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fearhims3lf · 1 year

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TIMING: A few weeks ago

PARTIES: @amonstrousdream @fearhims3lf

SUMMARY: Leila finds out who the mare was that haunted Cass.

WARNINGS: None

The Abstract was the place mares wandered next to beings of ethereal quality, picking out meals through glimpses into the physical realm. Mateo had never ventured much farther than that, knowing and respecting there are some boundaries that cannot be crossed and should not be tested. Besides, his hunger was in need of sating and that was his first priority.

“Hmm…” Mateo rocked back and forth on his feet, shaking his head at the brief glimpses of a potential meal. Not enough ingredients, he thought. He wanted more. “Maybe the next one,” Mateo muttered to himself, eyes still stuck to the preview as he began to move on. He bumped into a stranger, almost irritated until he caught a glimpse of how pretty she was. “Oh damn–my bad, ma.” Shuffling to the side, he smiled, tilting his head curiously. “Never seen you here before. Who are you?”

The Astral was one of the few places where Leila really did feel like a ghost. Mares were nothing but whisps of shadow flitting from place to place, following the sugary scent of dreams wherever it led them. For a long time, she had never really paid attention to the place. By the time she had become ethereal and gone hunting for a meal, she was absolutely starving. Metzli had put a stop to that. Nightmares had become more of a regular thing- a necessary evil in order to keep surviving. Without the blindness that came with hunger, she could meander freely and see more than just her next meal.

Which was important. Especially now that Cass was being tormented by someone. Now, the astral was a place where she stood vigil as well. Leila could still remember the nights of terror that slowly drained the life from her, and she wouldn’t let that happen to their kid… Well, no, not theirs… She and Metzli were just looking out for and taking care of the girl. But she wouldn’t let anyone else hurt her. Neither of them would.

She was trying not to let the intoxicating smell of dreams drag her away from her post. But little by little, she strayed, dreamy eyed and lost in the astral. Until someone bumped into her and sent her mind reeling back to attention. A man. A mare. And friendly, surprisingly… Leila stared for a moment, surprise making itself evident on her face. She’d never encountered another mare in the Astral before… “Sorry, it was my fault. I should have watched where I was going… I’ve never seen anyone else in here before. My name’s Leila.”

“Nah, fam. You’re good.” Giving his best charming smile, Mateo looked Leila up and down, pocketing his hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mateo.” His eyes wandered to the ethereal space around them, and he shrugged. Leila wasn’t the first person he’d run into.

Hell, Inge was the first to stumble into him his first week in Wicked’s Rest, though he wasn’t even sure she resided in the town. She very well could be in a neighboring town, or even state, but only time would tell. Mateo was on a subtle search, waiting for her familiar face to pop up. Until then, all he could do was be on the lookout.

“Wait.” Mateo took a step back, surprised. “You really never seen anyone else? Shit, you’re probably the second homie I’ve run into since I moved to town.”

Fam. A younger mare by the sound of it. But it did beg the question of if mares were, in fact, some strange family by way of the dust that ran through their veins. Leila hadn’t ever had cause to question it- but now, after meeting several of her own kind in the span of what felt like a blink in her life, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Er- no… not until coming to Wicked’s Rest, at least. And in the Astral, not once, not ever.” Her fingers wound and pulled themselves together, a modicum of control that brought her a little peace. If her fate was out of her control, at least she had control over herself. Who she was, how and when she fed, how she acted… it was a fight against being what she had become. And Leila was determined to win.

She’s never been caller homie before… a first. “Maybe Wicked’s Rest is a hotspot for people like us…” Her voice was nothing more than a murmur as she contemplated it. But the clouds of her own thoughts vanished and bright red twinkled back at bright red. “It’s nice to know I’m not alone.”

“You ever just chill in here? It’s peaceful as hell. My brother taught me how nice it is.” Mateo smiled fondly, reminiscing silently for a moment before returning his attention to Leila. She looked uncomfortable, in a way. If her hands were any indication, at least. It was similar to what Mateo did to calm down. Wringing his hands together felt as close to a relaxing massage as he could get at any random time.

Mateo breathed, tapping his chin as he began to peruse again. He waved Leila to follow, welcoming her to join in on a meal. He’d done it before with his brother and figured it was the friendly mare thing to do, especially in a place like Wicked’s Rest. Or a hot spot, as Leila called it. “Yeah, might be a beacon. Been having fun honestly.”

Humming to himself, Mateo spotted a familiar cave, looking a bit miffed. “There’s so many people to feed from. Like this chica.” He jutted his thumb toward a sleeping Cass. It wasn’t possible for another visit thanks to whoever helped her mare-proof the place. Assholes. Mateo rolled his eyes, “She’s got real problems. Kinda sad I only got to visit once.”

The man spoke and left her with a million more questions. Who willingly spent time in the astral? The idea of being surrounded by dreams at all times felt overwhelming. Leila had only just gotten a handle on spending more time in that strange place between dreams and waking. But what puzzled her more was a brother. Had a nightmare fed upon two people, gorging itself on every terror it could before two hearts stopped beating in the same home? Or was it a title of affection- another mare, made family by experience rather than blood…

She followed after him, whoever he was, curiosity taking over all logical thinking. That was, until the cave came into view, and the gentle whisper of a dream tugged at her- a terrible invitation. One she could ignore now, thankfully. Besides, even if she were starving, the cave was safe from the likes of her. Safe from him, too…

Or so she had thought.

Leila froze in place while the other mare spoke, red eyes rolling casually as he spoke about Cass like she was nothing. Like the pain he’d left her with, the terror and hurt he’d instilled in that poor girl was nothing. In another situation, she might have spoken rationally. Another time and place, another dreamer in another bed. But something snapped. His words were a match that unwittingly set a blaze.

“You…”

Without a thought in her head, Leila lunged at the stranger. Not Cass, he’d hurt her Cass, Metzli’s Cass… Not again, though.

“Me?” Mateo quirked a brow, confused as to why there was a burning ire in her expression. She had seemed so innocent and sweet before, the energy changing in an instant. “Whatchu mean, fa—” There was no time to finish his sentence, his body being sent to the ground by Leila tackling him.

“Yo, ma, what the hell is your problem?” Leila was quickly shoved away effortlessly. She practically weighed nothing, standing at what, five feet? Mateo towered op ver her, at the very least. “If you wanna cut of a meal, all you gotta do is ask, but right now it’s a firm no.” He scowled at Leila, standing back up and dusting himself off.

“Besides, like I said, the little puta made it impossible to get into her crib.”

Leila was not an angry person. In life and in most of her death, it took a lot to get anything more than a bit of frustration out of her. But as she knocked Mateo to the ground, all she felt was rage. He hurt Cass. It was the only thought she could wrap her head around. He hurt Cass. The dreams that she fed on, that they fed on, the nightmares they created hurt people, whether or not they meant to.

He shoved her aside as if she were nothing, sending Leila scrambling to get to her feet. In that moment, Leila didn’t notice how much taller the other mare was. She didn’t care that he was stronger. Her hands were balled up in fists as she marched right back up into Mateo’s face. “What’s my problem?” The words came out of her mouth like a snarl, eyes flashing like some wild thing. “I don’t want a cut of your meal, Salopard-”

While she was by no means an expert in swearing in spanish, Leila knew what puta meant. Without another thought, she took a swing at him, her fist colliding with his jaw. “That girl is my family!” Her voice was hoarse with rage. “You want to call someone a puta? Mírame, connard. I have to protect her from meeting the same fucking fate I did! You want a meal, go find some asshole. But don’t you dare try to feed on her ever again.”

Oh shit, this lady was mad. Now, Mateo had seen his fair share of angry women in his lifetime, most of them having charged out of room after messing up a bed, but never had a mare attacked him for doing what he was made to do. Mateo supposed it made sense. If it were his kid, or really, anyone in his family, fists would start flying immediately. That’s just what you did for your family. So when Leila’s fist made contact with his face, Mateo couldn’t help but feel impressed as his back hit the floor.

“Damn, ma. That was a nice punch.” He rubbed at his jaw, face contorted with pain. When Leila began to make her speech though, Mateo rolled his eyes and began to stand up. If she was going to punch again, he’d be ready. “Look, how was I supposed to know she was your kid? I eat where I eat and don’t ask questions. Everyone gets nightmares, ma. It ain’t my fault hers were particularly tasty.” He hissed, crossing his arms and backing away in preparation for Leila to retaliate. And to leave, but he wanted to see how she reacted first. After that, Mateo was positive that he’d need to make a run for it before things got worse. Not like it’d be right to kill Leila for protecting her kid. Plus, she was pretty hot when she was angry.

Maybe he could…no, no. Bad idea.

She’s never been a violent person. She’d lived in fear of such harm coming to her. But Leila’s unlife was so very different from the life she’s lived two hundred years prior. Survival had become something to fight for. There was a difference, however, in fighting for herself to live and fighting to protect a loved one. She would hide and starve to save herself. But for her petits? The family that she had found for herself in the strange little town of Wicked’s Rest? She would go down swinging for any of them.

Leila rubbed at her knuckles, the feeling of bone against bone making the mare cringe. His argument was stupid. All nightmares were tasty to them. If there was terror in sleep, it was a meal to them. “I don’t care if she is the only meal left in this town. You do not eat from her. If you know other mares who even think about her, you tell them the same. She is not a meal to be made. She’s protected by me.”

Yeah, it was definitely about time to leave. Shit was getting boring, and as much of an asshole as he’d always been, Mateo knew better than to get between a mama bear and her cub. To both save his ass, and out of general respect. Fact was, Mateo could see Popa in Leila, and that made it harder to instigate her further. There was no fury like a mother’s, and Mateo had always been a mama’s boy.

“Okay, okay, hot-shot.” He tried to keep playing his part, hiding the fact that Leila had indeed won in their little battle of the wits. It had been since the summer of ‘98 since Mateo had lost such a battle, and while he hated losing, he had to admit, Leila was a good opponent and he had a wicked streak. Oh well, he thought. Time to set a new record.

“Guess I’ll just—” In a blink, Mateo disappeared with that grin he loved to tease others with. One that read, I had fun at your expense, with a snide tag of catch ya later!

He was gone in a flash, vanished from the astral. As to whether or not he would listen to Leila’s warning was a mystery to the mare. His attitude was so unbothered. But Cass would not be made a meal of, not on her watch.

And so the mare sat and sat and sat outside of that cave, far into the night as the stars whirled past and the moon turned into day once more.

#wickedswriting #nightmarescapes #writings #salt in the wound #mateo and leila #c: leila

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kadavernagh · 1 month

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TIMING: Current, right after The Party Stops LOCATION: The Party Thrifter PARTIES: Regan and Metzli SUMMARY: Thinking Leila is dead, Regan dials in Metzli to help – along with paramedics, who are sure to complicate matters. CONTENT WARNINGS: Manipulation (compelling)

The turtleneck was nowhere to be seen, but Regan found it hard to care. Hadn’t she just unleashed more terror, sewn more destruction than the sweater ever could have? And she couldn’t leave like her body urged her to; bolting was in her best interest as a human-banshee-nothing-something. But not as Regan, a doctor. She couldn’t when Leila was perfectly still. Dead still. Regan dragged her to one of the few square feet not coated in shards of glass, inside what remained of The Party Thrifter. Sparkling liquid oozed and beaded around Leila’s cuts, her shirt soaking it up and looking more like a child’s crafts project than a soiled, bloodsoaked shirt rolled or snipped off someone in the ED. Above them, the old skeleton of the store complained, shedding dust, but it seemed sturdy enough for now, and Regan wasn’t sure she had the strength to safely transport Leila over all the rubble. She coughed into her sleeve, throat itching and hoarse, and noticed how sliced up her own arm was.

She would have taken the turtleneck over this. Regan had done what she could for Leila’s wounds in the moment, staunching the substance that acted like blood, but there was no ignoring that Leila had no heartbeat, not even the slow, soldiering drum of a banshee. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Regan felt it, the strange death that rolled off Leila in awful waves; they discussed it, too. But face to face with something that defied so many years of her experience and education, Regan’s mounting panic was like the glass cutting her anew. Leila was dead. She was, wasn’t she? Had Regan killed her? Had she– or was this the case before, or– that slow heart of hers wasn’t so slow anymore; it was squeezed by a fist in her chest with enough force to send it up her esophagus.

Maybe her panic would have dissipated if she could rouse Leila. But shaking her didn’t work. A measured yell didn’t, either (and actually made the store rock again). Her last resort – a sternal rub – also yielded no results. First responders would arrive and proclaim Leila dead at the scene. The scene. That was what this had become. And even if Regan didn’t call them now, they would arrive. So it was better to call them, she had decided. With shaking hands, she found her phone shattered beyond use, and ended up using Leila’s… but not before contacting someone who she thought, in this one instance, might be more helpful here than even the EMTs.

I killed her. I think I killed her. Metzli, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do. Her heart– I can’t feel her heart beating. She isn’t breathing. There’s something… coming out of her. I have her at the store. I stopped the– whatever is– the bleeding. But she isn’t breathing. She’s

And the phone blinked off, damaged or drained, it didn’t matter which. Someone would show up here first. First responders, or Metzli. And with every beat of her own heart, her preference changed. She stayed hunched over Leila, fingers pressed tightly to a balled up shirt soaking up more glitter. It reminded her of what happened with Elias in Ireland, which was difficult to shake. “I know you can’t hear me. Or maybe if you’re dead you… can.” If Regan closed her eyes and reached into what Leila was, who she was, would she extract the last moments of Leila’s life for her to witness? The thought was too painful right now – maybe for the sake of her conscience more than her affections for Leila, though both were acutely felt. “Someone is coming, okay? Doctors… good ones, better ones. EMTs. Metzli.”

—

There was something strange that happened when panic yielded a type of calm. It was an illusion, not quite calm, but the sensation was similar enough to not arouse behavior that would hinder necessary progress. Metzli felt that calm, heavy like a warm blanket, and slammed their car door, watching as the scenery blurred past with each calculated twitch of their steering wheel.

Faster.

They felt the pedal reach the floor, mind wandering at who might be hurt and how they were going to ease Leila's mind as they took care of whoever was hurt. Or dead. Metzli wondered, was it someone she cared about that she accidentally hurt? Was it an intruder and they were human? There were tools in the trunk if they needed to get rid of the body, which was by some miracle because Metzli had just disposed of another criminal. Perhaps it was meant to be, they thought. Shaking their speculations away, they saw Leila's store come into view—or what was left of it.

The tires screeched to a halt, and that's when the panic truly came for Metzli, movements now erratic as the world tilted and they stumbled inside the wreckage. “Leila?! Lei…!” Her name lodged in their throat at the sight of her limp body, hardly registering Regan hovering over her while they made their way to her. “Amor? What…” Kneeling down, Metzli cupped her face, tears brimming until their vision blurred. She couldn't be dead. She was just unconscious. That's all. That's all. Metzli took a breath, voice cracking as they asked, “What happened?!”

—

As Metzli ran over and through what remained of the store (felt before seen), relief didn’t come. Did that mean Regan had really wanted the paramedics to arrive first, because it was familiar and made sense when she really needed things to? Or was she just– was it because she’d have to explain– “Over here. I have her. Leila. But she’s– she isn’t–” There was a word, one she never honeyed, because how could it be made any sweeter? But now Regan choked as it came out, not twisted for anyone’s easier consumption, but difficult to get her tongue to agree with. “She’s dead. Medically. If she were anyone other than– I would pronounce her dead right now. Her heart isn’t beating, and I’ve tried to resuscitate, but it didn’t– and she was already cold like she’s been dead for hours. And she told me before, that she’s not– I heard a rib fracture. I– she’s always felt– so I don’t know. How could I not know?” But she did know what her grandmother always said about hope: it was a fool’s notion.

When she was human – as human as she had ever been and ever would be – Regan’s mouth frequently ran as quickly as her pulse. That version of her had known a kind of anxiety she refused to invite anymore. Even before she had become something of a banshee, a trained doctor’s equanimity had smoothed out her once-common tension in the face of an emergency. Now she was never anxious. She was good in a crisis, everyone would agree, capable and focused. So it was strange that she was recalling that child, teen, human, as her chest tightened in a noose and her mouth dashed ahead of her in a way she should have controlled and refused. This was more than an emergency – it was something horrible she was responsible for, even if Leila wasn’t dead in the way Regan understood. This was more than a conversation with next of kin. And her ability to ignore what was happening in her head and her heart diminished by the day. It was cruel that it was both the cause of what happened here, and the reason she was only along for the ride that her body was taking her on.

Just as Regan hadn’t faltered in accepting what she had done to her grandmother (pushing her, not killing her, obviously), she would be truthful to Metzli, swallowing down her guilt; it became glass piercing her inside to match her skin. “I was helping her. Here. Today. Or she was helping me, I suppose that’s more accurate. I’ve been working at the Apple Store, which I told you about, but I don’t know if it’s my calling, I don’t even know how to tell if I like– right, I was here. There was a turtleneck, the one that… I don’t know if it’s full of mice anymore. The turtleneck, with the knife. It attacked us, went after me, and Leila, and my lungs were– I haven’t been– and I screamed, and I couldn’t stop, and the store came apart, and– and now Leila’s dead. Or something like– I serve death and I don’t, I can’t tell if–” Regan’s voice cracked like the storefront windows, moisture seeping from her like plasma from a crying wound. Twice now, had she stayed by the side of someone she cared about, as her own actions led to their near fatal injuries– or worse.

She left Metzli to judge her. If Regan could stand – to, and in general – she would await the first responders and pour her lungs to them in the form of a confession rather than a scream. Because no matter how tightly she was clutching to being human, a banshee had done this. Because banshees screamed. This time, at a turtleneck. A screech that took on a life of its own like a kite in a storm she couldn’t reel back. But thinking about what that scream was, and what it wasn’t – the realization made Regan’s entire body freeze in place. If this was relief, she didn’t recognize it. But something that felt like hope did spread. “I didn’t scream for her death.”

—

Had it been anyone else, Regan surely would've been reprimanded. Possibly even attacked. She didn't have control of her scream and while Metzli knew it was deadly for her to lack such a thing, they couldn't find it in themself to be angry or cruel. For one, Leila was likely only unconscious after such a cacophony of noise and dangerous debris attacking her. And second, Metzli had been in her position before.

The vampire had destroyed countless families and used their lives to lengthen their own. What Regan had done was an accident and she was displaying more remorse than Metzli ever had when blood painted their hand and face. She was rallying it in her chest and pressing it into Leila's chest in hopes of undoing her failure, but Metzli shook their head. This was no failure, not in the way she thought. There was still time to make it right.

“Regan,” Metzli carefully placed a gentle hand on the banshee’s shoulder and requested her attention. “Leila is undead like me. She will be okay.” They paused for a beat, scanning her body and seeing the wound Regan had stemmed. “She is hurt and if people come to check her, it will be bad. We have to move her.” They squeezed Regan's shoulder and softened their gaze, brows furrowing together. “It will be okay. We will make it okay. Do you understand?”

—

If someone had gravely hurt Jade – intentionally or not – Regan couldn’t predict how she would respond, if she would turn someone else’s destruction back on them, if her oath could withhold the deluge. Even her body might respond differently than her intentions. But regardless, she didn’t think it would be like this. The more Metzli saw, the closer they got, the calmer they seemed. How? Regan just told them that Leila was dead. They had seen death many times, Regan knew (even caused it, which she chose not to think about), but this was Leila. They had something special, something Regan had only come to understand the depth of for herself over the last year.

Metzli… was saying it would be okay. Regan jostled at the contact, but Metzli’s words were reaching her, tugging at that tiny strand of hope. Regan hadn’t screamed for Leila’s death. Leila told her about her physiology. She felt too cold for any algor mortis Regan was familiar with. And the substance that came out of her body…

Regan swallowed and tasted salt. “But she’s dead. I know she is. I– as a doctor–” Not that it would take a genius to fail to find a pulse. “Leila is dead.” Did I kill her? The question grew as wobbly as the store had been.

A choice she never wanted had landed on her. But already bearing the weight of responsibility, she had to make it. Regan stared at the gentle hand on her shoulder. Metzli only had one, and it was being used to plead for her help.

Never, in Regan’s exceptionally sane mind nine years ago, would she have allowed a body or patient to be moved away from first responders. Sure, she was possessive of her decedents (paramedics often destroyed or degraded evidence in their futile attempt to bring back the dead), but if there was any chance someone might be helped, Regan would do no harm. This felt like harm, obscuring Leila from the medical attention that was on the way. It felt like harm running away from being questioned. And didn’t it all – everything in front of her now – feel like harm, because it was harm? Who would she trust in this? Metzli, who just spoke the word undead (familiar but illogical) and was encouraging something that went against the very grain of who she was, or her duty to humanity? And common sense that still lashed against her growing tower of strange experiences, trying to whip it over? She wanted to believe in Metzli and her homicide record of zero (she had pushed). What if that was wrong? She had not needed to be a doctor for the worms of Terramoist; she and Emilio had healed after the simulation attacked them. She could try to be one thing; she could work at Apple. She had seen Cass as a clandestine patient, but Cass was different; Cass was fae. This clashed with more than sense; it rammed against her ideals.

Again, Regan’s body responded in a way her mind never would have allowed. Regan shrank, smaller than a banshee should ever be, her eyes focusing and unfocusing on the sea of broken glass, sparkles, and blood. A banshee had done that. Maybe a human could heal. For better or worse, she grappled for what she knew, and for Leila in turn.

“She needs medical attention. If her heart can even– she needs to go to the hospital. We are not moving her until the paramedics arrive.” And in that was a challenge, to the friend who was showing unearned kindness right now, and to a life where she was capable of accepting two things at once that had just eluded her.

—

“Regan.” Metzli said again, a little more firmly that time. Though they were still calm, the idea of a medical team pronouncing Leila dead would only lead to problems. Somewhere, very far away, that was already done, the final piece of her past life buried by a tree. Metzli wouldn't let Regan's willful ignorance get in the way. They just hoped they wouldn't have to use force. So again, they tried to reason with their friend, hoping she'd listen.

Though they doubted she would.

“She died a long time ago. She is like me. Look.” Impatience trickled into their fingers and Metzli wrapped them around Regan's wrist to force her to look for their pulse. She would find nothing. “What will hospital say if they see her blood? It sparkles like glitter. That is her blood right there. They cannot see her.” They pressed her hand harder into Metzli's throat, growing more passionate as urgency coated the situation. “What will they do when they see no heartbeat? What if she wakes up and cannot leave?”

With a trembled breath, Metzli leaned forward and pleaded, “Help me.”

—

Regan’s hand made contact with skin that was colder than her own. It was something that used to happen every day, had happened here with Leila only minutes ago, but this time it was Metzli’s flesh, and they were animated, alive, their eyes full of desperation and so many other emotions Regan hadn’t added back into her vocabulary (Was fear one? She shivered at the thought.)

She waited for a pulse. One of her own beats thumped impatiently. Two. Ten. There was nothing in Metzli’s wrist. Metzli seemed to know she didn’t trust that finding, and soon her fingers searched for silent carotids and waited once more. Undead. Jade spoke the word daily. They talked about vampires all the time, though less frequently lately, a veil of discomfort having settled over the subject (from both of them, Regan had assessed). Regan had seen a spawn, hulking and vicious, saw it turn to dust before her eyes as Jade drove a stake past its sternum. She believed it. There was little sacrifice needed to eventually accept it as fact. But… she also knew Jade had tried to go after Metzli in the past, erroneously. Like usual, she shuffled that thought away in the most remote filing cabinet of her mind, like the ones in the morgue that held autopsy reports from the 60s and 70s that weren’t even digitized. Except, her hand to Metzli’s neck, that file wouldn’t let itself be jammed back where it belonged. Regan yanked her hand away, because there was no squashing down the realization so long as it remained there. It trembled fiercely against her lap, inverted, impossible, perverse pseudo death dribbling across each of her fingertips like a poison.

Regan’s breath and lips were just as shaky. Her words were nonexistent, unformed, at first, when she opened her mouth. Her jaw just hung there as if dislocated. Regan’s eyes scanned past Metzli, landing on Leila’s unconscious body (she did believe that much now, about this being an injury and not a homicide; the death felt wrong). “No. No. Stop it. You are not dead,” Regan said, her voice found, and quickly hardening like bricks slotted into a wall, higher and sturdier each second, “That is not blood. I don’t know what pathology is responsible for why you… for why both of you are like this. You’re atypical, I understand that. I am even willing to believe you’re both much older than you appear. But you are no cadaver, and neither is– was– is Leila. But she is my responsibility.” In more ways than one. “She remains under my care until the paramedics arrive, and if you try to remove her, I will protect her with my life.” Regan’s eyes darkened on Metzli now, bottomless black, barbed wire atop her walls. “So you can explain this to them. But she stays.”

—

Regan wasn't budging, standing firmly on her ground and allowing nothing to cause her to waver. Her medical ethics were going to make things worse, and as Leila's partner, Metzli had to do something. Anything. Which meant possibly going against their morals to get away from hers.

Metzli gritted their teeth, fangs sharpening and eyes turning red. “Please do not make me do this.” But Regan continued, cementing herself between the exit and Metzli. Guilt built up in the corners of their eyes, streaming down their cheeks while they grappled with what they had to do. There was no other choice, and they had to believe that. Because Metzli wasn't evil. They wouldn't become the people they had spent the entirety of their newfound life trying to prove wrong. Monsters could be good. Even if they took away someone's free will, it was okay so long as it was for the right reasons, and protecting Leila was the right reason.

It was.

“I am sorry.” The vampire whispered, feeling a connection between them and Regan, like a radio signal being picked up and locked. “You will let me take Leila and you will not stop me.” Metzli wrapped their arm around Leila's torso and carefully lifted her over their shoulder before standing up fully.

“You will not tell authorities she was hurt. No one is here but you.” It felt awful to lie, but morality had no place between a banshee and death's mockery. The abomination swallowed past the barbed lump in their throat and crept away slowly. “I will check on you later.”

—

Any other day, seeing Metzli’s normally-kind eyes glow red, and their canines lengthen past their lips would have made Regan uncertain, at the least. More likely, there’d be screaming; something would have been likely to break. But here in this already-broken store, guarding a patient she cared greatly for and owed everything to, little more than a flicker of doubt spread across Regan’s face. Her eyes hid most of it, and it quickly became just another thing – the lack of a pulse, the glittering not-blood – that Regan had given up on today, trading it for a certainty she knew she could believe in.

Did this mean Metzli was going to try to take Leila? Regan slid even closer to Leila, turning to block off the store’s exit (ignoring the fact her screaming had created several more). Regan’s lungs swirled back to life, vibrating inside her chest, and she wasn’t sure she actually had any more control over them now than she did earlier. She nodded, slightly, a quick jerk warning Metzli to listen to her. She wanted them to stay here, too. For Leila, for the responders they were so concerned about. The strange, vague threat made Regan certain this was not going to be easy. “I said it first,” because that seemed important, “I understand that you’re doing what you believe is best for Leila, but as a medical professional, you need to listen to me. We wait for the responders. Back away, or I will make you.” How, Regan wasn’t sure. She wasn’t going to harm Metzli, right? Maybe a headache. Her lungs squeezed with other ideas.

She barely had time to process the confusion of Metzli’s apology before her attention, every iota of it, was whipped to Metzli. More powerful than the pull of death, Regan couldn’t shake herself away, and the urge to even do that dissolved before she fully realized she needed to. Metzli’s words poured straight into her, fixing her brain like they were formalin. Something in the back of her mind, her last struggling neurons, shot the word like Cliodhna into her consciousness. Then that froze, too. She talked, apparently. “Take Leila, I will not stop you.” Regan’s body went limp, and she stepped aside, still looking only at Metzli. Her voice droned, but it didn’t concern her. “I will not tell the authorities she was hurt. I’m the only one here.”

Regan stood, unmoving, as she watched Metzli struggle somewhat to support Leila with one arm, but they managed. (Shouldn’t she help? No. She would not. Why? Because Leila should stay here. Then why was she letting them leave? Because she wouldn’t stop Metzli. Why? Because. Why? Because.) As the strange death that surrounded Metzli and Leila grew fainter to her senses, a new kind of wrongness exploded in her mind. Even the sirens she heard blaring in the distance lacked their aural appeal. She knew they were headed here, and when the paramedics arrived, she also knew exactly what she would tell them. Or rather, what she wouldn’t tell them. She was the only one here, anyway. Why? Because.

#writing #c metzli #c leila

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