These chapters were written more than a month ago. While edited rather heavily to account for your feedback, they still remain true to my usual structure. I look forward to hearing your opinions nonetheless, they are essential to my improvement and the future of the story.
Thank you, truly.
. . .
The hardest part of setting yourself up as the benevolent leader of a secret dominion located right in the backyard of the world's most paranoid vigilante, three floors up from hell and surrounded by the greedy and corrupt, was surprisingly none of the things we just mentioned.
Fighting criminals was easy, seizing their ill-gotten money and redistributing the spoils was like taking a lollipop from a particularly well armed baby.
Enacting beneficial social policies without the legitimacy of an established government was a bit more complicated, but nothing some vampiric shenanigans and a whole lot of investment couldn't solve.
The greedy and corrupt were nothing but opportunities to seize more wealth, power and legitimacy by fixing their colossal messes and then punishing them for it.
As for staying safe from the bat, the best way to keep things secret from him was by laying all the cards right under his big, crooked nose.
He's a hopeless optimist who believes in the sanctity of life and giving people chances to rehabilitate? Then just avoid leaving a trail of corpses in your wake, it's easier to clean and reduces the chances of someone trying to shove a stake in your heart by 95%.
He happens to be a total worrywart who is very aware of how punishing Gotham could be, and wouldn't wish his messed up lifestyle on anyone? Make it clear that your life is already messed up, limit your activities to the criminal rabble, and make it clear that you are tough enough to handle it.
Doing everything mentioned above sets off his bullshit radar and might send him on a not-really-paranoid investigation on your whereabouts? Serve him your identity on a silver platter, all the while trying very hard to keep it secret.
Just gotta make sure that your secret identity also has a secret identity, none of which happen to be the real you.
When done well, it is possible to live out the introvert dream of just not interacting…at least for a time.
So what's the actual hard part of being a Vampire in DC who aspires to more than serial seduction and becoming the attack dog of this or that institution?
One word, administration.
The gruelling process by which you take a group of rather unskilled former low lives and coordinate them to achieve your goals, the art of training your assets and rewarding the right collaborators, the mind numbing labour of setting up chains of command, supply chains and channels to communicate your orders and just make things happen.
Things like isolating the bulk of your resources just in case Batman failed and the city did turn into site zero of a dirty bomb's detonation, priming a number of security personnel and first responders to keep your territory stable if people learn that shit hit the fan and the city goes Gotham.
Like smuggling out your not-girlfriend and keeping her distracted while you do some pretty messed up stuff in a high security healthcare facility for the criminally insane, while your other more murder happy not-girlfriend remains on standby to enforce your authority where needed.
Or even moving a six hundred kilos package from Arkham East all the way to Gotham's mainland, north of the asylum, and then arranging for trusted retainers to store it safely while taking measures to ensure that it doesn't cause any problem.
John did pump the package with enough sedatives to put an elephant to sleep twice over, and made sure to pack it tightly, which in addition to the initial damage to its structure, should make transport safe if nothing else.
As safe as moving anything past a police blockade and government attention could be.
But it did require the mobilization of men with the right character, suitable transport, an appropriate holding facility and doing so in a matter of minutes since John couldn't exactly afford to waste more time on top of the trip underwater where he had to be extra careful lest he has to deal with giant sharks in their natural habitat.
It was a right pain, but one he had to endure.
He stepped out of the water feeling like a bloated corpse, the cumbersome package kept nice and tight under plastic wrap and heavy duty chains which secured it on his back, it occasionally shook as if it subconsciously felt how thoroughly screwed it was.
He decided to meet his people by the fishing docks, where small-time sailors left their ships with minimal encroachment by the big criminal elements who preferred to use larger ships to smuggle goods wholesale.
That meant less chances of clashing with some muscle stationed to keep an eye on things during these trying times, these kinds of people while utterly helpless against him could do a lot of damage to his less warlike men.
John only needed one look to locate his men, it wasn't that hard, since they were the only seven people outside near the shore, their blood was almost shining like a beacon, though he was entirely too satiated to feel the thirst.
He sent a message to signal his presence then with a single leap, he crossed the distance and landed silently in front of the grey utility truck.
It was designed to carry merchandise within the city, large enough to carry many men along with the package, but small enough to move discreetly and stay manoeuvrable, though he still arranged for lookouts to guide them through the best possible path.
And a couple distractions if things went fubar.
The two men in the front trying their best to look nonplussed were dressed like ordinary delivery drivers with a made up logo on their vests, though they were carrying firearms underneath them just in case.
They were a bit underdressed for the task, a necessary sacrifice for discretion, but the men in the back were there to pick up the slack.
The back of the truck was opened from the inside, revealing five men in full tactical gear, carrying either assault rifles, shotguns or very illegal stun batons along with some very large injection needles loaded with some very strong sedatives, the kind you couldn't poach out of a morally bankrupt criminal asylum's healthcare facilities.
"John spared no expanse," he spoke with the accent of a Norwegian pretending to be slavic, though most Americans would only be able to define as 'foreign'
"The boss takes care of his people," answered one of the masked men, his voice was purposefully changed by the headgear, but blood could not be masked and John recognized him as Conny Davenport.
The man used to be part of the dockworkers union, but a difference in opinion regarding the viability of humans as cargo escalated into a major disagreement.
He couldn't be fired, but being sent a photoshoot of his wife and daughter was enough to convince him that he should seek some new opportunities elsewhere.
They didn't really account for his new job in a renovation crew including training for a better paid position in private security, or that the insurance package included vendetta at the hands of a local boogeyman.
Davenport didn't really know that easy going Johnny Blue Eyes had a part time gig as a horror movie, but he sure as hell knew the two were connected.
This made him a prime candidate for 'special duties', much like everyone else in this truck.
His entire operation counted a grand total of three such teams, all seven men cells paid handsomely for irregular services and highly regular training drills.
Again, an administrative nightmare to set up, but a worthwhile one.
'Alucard' helped them move the neutralized villain into the truck, hiding his satisfaction when he saw them smoothly move into position around the threat, watching carefully for any movement but not too much of an edge either.
As soon as the door closed, he tapped the truck as is the duty of any man in this situation, and they drove off into the distance, his enhanced sense could pick up on the communicators keeping them updated and instructing them on the route they ought to follow.
In less than fifteen minutes, King Shark would arrive in a secure warehouse to be sedated once more, this time under the supervision of Copperhead, and would remain there until he arranged for more permanent accommodations.
Meanwhile, John himself would be quite busy, there was much to do in this long night.
He could involve himself in the conflict between Batman and Joker, a usually suicidal decision that he only feels comfortable taking after consuming plenty King Shark's vital essence, which even now was processed and curated into a viable ability on top of the general empowerment.
Vampiric fortitude in its infancy, taking his already inhuman resilience even further beyond, a very welcome addition to his arsenal that would serve him well if he plans on taking more masochistic decisions.
Small calibers and little knives already broke against his body's supernatural toughness, and strikes from common men were more likely to end up breaking their limbs than anything else, as many thugs could attest.
With this, however, he would soon be able to take shotgun blasts to the face without flinching, endure focused gunfire without looking like minced meat, and take on strikes from superhuman brutes like King Shark or Bane directly instead of relying on speed and deflection.
If he decided to be reasonable, and avoid getting between the nutjob clown and his vigilante obsession, he could still return to Arkham to profit some more while helping quell the chaos.
There were quite a few metahumans there he wouldn't mind tasting, who knew what kind of power he would gain from Killer Frost? Or better yet, Poison Ivy?
Perhaps she was the key to a less disgusting way to feed on hygiene-optional targets? He could easily picture his power twisting her plant manipulation to let him consume people's blood through thorny vines
Or anything else really, the ability to influence the environment in any way was something he lacked, it was a weakness he'd gladly shed.
Though targeting her comes with quite a few downsides.
'She's probably in the thick of it right now, fighting against the police and the asylum's security, appearing before them would make me lose a lot of discretion and make them question my involvement in this disaster,' John thought, frowning when he considered the possibility of being used as a scapegoat by the powers that be.
Psychotic vigilante breaks into Arkham to slaughter patients, police thwart his attempt with minimal casualties, a quick and easy way to cover their arses.
He had to keep the masquerade strong for as long as possible, even if it means delaying some enticing gains, though he would still make sure to profit from this long night in any way he could…
And if it helped restore what little peace the city had, nobody would complain, right?
. . .
Double Chapter Release today.
Also, Death to the Epstein Class.