Vampire Rule N°42: A Vampire should never be short sighted, one must use their assets to the fullest, knowing they stand to profit, or suffer, for eons to come.
… … … … … …
Louise Lincoln woke up to the smell of pancakes and freshly brewed coffee, not the shit you can get in the commissary, it was the expansive kind, the ones without ground cockroaches added to the mix.
Her eyes were still closed as she curled herself into the delightfully cool, amazingly soft bedsheets, enjoying how they felt against her skin with a satisfied groan.
Now this is the life.
Then her brain started functioning, still groggy of course, but now capable of more than simple sensations and common pleasures. Now she could actually think, and that brought about such undesirable things as questions, confusion and other nasty stuff getting in the way of her enjoyment.
She tried to stop it, make her brain shut up for a bit, focus on the cool sheets and nice smells and the perfectly set AC, to let herself drown in comfort just for a few more minutes, she rolled around the sheets and breathed the clean smell of crisp laundry and something vaguely flowery.
Alas, it was too late.
This was not her room, nor was it her bed, or her bedsheets. Mostly because she didn't actually have any of these things, the cons of leading a life of crime, your apartments tended to be raided by rivals, vigilantes or the usual special forces unit sent to put her in the box.
Nor would she experience this level of comfort in any jail, asylum or facility in this continent. Especially not as a mutated freak with a freezing people alive habit, or metahumans, if you wanted to be technical.
'How did I end up like this?' The thought came like a shock, breaking her out of the last of her sleepy compliance and finally forcing her to open her eyes, and actually look around instead of trying to become a burrito.
Her eyes flickered from the single exit and the sound and smell of someone cooking, to the lack of windows in the room to allow for a discreet escape, to the decoration and utter lack of restraints keeping her there, to her own body dressed only in a clean oversized white shirt that she most definitely did not put on.
It looked like a hotel room. Expansive, clean, well furnished and utterly impersonal.
The general consensus was that waking up somewhere new, unable to remember how you even got there, and dressed in someone else's clothes, was very much not fun.
Killer Frost was inclined to agree.
"At least I'm not outside, tied up, or in a dump," She said under her breath, voice raw and throat dry.
"Or in another country," A voice added, way too cheerfully, and getting closer to the door, her only way out of this house.
Killer Frost's instincts screamed at her to ice him, pun non-intended, to muster what she could from that ever increasing pool of energy inside her and throw that sheer cold at the intruder, to protect herself.
But another part of her looked at all her experiences and knowledge and survival skills, looked at her common sense and every bit of reason she had, everything from her deadbeat dad's call girls telling her about stranger-danger, to the one time she was almost killed by a burglar.
Then said 'No'
Demanded she does nothing, made her feel like even trying to attack whoever this was couldn't be allowed, that it was unnatural and wrong and suicidal and simply not an option because…
Because that's simply how it is.
And somehow, for some fucking reason…Louise listened to that voice, to the Jiminy Cricket trying to get her killed or worse, to the utterly suicidal fucking instinct that she apparantly always had.
She listened, she didn't raise her hand, nor her voice, she stayed in bed, sitting up and waiting for the potentially murderous psycho to enter.
Then came face to face with what appeared to be the book cover of some middle aged woman's smutty novel, or the fantasy of some teenage girl, potentially both.
A young man, younger than her for sure, entered the room shirtless, showing muscles that were just a bit too defined and sculpted to truly be earned, with a face just a bit too attractive to be normal, and a smile just a bit too sharp to be harmless.
Someone who was just a bit too beautiful for her to feel comfortable, or look away.
So she didn't, just looking at him with the mother of all pokerfaces, while her brain tried and failed to come up with something.
Fight was out, her body wouldn't let her, just thinking about it made her feel like she was considering drowning puppies for shit and giggles, while setting fire to the entire Venezuelan oil reserves.
Flight was out too, there was only exit, and Mr Sadistic CEO Werewolf Vampiric Bully Husband was standing there…menacingly.
So all she could do was Freeze.
…Pun intended.
"You've been out the whole day," He said casually, not minding the silent, unmoving metahuman capable (not really) and willing (not at all) of turning him into a humanoid popsicle, instead approaching and putting that tray he was holding right on her lap.
Now that forced Louise to react, if only to register that he was carrying something the whole time while she was too lost to notice it, and that said thing included a large mug of the bitter, wonderful coffee and a beautiful stack of the most decadent pancakes she's ever seen, covered in just the right amount of maple syrup.
It was almost good enough for her to ignore the fact that she didn't know who the fuck this was, where the fuck they were, and how the fuck they even got here.
"Well, I am fucking John Harker, we are in one of my fucking safehouses, seven miles up from hell, right into Gotham City," He answered with a smile, and a tone that was much too mild and polite compared to what he was saying, sitting down on the chair next to her, "we fucking got here because I brought you here, straight out of Arkham City after you bane tried and succeeded at turning you into a piece of rotisserie chicken while you were riding toward your freedom, police girl,"
That made Louise realize two things.
First, she had spoken out loud without realizing it, something unfortunate which could be forgiven with that whole clusterfuck of a situation.
Second, she was remembering what happened.
The memories didn't come like a wave, didn't make her wince and shudder or crumble in pain. It was simply like remembering the answer to a question, the simple realization that she did know those things.
That she did in fact mess up a bank heist and get arrested, again.
That said arrest did indeed get mismanaged and diverted by the government, leading to her ending up stuck with the Suicide Squad and that fucking rotund pig of crooked whale.
That they did get sent to Gotham, that it was indeed seven miles up from hell as he said, and that Arkham was the devil's backyard as far as she was concerned.
She remembered the mission, the real one Waller gave her, killing Nigma. She remembered Batman impersonating Black Spider, she remembered the Joker…even if she wished she could forget that ugly mug, or some of the things Harley said she did to her puddin'
She remembered how the Riddler fried the bombs in their necks, how they all went their separate ways, she remembered killing some random guy and getting inside the police cruiser, the rush of adrenaline when she thought she actually did it, that she was going to be free.
The sinking weight of realization when the car started going up instead of forward, the terror when she saw Bane holding the cruiser, when he sent her flying.
The crash she wouldn't have survived if she wasn't inhumanly resilient, the heat from the fire she desperately tried to prevent, the explosion.
The pain…the pain, being burned, her suit melting against her flesh, her eyes going blind, her entire body on fire.
The red lights, those eyes…that face.
Louise didn't realize she was shaking, looking down and hugging herself, didn't see him—John Harker, grabbing the tray before it could fall and spill over, until she remembered the red eyes and the face that looked at her, and she couldn't help but look up at him.
It was different, there was no scar on his chest, there was no white on his hair, and his eyes weren't that beautiful red she'd never seen before, but a more common blue.
He looked more like a baby Bruce Wayne than her savior.
But somehow, that voice that told her she fighting him was madness, that same voice she considered suicidal roared in approval.
It told her that yes, it was him.
He saved her.
And she didn't know what she should do about it.
"You're shaken, it's understandable," He said softly, measuring his words, "if you'd prefer, we ca–"
"What do you want?" She asked, cutting him, coming off a bit more vulnerable than she intended, and a lot harsher than she intended, at the same time.
He simply looked at her, he didn't seem bothered by her words or tone, which was good. At least, he wasn't a psychotic asshole with a fascination for the concept of face slapping and very strong opinions on what constituted a healthy rapport between people.
"I want many things," He said slowly, thinking things through, but not looking away from her, "but if you mean, as payment for saving you…then nothing,"
'Bullshit,' she thought.
"Bullshit," she said.
John then had the gall to smile, the kind of playful the cat would give the canary, with an obvious outcome.
"And yet it's true," He said quite bluntly, looking at her dead in the eye, still smiling, "I saved you because I wanted to, it was not a necessary part of my plans, nor the best way to achieve my goals, it might also set me back by a few days depending on certain factors."
He leaned toward her, still sitting on the chair, and the smile slowly faded.
"Frankly speaking, it might not have been the best decision from a purely utilitarian perspective," John said softly, still looking at her with those pale blue eyes that made her miss the scarlet ones, "But it's the one I made, and we'll both have to live with it,"
Louise was once more forced into silence, this time by the sheer volume of mixed signals she was receiving. She thought about it, thought some more, and ultimately reached the conclusion that she simply wouldn't be able to understand this mess.
"So you save me," She said the words like an insult, and a thank you, at the same time, "you say you don't want anything in return, that you did it for no reason, and it wasn't the smart thing to do…"
She agreed on that last point, there was nothing good coming his way, saving someone rotten like her, healing her, bringing her back from the brink of death.
But fuck, if she wasn't glad he did it anyway.
She didn't want to die.
She didn't know what to do.
And she would be pretty darn grateful if he could stop the mysterious benefactor act and just straight up tell her what was coming next.
"...then why did you bring me here?" She asked, softly, calmly, keeping a cool head, "Why are you here? Why did you tell me your name? Why don't you just cut the crap and tell me what you want?"
"Because saving your life, then living you in Arkham Island, to be caught by the cops and ultimately ending back in Waller's grasp for a grizzly end would be rather counter productive," He answered simply, his blue eyes turning red once more, the familiar color somehow calming her nerves, "Because dropping you randomly in Gotham would be the same as killing you, or worse…probably worse. Because if I somehow ended up deciding to play hero, then I should do it properly, and make the best of it,"
He paused for a bit, letting her process his words, the first things he said that didn't seem wrapped in three layers of framing and manipulation.
"Because I did save you, and that makes you my problem, I gave you something precious, something that I would rather not see delivered to Waller or anyone else, because you recklessly got yourself caught once more," He continued, and his words would have set her off, if not for those red eyes reminding her of what would have her last moments, what should have been her last moments, if not for him, "because you are useful, because you have power, and can become stronger still, and that's something I want, among other things,"
He leaned back onto his seat, looking at her, even as she tried to focus on the task at hand. On what he just said, he called her powerful, useful, someone he wants to have on his side, he wanted Killer Frost.
She could work with that.
"See, I told you it was bullshit," She couldn't help but say, and roll her eyes despite looking at someone who was beyond her, someone she knew was beyond her, "you saved me because you wanted me to work for you, was it that hard to say?"
John frowned, and that created one more sight she memorised and filed away in a dark corner of her mind, a beautiful sight…
"That's incorrect," He said mildly, tilting his head, "but even trying to explain what I wanted would require so much context it would waste my entire night, and I'm already in want of time…so believe what you will,"
He got up, and walked toward the closet, opening to reveal dozens of identical white shirts, black trousers, suits and jackets. He picked a shirt, and a simple leather jacket before closing it and starting to dress, hiding that body that she now knew was very much not the fruit of simple workouts.
"The fact remains that you have two choices," He said softly, buttoning his shirt, "You can stay here for a week, recover while the heat dies down a bit and my gift dissolves into nothingness, before leaving to do as you please, whether it is retirement or a life of crime, it does not matter, Waller would likely get her hands on you before long, however,"
"Or you can take my offer," John continues, meeting her eyes, as he put on his jacket, but she couldn't do really focus on that, not when those eyes were looking at her like that, "You can work with me, receive my protection from Waller or anyone else looking to ruin, more money than the occasional bank heists and robberies could ever yield, safety, a new identity for you and enjoy my full extent of gift,"
He kept using that word, gift.
What she remembered is him saving her, a delicious liquid sliding through her lips, healing her body, she remembered seeking more before falling asleep.
"You would receive my boon, your body would be empowered, made stronger, more agile, more resilient, you would heal from wounds that would otherwise kill you," He spoke softly, a smile on his face, before dropping the most impossible thing she's ever heard, and she remembers the first time the newspapers talked about a man in red cape flying over Metropolis, "and you would be spared from the ravages of time, stay in your prime so long as you do not go against me,"
She opened her mouth to say something cutting, something witty, or just to tell him to fuck off and make more realistic offers. She would probably take the job, if the pay was good, and he wasn't a complete asshole about it.
But then something hit her.
She didn't know if that same instinct that stopped her from trying to kill him, that insistent voice making her behave like a civilized and downright gentle human being instead of a hardened killer, or the sheer awe she could feel looking at his red eyes glowing ever brighter.
Or the fangs prominent in his gentle, polite smile.
Or if it was just the fact that nothing he said truly felt like a lie, that none of his expressions or actions betrayed a single non-truth, that while her brain and common sense told her he was talking nonsense to recruit her, her instincts told her he was saying nothing but the truth.
But it hit her, and she couldn't undo it.
"I..I need to think about it," she said, as if it was a regular fucking job offer, as if she was an employee he was trying to poach, instead of a super powered murderous criminal he saved and was now trying to keep for himself.
Forever.
John simply nodded.
"That is more than fair, I have other matters to attend to, and I'm sure you'd feel more comfortable enjoying your breakfast without me breathing down your neck," He said amiably, before turning heels and literally disappearing in a black blur.
Louise didn't even bother feeling surprised.
She simply waited, making sure he was gone, before deflating.
The tired, extremely whelmed woman barely managed to gather enough strength to pick up the plate of pancakes, cut a piece and eat it.
Her eyes widened, and quickly cut another one, and another…
Until the plate was empty.
"Fuck, it's delicious," She said to herself in the comfortable, empty room, and she absolutely wasn't crying.
She wasn't.
. . .
Recruiting personnel was a lot harder, when he didn't want to start by bombarding them with so much presence they could barely act like a reasonable person.
It was doubly more complicated when he only had about twenty minutes to do so before needing to check up on another critical asset, then do a check up with Reginald, check up on Copperhead before she decides to try and assassinate Falcone to get his attention, and still put out the fires that rose up during Waller's Assault on Arkham.
Part of him was tempted to just cut his losses and drink her dry while she was still weak and frail, it would spare him a massive headache, and it wasn't like she was some innocent civilian or misunderstood rogue.
She was a killer, a rather casual and foolish one.
None would miss her.
But Killer Frost was also the first real metahuman he could reasonably recruit, one that had already received his blood and the bond that came through it, one that was a third of the way into becoming a ghoul.
Someone who had his blood in her system, for better or worse.
Someone he already went through the trouble of saving, healing, evacuating, and setting up in one of his safehouses.
Someone who was infinitely unlikely to turn on him, because her body was literally telling her not to, and unconsciously eager for the next sip of his blood, for the next level of the blood bond, the next step toward full ghouldom.
So he did things properly, didn't bite her without consent even if it was by now his right, technically. Didn't bombard her with presence since she wasn't actively aggressive with him, standing in front of him while he was desperate for a sandwich, or a literal junkie.
He made her breakfast, told her the truth, and made the best offer she'd ever get.
It was as fair as a (job) interview with a vampire could be.
After leaving the house, John texted a few instructions to Bubbles, telling him he would be available in half an hour at most, before texting Larissa and ordering her to rest unless she wanted to make him worry.
Whether it would work or not was anyone's guess.
What he received in return was a string of curses from Reginald, which included a list of problems that simply couldn't be resolved without his face, his ability to negotiate with people's minds directly, or the muscles of someone who didn't spend one day and a night acting in his stead…Larissa needed to relax, his Reinfield texted, and he only said that partly because she scared him.
The previous night had been taxing on his operations, but he got much out of it…and he wasn't just talking about one of Batman's cowls, a sword he was pretty sure belonged to someone from the league of assassins, or Louise Lincoln…if things went smoothly.
John sneaked into an alley and hit the ground running, dashing from roof to roof, his senses sharp to alert him of any unwanted observer.
His blood felt so much more potent, his everything felt stronger after absorbing and assimilating King Shark's blood. John could feel that in every action, in every moment, could feel himself growing even then, albeit with diminishing returns.
Where it would have taken him at the very least ten minutes to reach his safehouse under the meat storage facility he secured through an unofficial partnership and kept totally above board, he now managed to do it in less than five now…without even straining himself in the slightest, crossing half the city never felt so simple.
Not to mention how much tougher his body felt, he was confident he could take shotgun blasts to the face without great threat, and his habit of getting sprayed with automatic rifle fire wouldn't lead to a gruesome result anymore…well, not on his end, at least.
All because of that thing.
He opened the trap into a hidden basement, hidden behind multiple doors and the best isolation money could buy, something he would make sure to upgrade in due time.
John breathed, though he didn't really need to, taking in the clinical smell of disinfectant…he and his boys scrubbed everything clean, before bringing in the asset.
Right there, strung up, two meathooks piercing into his shoulder blades was a giant, a cannibal monster from the seas who claimed noble birth, unbreakable skin and the right to feast on the flesh of men.
At least one of these things was false.
"I'm back, sharky," He says calmly, and doesn't get an answer, what with King Shark's lower jaw being ripped off and burned shut, "you look better,"
It was a lie.
Nanaue looked at him with those bloodshot, yellow eyes, but now there was no more rage or hunger left…only pain, incomprehension and fear.
Fear at the sight of a monster he did not know.
Fear at the mere thought of staying here for the rest of his impossibly long life.
Fear at the thought of somehow breaking free…and having to face the world as a toothless wretch, a cripple, a weakling.
Fear, because his own body learned the terror.
His arms and legs were amputated, judged a needless risk once the drugs wore off and he woke, he had to use his own claws to cut the incredibly hard skin and flesh open before they could put chainsaws against the humanoid shark's meat and bones.
The limbs had started healing soon after, of course, but it didn't take long for Bubbles to get an idea…a wicked idea.
The kind of idea only a previous dopefiend could get.
King Shark had screamed soundlessly as his sliced stumps were seared shut, for ten long minutes, making sure not a single cell was left alive to regenerate
Then came the needles, injecting nutritional serum into his body, keeping him just alive enough to remain useful, functional in his new purpose.
In his neck and chest were other needles, strapped to plastic tubes, siphoning his blood even his beastly constitution replaced it…storing everything into bloodbags, everything powered by a collection of literal car batteries.
It wasn't much, but it was honest work.
And through it all, King Shark had to watch, to think, to feel.
He was being farmed.
He was livestock.
"What's the look for? You did worse, big guy, and you did it to far better people than you," John said casually, picking up one of the filled bags, and draining it as if it was some juice, "most people would have drained you dry and ended you, so you're pretty lucky, all things considered."
Lucky? Nanaue wished he was killed, a swift death was better than this humiliation, this torture.
But King Shark did not move, he did not thrash, he did not glare.
He only stood silent, hoping the pain would fade, hoping that man would leave.
But he knew it was in vain…the monster would be back, and if not him, then that cursed servant of his, storing the bags of plundered blood in the cold, and replacing them with new ones, draining him, while making sure he remained nourished enough to survive.
Too weak to resist, too strong to die…forever.
No…not forever, one day they would age and wither and die.
Then perhaps King Shark could find the strength to free himself from these chains, return to the seas, shed away the burnt and abused flesh.
Recovery, at last.
He just needed to wait, be patient, time was on his side.
. . .
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