shitpost later...

The night makes you feel alive, especially with her. She's intoxicating, her fear, her anger, her hate. She came to you, not the other way round, and she knows that. She wants to know about her own death, how it will come, what mistakes her predecessors made to meet their end at your hand.

You tell her. She wants to die. They wanted to die. Because when you dish out death every single night of your life, when you give it out freely, never asking for any reward, just the thrill of the kill, you fall in love with the prospect that one day. One day, it'll be your turn. They got unlucky, they slipped up, because he was offering them what every single Slayer, and Paragon of virtue wants.

Freedom. Rest. The end of their duty. You drank the blood of the girl you murdered in China, as she begged you to tell her mother she was sorry, something you only realized later, when you actually gave studying chinese a go.

And you gave the slayer in New York what she wanted too. That sweet release.As you offered it to her, she was afraid. But everyone is, aren't they? You snap her neck anyway, and you take her leather coat off her body. It's a trophy.

Beyond that, it's just a really cool coat.

But the current Slayer, the one who has your heart in her teeth and feeds and feeds and drains you dry of everything that makes you you... She curls her lip in disgust, and beats you to the ground. The shackle in your head, a mechanical chip that prevents you from causing pain, holding you back as she puts her boot on your throat and drops a wad of cash on you.

"You're beneath me."

You've experienced that memory. Time and time again. The night you became a vampire, the night you were loved for the first time, the woman you loved, loved, loved more than anything curled her lip at poor William Pratt and told him the exact same thing.

"You're beneath me, William."

You watch her go, and you know you'll kill the bitch if you have your way. That way she can understand your feelings. How much you hate (love) her. You'll show her what she doesn't know about herself, that you and her are the exact same predator.

You arrive, at her house, a gun in your hand. It might kill you to do this, but that's an end you're willing to stomach, and you reach her and you see her, sitting on the porch, her head in her hands and and and -

She's crying.

Someone hurt her. Something hurt her. Something made her upset. You want that, don't you? You hate her, don't you? If love is pain and misery and you love her more than anything in the world, then it only stands to reason that you want this and yet as she stares up at you, her eyes utterly drained of any energy you...

"...What's wrong?" She's silent. "What can I do?" She mumbles something.

You don't know. But you can't handle it. You can't handle seeing her cry. So you drop the gun, and sit next to her on the porch, patting her soothingly on her back, as she cries and stares into the night.

You're not sure how long you stay there. But it's a long while. Enough that you can see the sun rising to burn you to ashes, and you think you would let it, if she still needed to sit out here in the quiet with you. It's a small price to pay.