#that dsi has been through hell and back with me

[crows-of-buckets]

Sometimes I remember I traded my copy of black 2 to GameStop back in 2018 for like. Five bucks. Why did I do that. Sobs it's well in the 200 dollar range now

[letterfromtrenwith]

Old Wounds - Ch. 3 & 4

Police AU with George/Elizabeth

George faces an uncertain reception on his return to work, and is thrown into the deep end. Elizabeth deals with some professional conflict, and there’s a break in the case.

Ch. 1 & 2

Chapter 3

“Welcome back, Sir.” George started at the voice, finding Sgt. Emma Tregirls smiling at him from behind the reception desk.

“Oh, hello, Emma. Thanks. You pulled the short straw today, then?” Front desk duty was not generally something the relief fought over – dealing with assorted eccentrics, complainers and timewasters wasn’t really anyone’s idea of decent police work.

“Yeah, so it seems.” Emma gave a ‘what can you do’ shrug. “So, how are you?”

“Er…fine.” He knew she meant well, but he was getting a bit sick of people asking that question, not to mention the inevitable way their eyes would stray to his temple afterwards. He resisted the urge to pat down his hair. “The Super in?”

“Far as I know. I’ll just ring up.” He did his best not to fidget while Emma called the Superintendent’s secretary. “She says he’s ready for you.”

Detective Superintendent Ray Penvenen was a bespectacled man in his late 50s whose genial demeanour belied his tough reputation and storied career history. Nearing retirement , he’d settled with only minor irritation into the managerial requirements of his senior position. Nowadays, the higher one rose in rank, the more ones duties consisted of form-filling and being complained at by even more senior officers.

“So, how are you feeling?” George gritted his teeth. “Ready to get back to work?”

“Yes.” That was mostly true. He had found leave extremely boring, but considering the circumstances of the injury that he’d been signed off for, coming back was hardly going to be a smooth affair.

“Well, I’ve got something for you to get stuck into.” Penvenen slipped a blue folder out of a pile on his desk and handed it over. George flipped it open to be immediately confronted with what looked like an overtly-realistic Picasso painting. It took him a moment to recognise the face as male. Fighting a grimace, he flipped through the rest of the pages, taking in the basic details. “You’ve heard about the body at the Tintagel Developments sight, I assume?”

“Yes, although the press seem to be more interested in the historical discovery.” He suspected that was because the police press office was deliberately trying to divert their attention, which meant there was more to this than met the eye. “Has the recent victim been identified yet?”

“Not yet.”

“His fingerprints have been scraped off.” Normally, something like that was a deliberate countermeasure against identification. It was often seen in gangland killings and the like. However, George had seen it under different circumstances. He turned back to the picture of the man’s mutilated face. “Wait...”

“This body has the hallmarks of another Mark Daniel victim.” Mark Daniel was a man arrested five years’ previously for a string of violent murders of men, allegedly prompted by the infidelity of his wife, who he had also killed. While she had been discovered buried in their back garden, the other victims had been dumped in various places all over the district, their faces smashed in with a crowbar, and fingerprints scraped off. Quite why he’d done all this had never been fully established, although as far as George knew, several criminal psychologists and the like had spent the intervening period trying to find out.

George had been a relatively newly promoted DS with MIT when the case came in, working under the team’s last DI, Harry Blewitt. They’d done their best to keep it low-key, not wanting a press and public panic over a serial killer. Daniel had officially been charged with five murders including his wife, but there was some evidence to suggest there might be more victims. It seemed the Tintagel builders could well have found one of them.

“We need to keep this under wraps so far as possible – we absolutely don’t need the publicity, and I’ve already had the Chief Con whingeing at me because somebody from Tintagel’s pestering him. Also, if the press start shouting about this being another Mark Daniel victim, it might damage any further investigation if he turns out not to be.”

“I don’t want to be stepping on anyone’s toes here.” He’d done enough of that in the past. It had basically been his job – and look where that had got him.

“You wouldn’t be.” It took George a moment to process this.

“You mean MIT are still without a DI?” Blewitt had retired before the…incident which had put George on leave, but that was over a year ago.

“Not now, they’re not.” 

~

“Where are we on the identification?” George looked at the five faces staring back at him. This was going about exactly as well as he’d expected. New DI, complete stranger to everyone on the team, shoved in by management at the top of a potentially big-time investigation, taking over from a pair of Sergeants who’d had pretty much free reign up until now.

He had no idea how much they all knew about him exactly, but he bet it was enough not to like him. The Godolphin case had had plenty of publicity, and the police gossip mill would have filled in any official blanks, and likely added a Hell of a lot of embellishment as well.

“Well, obviously the fingerprints are a non-starter. The SOCOs couldn’t recover even a partial.” DS Elizabeth Chynoweth seemed the only one willing to speak up. She’d also been the only one who hadn’t appeared to regard him with open hostility. Perhaps she was just better at hiding her emotions. “DNA’s been extracted, and we’ve put a rush on the results but, well, you know what that’s like. There are a lot of results for mispers, but once the PM’s finalised we might be able to narrow it down.”

“ – “ George hesitated before he spoke. He’d spent several years being perceived as someone who strode in and told other coppers how to do their jobs. Doing almost exactly that on his first day back was not the best idea. “What about the watch?”

“The watch?” It was Chynoweth’s fellow DS, Hugh Armitage, who spoke up now.

“It’s a Rolex Datejust. We’d have to identify the exact variant, but they generally don’t cost less than 4k. That might eliminate some of the mispers. We can also check the watch’s serial number with Rolex Tracker, or the company – if the owner registered it, of course.” There was a predictable pause after this. George couldn’t tell whether it was because they’d already thought of that and didn’t like him thinking they hadn’t, or they hadn’t and resented him coming up with it first.

“That’s a good shout.” Armitage shifted in his chair, looking genuine but slightly irritated at having to admit it. “Joan, can you take care of that?”

“No problem, Sarge. Sir.” DC Pascoe addressed George as something of an afterthought, but he didn’t take offence. She’d been used to deferring solely to Armitage and Chynoweth, and frankly he’d been shown a lot more blatant – and deliberate – disrespect over the years.  

“When does Dr Enys think he’ll have the PM report?”

“He says we can go over this afternoon.” This was Jim Carter, the most sour-faced of the lot. George was fairly certain he’d interviewed him as a uniform about an allegation of excessive force against another officer. He’d known he would always bear the stain of ‘Rat Squad’ even before he’d taken the transfer, but having such an obvious reminder on his first day back was not encouraging.

“Right. Am I correct in thinking that the body’s leg still hasn’t been recovered?” According to the file George had been given, the victim’s left leg had been severed at the top of the thigh, although it was not yet known exactly how.

“SOCOs are still going over the scene, but no sign of it so far.” Chynoweth spoke again.

“That wasn’t part of the Daniel MO, but I suppose we don’t know what caused it yet.”

“It looks fairly neat, Sir.” This was DC Penny Bloom, who seemed to be fighting an internal battle between trying to suck up to him and trying to be equally as stand-offish as some of her teammates. As soon as he’d walked in the door she’d leapt out of her seat and immediately offered to show him to his office, before cutting herself off while asking if he wanted a cup of tea as she caught the eye of Carter.

“From what we can see, yes. We’ll see what Dr Enys has to say. As for the Daniel connection…”

“The preliminary DOD puts him within the timeframe.” Elizabeth – DS Chynoweth, George mentally corrected himself – supplied. “And he might be in the right age range, not that Daniel was especially picky so far as I can tell.”

“Is he still being held at Long Lartin?” HMP Long Lartin in Worcestershire was the nearest Category A prison, Her Majesty’s Prison Service having oddly overlooked the South West in terms of dangerous offenders – or any offenders at all, considering there were no men’s prisons in Cornwall whatsoever.

“Far as I know, Sir.”

“Then call them. We need to talk to him.”   

Chapter 4

“Sarge? Can I ask you a question?” Jim Carter looked down at his lap, more like a nervous schoolboy than an experienced detective. Elizabeth had a feeling this was a question he shouldn’t really be asking, but she might as well hear it.

“Go on, then.” At least the fact she was driving meant she didn’t have to look at him while he asked. She liked Jim, he was a good copper, but he could be a bit headstrong.

“Did they run it by you and Sgt. Armitage? Putting Warleggan in charge of the unit?”

“Yes. DSI Penvenen told us that DI Warleggan would be heading us up – for this investigation, at least. Besides, we couldn’t go without a DI forever.”

“Well, no, but – “ Here it came. “Why him of all people? From the fucking Rat Squad – “

“Professional Standards.” She ignored the swearing. Not exactly unusual in their profession, but somewhat inappropriate in the circumstances. She could tell by Jim’s face that he knew he’d rather overstepped the mark. At least it was better him saying this to her than to George – DI Warleggan, rather. He was her senior officer, too, she had to remember that. Even if he did intrigue her.

“But – It’s just – “

“Professional Standards is a department just like any other, Jim.” Elizabeth understood the hostility the general rank and file felt against Professional Standards, even if she didn’t feel it herself. Policing these days was subject to so much scrutiny, it sometimes felt like they couldn’t breathe without somebody complaining. Having Professional Standards weigh in after arrests, after some crafty lawyer got their client to cry police brutality or some such, after accidents, mistakes, it just piled it all on. But, there were corrupt police officers, despite what some of the more idealistic members of the force liked to think –and if they weren’t routed out, then the public distrust in policing would only get worse.

“Hmmm.”

“DI Warleggan was just doing his job.” A job that he’d nearly died for. When they’d been introduced in Ray Penvenen’s office, she hadn’t been able to help her eyes straying to his temple, where there was just a shadow of the scar tissue hidden by his hair. Everyone knew about the Godolphin case – it had caused enough of a publicity shitstorm as it was; without DI Warleggan’s actions, it would have been even worse. Under normal circumstances, an officer who’d received the kind of injuries he had in the line of duty would be hailed as nothing short of a hero, but as a Professional Standards officer there were some who would always regard him with suspicion, if not outright contempt. Astonishingly, despite everything, Andrew Godolphin still had his friends on the force; the full details of the investigation having never been made public didn’t help. For “operational reasons” – that old standby.

“But – It’s just – “

“Besides, he’s the most senior officer left who worked on the Mark Daniel case originally.” Of the one DI and two DS’ who apprehended Daniel, George was the only one left on the force, despite only five years having passed. DI Blewitt had retired, and DS Nanskervis had died tragically young of cancer, only a year or so after Daniel was arrested.

“But – “

“Look, Jim - ” They’d pulled into a parking bay at the hospital, and Elizabeth turned to look at him after she turned off the engine. “You’re a very good officer, you’ve more than proven your abilities, but in terms of both seniority and expertise, DI Warleggan has you beat by a long margin, so if you make a stink about this, it’s not going to be him senior management will shove onto desk duties, is it?”

“No.”

“No, what?” Elizabeth didn’t want to be ‘like that’, but considering Jim had spent most of this journey questioning a senior officer’s integrity and competence, she thought he needed a reminder of the nature of their organisation. Perhaps she did, as well.

“No, Sarge.”

“Right. Well, let’s hear no more about it.” 

~

Elizabeth had made her first visit to the morgue about six weeks into her probationary period, after she and her training officer had been called to break into the house of an elderly woman whose neighbours had become worried when they hadn’t seen her for several days. It turned out that she’d passed away in her sleep while sitting in her favourite chair by the fire. By the lit gas fire, which had burned next to her for at least a week. Needless to say, the condition of her body was…like nothing Elizabeth had ever imagined. To her embarrassment, she’d been forced to run outside to vomit into a plant pot in the garden. She’d seen a lot more dead bodies since then – and things that were even worse, if she were honest – but she’d never forgotten that old lady.

Some officers found the morgue disturbing, but she’d gotten used to it over the years. Here, the victims of crime, or simply misfortune, were treated with a level of respect many of them had never been afforded in life. Dr Enys certainly made sure of that, as had his predecessor Dr Choake, even if he’d been a pompous arse otherwise.

Originally, they had been due to attend regarding their victim the previous afternoon, but an emergency case of a sudden death of a mother and child had come in, which had naturally been prioritised over their historic case, even though they were likely dealing with a murder. Elizabeth had therefore spent the rest of the day trying to navigate the administrative obstacle course required to obtain authorisation to visit Mark Daniel.

“Good morning, Elizabeth. Jim.” Many people might expect pathologists to be a dour, morbid bunch, but Dr Dwight Enys was the complete opposite of that. Cheerful, pleasant and good-natured, he was a soothing presence for both nervous young coppers and grieving relatives come to identify their loved ones.

“Good morning, Dwight. Did you get anywhere with the two from yesterday?”

“Carbon monoxide.” Dwight shook his head sadly. “I think some of your colleagues are looking into the landlord, but there’s not much to be done now, I’m afraid.”

“Shame.”  After a moment’s respectful silence, Dwight stood up from his office chair and led them through into a spotlessly clean tiled room. Three stainless steel tables stood in the centre of the room; the one at the far end was empty, while two morgue attendants were covering and removing a body from the middle one.

“Possible autoerotic asphyxia.” Commented Dwight.

“Ouch,” muttered Jim as they approached the final table. Dwight drew back the sheet. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the smell the cloth had obviously been doing something to contain. No matter how well Dwight’s assistants had cleaned the body once forensic samples had been collected the scent of death and decay would always linger.

“What have we got?” She took a subtle step back, not that it helped much.

“Male, white, mid 30s-to-early 40s. Been dead at least four years, but no more than ten to twelve, I’d say. He was in reasonably good health before death from what I can tell – good joints, no signs of disease or significant ill health. The soil in that ground preserved him quite well, so I’ve been able to take a decent look at a few of his internal organs.”

“Cause of death?”

“Well…” Dwight pursed his lips. “There’s the problem. No obvious wounds or signs of violence – apart from the face and leg, but they were both post-mortem.”

“So…”

“So, there was some minor cardiac damage – not really enough to indicate a heart attack, or any kind of chronic illness as I said. The stomach hasn’t been preserved sadly, but what’s left of the oesophagus suggests some trauma from what could be sustained vomiting.”

“Poison?”

“Could be, but can’t say for certain. I’ve sent off samples for testing – they’ll start with routine toxicology, but if that doesn’t turn up anything, we’ll have to get authorisation for further assays.” Elizabeth grimaced at the thought of trying to persuade someone that that expense was worth it. Although, on reflection, that was DI Warleggan’s job now. There were certain things about management she was quite happy to let go of.

“Definitely not suffocation?” Elizabeth had been intending to ask the same question herself – although she’d planned to wait until Dwight was finished – and she knew what Jim was getting at. Mark Daniel had suffocated all of his victims, including his wife, although he had claimed her death was accidental.

“I didn’t say that.” Dwight frowned slightly at being pre-empted. “Suffocation can be difficult to detect after death. Based on the current findings, poisoning is only a strong possibility. So is suffocation.”

“What about the face? And the leg?” Elizabeth changed the subject. Dwight looked less annoyed at her question, and extended a gloved hand to indicate the battered remains of the man’s face. She’d seen crime scene phots of Daniel’s victims, but they didn’t quite prepare you for the real thing – or something very similar at least.

“Both post-mortem. The damage to the face was inflicted with something long and fairly thin with an end on – something like a wheelbrace, probably. Decay’s altered the wounds so it’s hard to estimate the exact shape.” Daniel had used a crowbar, so it could fit.

“What about the leg? Could it have been removed by digging equipment?”

“No. Aside from the fact that we’d likely have found it if it was – they’d barely started digging there, and I had what little earth they had removed searched – there’s no way the cut was made with anything like an industrial shovel. You can’t tell with what’s left of the flesh, but look here at the bone.” He pulled at a magnifying glass mounted on an arm attached to the side of the table. Lowering the lens, he adjusted it until it showed what remained of the dead man’s left thigh in uncomfortably fine detail. “Do you see those little marks there? They’re caused by whatever was used to remove the leg – I’d say the teeth of a handsaw.”

“How long after death? Can you tell?”

“Not precisely, but I’d say not long. Certainly not a matter of weeks or months.”

The doctor had nothing more for them until the toxicology results came back so, promising he’d email them his full PM report by the end of the day, he bid them farewell as his assistants wheeled in yet another body.

“So,” Jim began as they made their way back to the car. “Aside from the leg, there’s nothing to say either way if he’s a Daniel victim or not.”

“No.” But the leg was a sticking point. Daniel had never dismembered any of his victims, so why this one? And if it wasn’t Daniel, then what accounted for the other similarities? Before she could consider any further her phone rang.

“Chynoweth.”

“Elizabeth, it’s Hugh. Turns out the DI was right about the watch. We’ve got a possible ID. And you’ll never bloody guess who.”

[danielcadequinn]

Read an excerpt from Not Sorry! Now available in the Prophecy of Magic boxed set!  https://books2read.com/PoM-NOLAWars1CD Chapter 1  Who knew life after death could be so entertaining? Or exhausting.

Had someone told me I’d be spending eternity hunting supernatural beasts, I never would’ve believed them. Especially since I became one.

Just past midnight, I’m waiting in the forest preserves outside Chicago. About a half mile from Lake Arrowhead, this used to be Cook County, Illinois until being overtaken by the neighboring nation of Zion more than thirty years ago. Fortunately, an underground coalition rose up years later, eventually freeing them from Zion rule.

Gods, I hate that place.

After the last civil war, what was left of the country broke into three. Chicago is now part of what we call New America because it’s all that’s left of the former United States. They merged with Canada, and now included most of the bordering states surrounding the North American continent. Up until thirty years ago, Zion ruled most of the south and Midwest before major cities like Chicago and New Orleans fought back. There were many casualties of that war, and I was one of them.

Still sitting in the woods, I’m tired of waiting for my dinner. I’d much rather be out hunting for it. My contact said to expect my prey to show up around midnight, yet it’s ten past. Damn humans.

Staring out into the night, I glance up at the flickering streetlight shining down on the parking lot just outside the trails. Humans don’t really come out here anymore, and the woods are mostly filled with monsters like me. Well, not really. There are no monsters like me.

I pull out a leather-bound notebook from my inside jacket pocket. It holds the names of every vampire that’s not supposed to be here. One by one, I hunt and kill them all, then cross their name off my list. All while searching for the one who turned me.

After the secession, the city of New Orleans and other neighboring states was later renamed NOLA and declared a safe-haven for supernaturals like me. The DSI, Department of Supernatural Investigation, is a secret human group that actually knows about metas. They made an agreement with NOLA, that any vampire found outside its walls is fair game, mostly because our blood lust is uncontrollable and often becomes the very thing that destroys us.

Human lands had been safer since the treaty until vampires decided there wasn’t enough blood in NOLA and started migrating back here.That’s when DSI hired me.

I refused to leave New America, knowing what I stood to lose if I did, so I was allowed to stay under one condition: never feed on a human. I never wanted to be a vampire and I’m a survivor, so I learned to cope.

Girl’s gotta eat.

Since then, I’ve learned that I’m particularly good at two things: Killing vampires and holding a grudge.

Flipping through the worn pages of my notebook, I get to the page with newest names. Ever since the witch queen left to try and stop a supernatural war, all the heathens have crawled out from under their rocks. This latest batch of vamps has been helping the Zions in their human trafficking ploy. Something that’s gotten completely out of hand the second they heard Chicago’s witch savior had skipped town. 

Ravenous now, my stomach rumbles as I inhale a trace scent of blood in the air. They’re coming.

With my gaze fixed on the entrance of the parking lot, I close my eyes and listen, focusing on the sound of a car rumbling down the road. It’s still at least a mile away, so I have a little time.I step behind a huge oak tree and wait as a car pulls into the lot. A blonde vamp gets out of a Mercedes, pulls out her cell phone, then makes a call. “Where the hell are you? You’re late. Fine. I’ll wait, but just this once. Next time, you’re out.”

I’m not sure which name this is, with two females on my list, but I don’t really care.

And I’m hungry.

While the vampire is mesmerized by her phone, I move between the trees until I’m standing a few feet away. With a grin, I lunge out from the woods and attack, knocking her to the ground.

“Annaliese.” She says my name as the color drains from her face. I’m not surprised that she knows me. Every vampire here does. They fear me, as they should. “I swear.” She pleads “It’s not what you think. I’m not...”

“I don’t really care,” I say before baring my fangs. “You’re not supposed to be here, and I’m starving.

”Without another word, I sink my teeth into her neck while she thrashes in my grip, pinned down against the pavement beside her shiny luxury car.

“Please.” Her shrilled cry echoes through the still night air, but there’s nobody around to hear her. I stop just short of desiccating the girl. “Stop.”

Killing her wouldn’t be much fun if I did.

Pulling my fangs from her neck, I retract them while swallowing the last of her blood that’s still drizzling down the back of my throat. I let out a sigh and sit up, straddling her waist. I stare into her silver eyes that are dimming with each passing second.

“Any last words… Is it Gina or Renee?”I reach to my side and pull out a sharpened stake from my utility belt, ready to get this over with. She isn’t putting up much of a fight, and I’m super bored.

“What about your family?” she blurts out.

My eyes grow wide. “What did you say?”

“And Mar… I mean, I know who turned you.”

It’s no secret that the very reason I became a vampire assassin was to get my revenge on the one who sired me, but very few knew the reason behind my rage.

Before getting turned, I had a lot to live for. I was a mother. A widowed single mother with a very young daughter who had nobody else but me after my entire family was slaughtered during the last war. But then I was turned. I couldn’t control my bloodlust after that, so I couldn’t be her mother anymore.

Alexis was the reason I refused to leave. Her family–my legacy–they’re the reason I’m still here, and why I fight for humans against the very thing that stole everything from me.

Abandoning my own daughter was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, save for watching Alexis die. I never even got to say goodbye. Instead, I’ve been singularly focused for more than ninety years, searching for the bastard who turned me into the monster I never wanted to become.

“What do you know?”She’s pale, hardly any color left in her clammy skin. “Let me live, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I can get you what you’re looking for.” She gasps for air, typical for a dying vampire. And while her body can regenerate if she feeds, she won’t get very far like this. “Please.”

I debate in my head if I even want to save the bitch. As another two cars near the parking lot, I decide to pause a minute to consider my options.

“Fine.” I growl while I grab her beneath her armpits and drag her off into the woods, hiding her body behind some trees so I can deal with the other two vampires that are coming to meet her.

I drop her body to the ground, sit on top of her once more, then lean into her face. “Don’t say a goddamn word. Do you understand me? If you want to live, you keep your mouth shut while I go eat your friends.”

“They’re not my friends,” she mumbles. “Give me some blood. Please. Just a little.”

“No.” I groan as two cars pull into the parking lot. “Remember what I said. I’ll kill you and your entire family if I hear so much as a peep. Got it?”

She nods as I stand up and move back toward the parking lot, leaves crunching beneath my feet as I run.

Peering out from behind one of the trees, I watch two people get out of their cars and look inside my girl’s Mercedes. Talking amongst themselves, they get nervous since they can’t find her. Clearly, I don’t have much time before they run, so I have to make my move now.

From out of the shadows, I lunge for the guy first. He’ll be the hardest to kill. Not because he’s a man, but because he’s the oldest.

“Vampire hunter.” He groaned as he sees me rushing toward him. “Renee, run.”

“Renee.” I smile at the girl like she’s my arch nemesis. Reaching for her before she takes off, my fingers grip her throat like a vice. With one swift motion, I bash her head into the pavement, so hard, the ground cracks below her.

I kind of love inflicting pain on my victims.

“Sorry,” I say sarcastically, watching her squirm on the ground. “Not.”

Her buddy gasps at the sound of Renee’s skull cracking.

She’s not dead, though. Yet.

Next on my list, Stevie, I think is his name, tries to run. I prefer to give my prey delicacy names. We’ll call Stevie here, Ceviche. Because I’m going to absolutely love sinking my fangs into his raw neck while he flops around like a fish.

Quick on my feet, I reach out and grab his grimy T-shirt enough to pull him back to me, close enough that I can now get all my strength behind me.

Ceviche’s feet slip in an icy puddle, so I take advantage of his clumsiness and shove his shoulders forward, bouncing his head off the passenger side window. Glass shatters everywhere, and the insect’s head starts bleeding, making me even more hungry. If that’s even possible.

While Ceviche tries picking himself up off the ground, I keep hold of his shoulders, forcing his head into the side of Gina’s car, leaving a nasty dent.

Pity. It was such a pretty car, too.

His friend tries getting up, but I hop on top of her, shoving her shoulders to the pavement before baring my teeth and sinking them back into her neck. I drink just enough blood to keep her out of commission, and long enough for me to go back and kill her friend.

For a quick second, I stare at the tramp beneath me, deciding what to name her. It only takes me a second to decide not to change her name. Because I knew a Heather once who was a traitorous bitch, so I’m going to kill this one in effigy.

In the name of all backstabbing Heather’s everywhere.

  While Heather is sedated, I return to finish off Ceviche. He’s getting to his feet shakily with one hand on his head. Dark streams of blood run past his fingers enticingly, trailing out of his blond mop of wavy hair. To a human, he’d probably look pretty disgusting. But since I’m a vampire who drinks from other vamps, he looks like a big ass bloodberry milkshake.

My hunger is seriously getting the better of me.

But for now, I just want to satisfy a different kind of bloodlust. I’m pissed off at people who ruin other people’s lives, like these parasites. And the one who ruined mine all those years ago. So while perhaps I don’t have to be as brutal as I’m about to be, I feel no pity.

Girls just want to have fun.

“Here, let me give you a hand.” I wrap my fingers in his hair and pull hard, lifting him straight off the ground, nearly six feet of bloody helplessness. Grabbing his leg with my other hand, I spin him around and toss him into the nearest streetlight.

Gods, I love the strength I have.

The loud snap of his back hitting the wooden pole makes me happy. Guess he won’t be running away again. Definitely won’t be running any captives into Zion. And that makes me ecstatic.

On my way over to the heap of blubbering vampire lying on the ground, I notice a large crack running along the pavement.

“Step on a crack, break Ceviche’s back.” I sing and skip my way closer, then give the fissure a good hefty stomp and watch as a new pothole sinks into the parking lot.

Okay, so I’m a little worked up. Should probably expend some energy. Losing my temper wouldn’t be good for anybody here, me included.

Me raging on vampire blood isn’t a pretty sight.

I dart over to where Ceviche lies on the ground and grab his hand. Lifting and pulling back, I swing the huge lump of asshole around and toss him as hard as I can into Renee’s car. The door caves in and the wreck lifts up on the two opposite wheels, finally tipping over onto the roof.

“Yo, Dracula Barbie, sorry ‘bout your car, girl,” I yell over my shoulder. “I scratched it a little.”

Peering into the upside-down wreck, I giggle when I see one of his arms and his head have detached from the rest of him.

“Shame. I wasted a perfectly good asshat.”

I’m surprisingly winded as I stare at Ceviche’s broken body, though I’m also impressed with my masterpiece, effectively having dismembered the vamp. Inhaling a breath, I crouch down and plunge my favorite stake into his chest, since he’s not really dead until I do. My black soul sings as his eyelids flutter closed and the last glimpse of life drains away.

Don’t feel sorry for Ceviche or his friends. They’ve been helping the Zions kidnap innocent girls, forcing children to become brides and breeders for the Zion vermin. And feeding off the captives, of course. There’s no love for them—Stevie got exactly what he deserved, as will Dracula Barbie and Heather, who are next on my list.

 I catch my breath while strolling over to finish Heather off, who’s still lying beside the grass, barely breathing.

Not really hungry anymore, I hover over her and stare for a minute, wondering how any woman could do what she’s done, vampire or not.

Heather glances up at me and stares. Guilt. Remorse.

Good.

“So disappointing.” I pull a stake from my belt and step over her, then crouch down. “Any woman who would betray her own sisters they way you have deserves an agonizing death.” I pull up with little effort, then gleefully press the stake into her heart. “Tell Lucifer I said hey.”

She gasps for air; her red hunter eyes dim before what’s left of her fades away. Her skin turns a chalky grey and shrivels before finally desiccating.

Since it’s easier to get rid of two bodies at once, I drag Heather’s corpse and toss it on top of Ceviche’s, who’s lying on Renee’s car. I strike a match then drop it, watching the vampires’ bodies burn and crumble into nothing but a pile of ash at my feet.

From my inside jacket pocket, I pull out my little black book and strike out their names from my list. Ready to strike out Renee’s, I stomp back into the woods to find the girl who has a lead on my sire.

When I get into the woods, however, the ungrateful hussy is gone. I don’t know if she’s still alive, if someone’s killed her off, or if she recovered somehow and skedaddled. It’s more likely than not that she’s still somewhere in the woods, so I begrudgingly stalk into the forest preserves to find her.

Miles and miles of woods later, I come up empty-handed. That’s what I get for not killing first and asking questions later.

Incensed now, I trudge back to the parking lot and raid the vamps’ cars, taking anything that could be of use to me later. The first two cars are a bust except for some pot.

The Mercedes belonging to Renee, however, has the girl’s cell phone with several names I recognize. Luckily it didn’t get all smashed up like Ceviche. So I pull out my cell and call my contact to let him know one got away, but before I can even dial the number, my cell lights up in my hand.

“DSI needs you to go to NOLA and retrieve something. If you do this, I promise, it’ll be worth it.”

“What do you want?”

“We need the witch back. Things are out of hand, and the country won’t survive without her.”

“First of all, that witch went to NOLA to stop a war, what makes you think she’d care about yours? And second, you know as well as I do that if I step foot in NOLA, I may as well sign my own death certificate.”

“What if I could protect you?”

I laugh out loud. “From a nation of angry vampires? Doubtful.”

“I know people, Erhardt.”

Shaking my head, I stand silent for a minute before answering. There are so many reasons why I shouldn’t go to NOLA and just as many why I don’t want to.

Before I can finish my own thoughts, he drops a line so tempting, I can’t say no.

“What if I could give you the answer you seek?”

“Which is?”

“I know who turned you.”

“Don’t toy with me, human. And what’s going on tonight? You’re the second person to say that and not tell me the answer. Now I’m losing my damn patience. I know I said I’d never eat your kind, but if you’re pulling my leg, so help me, I’ll rip you to shreds.”

“I’m not, I swear. We’re desperate here. We need Adrien, and you need answers. Win-win. I know someone, a voodoo priestess, who can give you them. Give us what we need, and we’ll give you what you want. Do we have a deal?”

Staring up at the flickering streetlamp, I contemplate my options. I can’t imagine going to the supernatural mecca of the world and leaving there alive.

Here in New America, my country, I’m secretly revered as the guardian who rids their nation of bloodthirsty heathens, but to the vampires seeking refuge in New Orleans–the community that I refused to claim–I am the traitor. So while the idea of going to NOLA isn’t appealing, completing my quest is.

Then I can get someone to stake me, and put an end to this miserable vampire existence once and for all.

“Fine.” I relent. “I’ll go to NOLA. Two weeks. If you don’t get me what I want by then, I’ll make sure you never see your girlfriend again.”

[onion-souls]

Dark Souls III: The Ringed City

Discussion of the Dark Souls III DLC after the break.

The Ringed City is the last bit of Dark Souls content ever until From Soft needs money in a decade. It takes you to the Dredge Heap, a conglomerate of ancient castles compressed together at World's End, different eras warped around each other and rising from a vertical plane in a very Inception-y way.

The first section of the game is a mad run across cliffs as angels blast you with artillery. This is the entire first few hours of this game of punishing medieval combat. Running from lasers shot at you by angels, just to reinforce the theme that God hates you. Eventually you do get to kill them, if you figure out their weakness - their synchronized maggot-men- and their hiding places. Though its requires some dumb luck or tight exploration while running from your life from angelic artillery strikes on narrow tree branches. It's as though you're Disney's Tarzan but also at the Battle of Verdun. This is the part of the game where fall damage is a thing again, right in time for skilled jumping puzzles. Yay.

The revelation that this section is in fact Earthen Peak from DSII sounds like a cool call back but really doesn't add anything to the experience other than a few windmill visuals and an encounter with a cute pyromancer girl. You get to pick up the outfit of one of her sorceress sisters, who, in a bit of environmental storytelling, must have slowly stripped across an entire swamp for the entertainment of headless giants and parasects. This is one of two swamps in the DLC: the swamp of the Ringed City, which doesn't cause poison build up, a series first, and this swamp, which does cause poison build up, a series 37th. I am rather baffled by this use of Earthen Peak, the only real callback to DSII in the DLC; it doesn't take advantage of some of Earthen Peaks' unique medusa boss or strange interior vs. exterior verticality. In a Dredge Heap composed of random castles smashed together, Drangleic Castle or the Iron Keep feel like a better choice, especially since the Harald Warriors look more like Drangelic Castle's golems and DSII-style giants.  In any case, at the end of this section is the barely recognizable remains of Dark Souls I's Firelink Shrine, inhabited by yet another Last of Demonkind, a pair of demons that are not particularly hard, which means that they are obviously going to pull some fusion dance bullshit when you kill them. They do, and Wall-Eye into what seems to be the Demon Prince that Prince Lorien fucked up.

Killing the Demon Prince leads you to the eponymous Ringed City, a crumbling ruin of desolate beauty with a welcoming crew of invincible ghost archers controlled by a giant summoner guy, like the fifth type of distinct giant race in the series. After an hour of running towards a small door beneath the summoner, I realized that I needed to jump off the side of the ring and go around the side. This DLC has a running theme of stealth, running, and evasion of enemies rather than direct confrontation that only really compares to the Nightmare of Mensis from Bloodborne or the Tower Knight's level.

This leads to the second swamp, a Floridian nightmare of giant summoners, powerful, headless giants, turtle-backed clerics, and locust-men evangelists. This latter group are the most interesting, a race of locusts with humanoid faces developed by the Abyss to teach humans the wonders and comforts of Darkness, often preaching sermons that obliquely reference characters from the previous games; one tale is clearly a distorted condemnation of the Darkmoon Knightess' fear of the humanity writhing within her. The vast majority of them seem to have degenerated into mindless maneaters, but that happens to pretty much every group in Souls games. This is the strongest hint yet that the Abyss has an intelligence or collection of intelligent operators behind its spread, rather than existing as a  mindless metaphysical presence or force of natural entropy and corruption.

The Ringed City, especially this section, just spits +3 Rings at you, which is cute, awesome, and totally undermines the NG+ rewards.

Outside of the swamp comes the original Souls game “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE” scene, a dragon flaming down a narrow passageway. Ah, good times. You then run into what might be part of the Catacombs from Dark Souls I, although that was already where you awoke at the beginning of DSIII. This part is fairly brief and easy, and you get to face the dragon again and knock him off the ledge. This does not reward souls, a warning sign for later.

Within a castle, there is an elevator with a small cubby hole that you can dive into in order to access an entire area and secret boss, a hilariously common trope in Dark Souls found literally nowhere else in human experience. Here is Deatheater Mildred or whatever, and he is yet another Definitely Final Last of the Dragons. He is basically the Ancient Dragon 2.0, and one of those bosses with enough RNG and HP involved that you eventually just get kind of sick of it; the best Dark Souls bosses are interesting and challenging, not repetitive slogs, hard for the sake of hard.

Eventually, you can make your way to another giant summoner who defends a lady name Feanore or whatever on behalf of a king. This is the Old Monk fight, and like the Old Monk fight, has a lot of bullshit added to make the experience awful, namely a souped-up painted world guardian who spawns periodically. Why is this the DLC with the painted world guardian and not the Painted World DLC? Fuck you. After six to twelve times getting lag-stabbed by a 12-year-old sociopath named VegitaCumies88, you get to encounter a sad waifu holding an egg, in what might be a reference to the shape of the Transposing Kiln or to the movie Angel's Egg. Feanore here is Yet Another Last of the Gods, Gwyn's daughter. And yes, Gwyn had a daughter whose fate is now permanently unknown, and was a beautiful tall lady tied to illusions maintaining a world, but whatever, here's a new chick for no reasons. But anyway, you put your hand in the big lady's hole and she, and the world she was sustaining, decay away.

The area outside her keep is now at ground level, and lone and level sands stretching far away. In one corner, you may get invaded by a lady named Sheila or whatever, a knightess who claims to have been the daughter of the Duke and apparently a friend of Darkeater, showing that after the success of Crossbreed Priscilla, the dragons wasted aeons producing nothing but Worst Girls. Looking at you, Shannalotte. Worst Girl Shiela tries to make us feel bad about destroying the Ringed City, but considering that the nicest person you met in the city was a maneating locust preacher, its hard to feel to bent out of shape about it. She comes at you with a cool lightning bow miracle that probably sucks in PC hands like everything and a bludgeoning weapon that is AN ANCIENT, STILL-LIVING PYGMY KING NAILED TO A CROSS. Fucking metal.

The Duke here is almost certainly Seathe the Scaleless (I mean, the Duke Tseldora had nothing to do with the Age of the Gods). I feel like all these individuals with direct ties to the Age of the Gods from DSI undermines the theme of loss, decay, and forgetfulness. I actually prefer DSII's loss of much of human history, with most nations being fogotten. It made it all sadder.

Then you wander over to the other corner of the desert and it's our friend Gael, the entry point and summons from Ashes of Ariandel. Kind of a cool revelation, but it really would have worked better if he was a character in the base game. Gael, at this point, still works; it just lacks the resonance of, say, if it had been someone you worked with on the scale of Hawkwood or Siegward. Gael belongs to the standard twirly big armored guy boss style, with a bit too much bullshit damage to feel particularly fun; this has been a big problem with Dark Souls III design for me. They increased the speed and aggression of bosses, more in line with Bloodborne, but did not give the PCs the agility of the Good Hunter to react with it. I do like that he is the ultimate Guts reference in the series, with the big sword, swirly Berserk armor cape, and the stunning crossbow volleys.

Speaking of character revelations, Lapp's questline is fun, has a great twist that works – even if it is predictable given the voice actor and his lines- and ties up the series pretty well. It might not make sense to some people given a character present in the main game, but time is convoluted ect. Too bad it relies on a really strange bit of adventure-game logic unseen in the Dark Souls series. It was cute.

All in all, the Ringed City was a decent bit of DLC. It had multiple bosses, interesting locations, and at least felt like it was contributing something to DSIII's story – namely, the weird idea that the Dark Soul is still intact in the bottom of a Ring City ruled by “Pygmy Kings.” It's a shame that we never really get to interact with any of them other than a single crawling hollow.

However, Dark Souls III's expansions do not have the essential quality to them that all other Souls Series expansions do; Artorias of the Abyss and the Old Hunters are both key to understanding their main games, have beautiful scenery, and a disproportionate share of the interesting bosses of their titles (and, in the case of the Old Hunters, some much needed weapon options). Hell, in terms of design legacy, Artorias and Manus may be the single most influential bosses in the series. Dark Souls III's Crown Trilogy was not only staggeringly large, these entries were far better than the base game in every respect, from level design to memorable moments (falling into the Old Chaos after trudging through hours of ice and snow; the Brume Tower's eerie, whispering fragments of their Queen; the arrival of Sinh). Even thematically, the Crown's Trilogy's emphasis on lost monarchies, corrupting queens, and time travel through Drangleic's past handled the themes of DSII in a way that the main game completely botched; if I could remix the game, I'd start with the early quest to mercy killing King Vendrick before talking to his spectre and traveling into the past to collect the crowns; the only thing I would tweak is the difficulty scale. That's far more interesting than re-finding the lord souls and killing less cool versions of Nito, Gwyn, and Seathe (though I have to admit that the Lost Bastille was awesome – a prison for one repentant individual is such a cool idea, and I like that it's just one old lady with a sword).

In light of that, the Ashes of Ariandel and the Ringed City are found wanting. Their bosses probably won't linger on in memory for anything other than their frustrating difficulty; it's hard to find a justification for Friede's anime power-ups that make her surpass gods and ancient warriors in lasting power. She just kind of becomes a Lord of Cinder and an Abyss Champion because she's the final boss of the DLC. The other boss from Ashes, which I can't even remember the name of, was so uninteresting that I stopped going after him; he's just another armor and sword guy with a shitty Sif. The bosses that do work are also retreads – Ornstein & Smough Demons, Scythe Ornstein and Crough, the Old Monk II: Even Older, and Super-Artorias Gael. I don't feel like this content is essential to understanding the main game's story either; what we experience here is essentially the Tale of Gael. And it is cool; I like Gael the Slave Knight, compelled to sacrifice his sanity to help his Lady Painter recreate their world. And this would have felt like a great part of Dark Souls lore, but not its conclusion. There are a lot of mysteries and bits of lore still left unexplored, so this felt like a minor let down.

[purplesurveys]

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