above on neighboring building. A small parking garage of three stories, rundown and used for mainly homeless squatters, and she sat on the edge with a file to her nails as she watched her newest possible friend do what he claimed to do. What a shitty fucking job. It was a shitty fucking job, sure, but Garcian didn’t look at it like that. Why should he? He didn’t care about the bodies - they were part of this job, death was too, just as much a part of things like a pipe would be to a plumber or a fancy-ass laptop for an accountant. He was cold, he was calculating, he was methodical. He reacted to some motherfucker’s head splattered on the pavement like a Halloween pumpkin on the road the way he did to most everything else - with calm indifference. Wasn’t like he was just the cleaner either - he was a problem solver. That’s what he got paid the big money to do, Garcian solved problems. He was a fast thinker. A fast doer. And it was a good thing the stalker perching up elsewhere like a vulture was outta his damn way - he didn’t react well to distractions, and he didn’t think about anything except solutions. “So, uh - “ The fucker who was about to wet his pants, the one who called him (not high on the organized crime hierarchy, was he?) fidgeted nervously as Garcian assessed the situation, rolled up his sleeves, and donned his gloves. Cool water was best for bloodstains on concrete - a little bit of bleach, then rinsing the hell out of it and scrubbing. He would get this back porch looking barbecue-ready soon enough. “Do I need to do anything? Is there something I need to be doing right now? Or do I need to be not doing anything?” “No,” was the response, short and sweet. “If you wanna make yourself useful, get me a coffee. This is gonna be a long night.” “Okay, sure. Sure thing. How do you take your coffee?” “Cream, no sugar, three pumps of caramel flavoring.” Was he serious? Probably not, but the deadpan made it seem that way. And it got the anxious dipstick to ‘eff off, which was the goal. Awe. He almost made the vampire giggle, but the quirk of her mouth was sufficient evidence that she found him funny. Katherine liked the snark. Liked it even more when it was nonchalantly spouted midst the clusterfuck of messy obliterated flesh. Garcian’s stomach must be made from steel by now. Her legs crossed, the pose seemingly provocative - didn’t help that everything she wore was tight, like the black denim and top that left little to the imagination - but blame the model in her, always oozing a natural and untouchable sexuality. “I’ll let you know if you miss a spot,” sung the huntress from her spot above now that it was just them and the dead. “It’ll be superrrrrrrrr fun.” Maybe he’d be able to guess who with the attempted White Chick Speak. Now that sounded familiar. Garcian ceased in his scrubbing (he’d start working on the bodies in a second, but he liked a clean space to do his thing thank you) and glanced up, in sort of the general direction where he’d heard the voice. What was a disembodied voice - because he couldn’t quite pick up on a body, or a face - Oh, wait. With a squint, he thought he saw her. How the hell had she gotten up there? While wearing those shoes? He’d seen women murder their husbands with shoes like that. Seriously had, ain’t no joke. It was impressive, anyway. “Was wondering when you’d show up,” he spoke into the darkness, low and smooth - like warm butter on lobster. “Did you know ‘em?” he asked about the dead men - give him a minute, he’d bring out the hacksaw. It was always easier to transport bodies in heavy-duty garbage bags when they weren’t all put together (a free protip for the masses). Katherine scoffed. Know them? Did she look like the kind of woman with associates like those? Then again, she imagined he wasn’t getting the best view from all the way down there - so, without further ado… The leap from Point A to Point B was effortless. It was an impact that should have shattered someone’s legs - especially since she landed on her feet, very much like a cat - but her bones remained intact, nail filer (the steel kind, could be used to stab someone too) still in her hands. “Nope,” she motioned with it. “I’m only here for you, precious. First impressions matter. I had to make sure you’re the real deal and not some kind of undercover hack.” And behold. He was taking out the trash for lowlives willing to dish out the pay. This wasn’t the legal way to go about things. He was perfect. “Fitting, ‘cause I wanted to make sure you ain’t some undercover hack,” Garcian snorted. Seeing the woman leap about like a squirrel - no, a cat, cats always landed on their feet - definitely brought about an actual reaction like an eyebrow raise (difficult to draw out of him, truly) and plenty of questions he wanted to ask. He continued with what he was doing though, since he didn’t have time to really stop and chat - but he could multitask, that he was good at. The smell of bleach wasn’t too strong; really, he just wanted to get the stains out, not make the ground clean enough to eat off of. This house was properly ghetto, it would of stuck out if it wasn’t. “But since I also work on the same crime scenes police do, I generally know who is undercover.” And this chick? Didn’t look that way. “So, what are you exactly and why would you need my services?” Did she have a body stashed in the trunk of her car, or was this a serial killer situation? If the latter, he might draw a line. There was once a time when he had actual scruples. Mm, definitely not undercover, and in no way associated with the law - she was free, wild things with fantastic hair and her own motives. Katherine didn’t his split attention, either. Garcian had a job to do. And she had nails to file. “What am I, you say,” she mused darkly, back pressed against an aged brick wall and the filer scraped against her pretty claws for that desired shape. “Interesting way to word it. You catch on quick. But it turns out that what I am is exactly why I need someone of your skillset. I sometimes leave a trail of leftovers that need to be disposed of, and I’ve got no interest to clean up my own messes.” A certain someone was a spoiled vampire princess, wasn’t she? There was also the fact that Ezio had his own kills (hunting in pairs was so much fun), and the cleanup put a damper on their nights out. It was almost kinda strange having someone else here actually talking to him - usually, for jobs like these, Garcian reveled in the quiet. He was used to that. Dead people were silent. Maybe some might find it maddening, but not him. This guy just dealt with it. But funnily enough, he didn’t exactly mind the conversation either. “Hitwoman?” he asked, without missing a beat while he took care of the more identifiable aspects of a body - cutting off the fingertips, removing the teeth. The mob didn’t like when bodies were found (though these wouldn’t be) and traced back to them. Head wounds were sort of annoying, he had to admit - he didn’t particularly care for the bludgeoning route but, then again, ain’t his business. He wasn’t here when shit went down. “Vigilante, like Spider-Woman? Leaving a ‘trail of leftovers’ ain’t no one-time thing.” He just wanted more detail before he quoted a price. It at least seemed like Katherine (she’d told him her name, he remembered) wouldn’t balk at how much he charged. “No and no,” were here responses to the assumptions with a wave of her filer, but partial points were gifted at how it wasn’t a one-time thing. It’d be an always thing. Her mouth opened to carry on with an explanation, to finally answer his questions but then came the most perfect opportunity to not only explain, but to show. A certain someone had returned back with coffee. Before the man could utter a word about her presence, that otherworldly speed (there was a sound of a gusty wind with it, if you paid attention) brought Katherine right in front of him in less than a second. She pinned his eyes with hers, held the nail filer against his mouth, and then shhhhhh. He obliged like a trained dog. Compulsion was a nice trick for a vampire to have. Violating a stranger’s mind was low on her ‘things to be guilty about’ list. “Take your coffee, hon, because I’m about to have a drink of my own.” Just a taste, a sip - okay, maybe a gulp, who was she kidding? Katherine wouldn’t add another body to the mess he was hired to clean, though, that was a promise. A set of fangs poked out, so did those infamous veins to complete that monstrous face and she sunk her teeth into the errand boy’s neck. The fuck?? Garcian wasn’t an idiot and he didn’t live under a rock - he knew enough pop culture to deduce that drinking someone’s blood clearly meant vampire, and drinking blood was what this chick was doing. It got another eyebrow raise, as he took the coffee and sipped. Tasted like a sugar bomb but he hadn’t sent out the errand boy to get coffee because Garcian actually wanted it - mostly it was to get him out of the way. Then he just had to come back at the wrong time. Seeing this now, he didn’t know what kinda fucked up universe his legit employer sent him to, but there may have been a moment where he regretted it just a little. This was just - all of this, and dreams, and memories, and as if he needed more of a mess in his head. But he would endure, he always did. “Guess that means I can count on having a body void of blood to deal with, at least,” he mumbled. Helpfully anaemic? Why the fuck not. “I’ll throw in a discount for that.” Katherine was neat this time. It was for the feed, not for the kill, and soon it she pulled back, made direct eye contact that put the coffee-fetching criminal into that unbreakable trance. “All you know is that you had a little accident and fell outside,” she told him, lips drenched in scarlet. “Be a good boy and go back inside, hm?” His response was a dumb nod. He left, and she ran her tongue against those animal canines before they retraced - and she was back to normal, back to pretty and human. At least in appearances. “That’s so sweet of you,” she purred, plump lashes batting in bullshit innocence. “But that’s usual it, assuming if it’s me that does the killing. I might know one or two people that make it a little more complicated, but I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle?” “I can handle anything,” was Garcian’s confident response. It was true, and he had the experience to back it up. But this was going to be interesting - cleaning up evidence of a vampire’s crimes. Or maybe it didn’t even count as that - it was just her trying to get herself a hot meal. What was next, zombies? Werewolves? It was a lot more out there than a serial killer. More interesting, in a fucked up sort of way. He’d just be over here, continuing on with the work. Body parts in a bag (this would go to the incinerator at the dump), tidying up what remained of the bloodstains. Spit spot. Just call him black Mary Poppins. “How often do you...eat?” he wanted to know, since he assumed it wasn’t every day. That would be really fucking noticeable. At least Garcian seemed comfortable in his element. It didn’t go unnoticed. He’d do well here, then - not scared away about all the horrifying things that could happen here. What dreams would be bestowed upon someone whose job involves getting rid of bodies, she had to wonder. “Once or twice a week, depending how often I can get my munchies satisfied in between,” Katherine answered, pulling a compact mirror from her back pocket to make sure nothing else on her face was smudged. Lips were licked clean, no smudges on her makeup, there was a cowlick of hair sticking out but she tamed that quickly. There, satisfied. “I try not to go too overboard but, y’know, sometimes a lady gets a little hangry and needs to eat?” Oh, hell yeah, he definitely understood the hangry feels. Maybe not with blood, but. “We’ll work somethin’ out,” he promised, twisting and tying the garbage bags. He didn’t know who the dead ones were but it didn’t matter. They were just there, and likely did something stupid to even cause their demise in the first place. Accidents like this happened when you didn’t know how to survive in the mob. People got in too deep. It happened to the squishier kind of folks. “Monthly payments or whatever, depending on how many times a month you need me. I don’t got my card on me now, but I’ll send you a message with my contact info.” He didn’t, in fact, carry his card on jobs like these - because he was meant to be a ghost. In and out. Nothing discernible left, no DNA evidence. In times like these Garcian Smith just didn’t exist. “You’re a dish to work with, I can already tell,” smiled the vampire, deceptively sweet - with a hint of the devil in her. No shit in his pants, only the necessary questions, he was definitely a good one, but it didn’t have to be business all the time. Especially he was going to live here he was probably going to get fucked, unpleasantly. “As a tip for you, if you ever need my services…” Well, aside from that otherworldly strength and keen senses, all of Katherine’s gifts were geared towards remaining as the apex predator on top of the foodchain. There was one, however, that came in handy. Maybe she’d let Hank draw a sample to scientifically explain what made her blood regenerative. “You ever get yourself in a tiff - and you might, with the kind of clientele you probably keep - my blood’s capable of healing any wounds. I’d offer my more violent abilities, but something tells me you don’t need my help in that department.” Garcian was someone who could take care of himself, but it didn’t hurt to have friends somewhere down the line that could come in handy. “Thanks, that’s real nice of you to say,” Garcian smirked. First time he’d ever been called a dish in any capacity. First time he’d ever been offered assistance, help, any sort of foreboding service too - usually he was the one discreetly putting his skillset out there, because it came in handy if you insisted on living in the criminal underworld. But...vampire skills? Hell, okay. He would go with that. “Never heard of that blood thing before,” he spoke thoughtfully. And tried another sip of that coffee - nope, this would probably be poured in a bush amongst all the other dead vegetation in this shithole yard. “Good to know, Katherine. I can see this’ll be an alright arrangement.” He didn’t have many friends either - but he thought the vampire chick was interesting, if a little creepy. Yet she wore it well. Weren’t vampires supposed to be creepy? Not like that Twilight bullshit. Nothing creepy about vampires who went to high school and ate deer. Creepy was better than sparkly at any rate - and she wasn’t going to pretend to be something she wasn’t. A human, a perfectly good person? That wasn’t Katherine Pierce. Her nature was catty, vicious and vindictive, with a monstrous set of instincts she fought to control every second of every fucking day. There was no romanticizing what she was or what she did, ever. “Take it easy, precious,” she winked, giving him an appreciative pat on the arm as she passed him. “I’ll be seeing you soon.” Better let the man get back to his job, no? There was no slow strut out of here at all - that heightened speed was used to disappear in a blur, out into the darkness of the night, leaving Garcian all by his lonesome. |