Oh man, the demotivation of daily drone work was just a knife in the heart

I have a rule that has worked for me, more or less, over the years: when I see their first grey hair, it’s time for me to leave.

It sounds callous—trust me, I know how vain it seems—but it’s worked for the best, more or less. I think it’s kinder this way in the long run. I see one grey hair on their head; I know my time is limited.

For the second hair, or when the lines of wrinkles start to deepen, I make plans, plant seeds, start hinting about my exit.

The third grey hair, I pack a small bag. I hop on a cart, travelling far away down a long and winding road, or catch a boat and promise to the captain that I will be a good hand, that I will be strong and reliable. Sometimes, I’ve joined armies, searching for a cause and a way to disappear.

It’s happened again and again over my life and I’m sure that this story is not unique. There are men with far lesser excuses than I who leave one day, without a word, and never return. There are tragedies in life greater than this.

After time and distance, I’m sure I’ve been scorned again and again as lazy, as unfit, as selfish and arrogant. If I could, I would like to scream that I’m none of those things. When I was younger, I believed that I really wasn’t any of those.

Now, I’m not sure. I used to believe that my leaving was noble, was necessary, and of course I had no other choice but to leave. I still don’t believe I’m lazy and selfish and arrogant for leaving.

I think I might be lazy and selfish and arrogant for looking for love in the first place, though. I’ve had enough love after lifetimes yet I still go back for more, more and more and more, each time promising it’ll be my last and each time failing miserably.

One would think that I’ve lived enough: in Mesopotamia, born on the banks of the Euphrates, the fifth son of farmers; Egypt at the height of the days of Pharos; Rome in its heyday, a gladiator who could not die; a scholar, charting the starts in the early days of the first millennia; a painter; a rich lout; a poor lout; a merchant and trader, faring the seas to the new world; back again, rich again, on the outs of a society that I did not fit into; to the new world once more, now not so new, as a businessman; a painter once more. I think I like painting the best, even after all these years. It’s a universal language—a way to be understood that transcends time and words.

I tell myself, each time, that it will be my last. That, after I leave my love, I will sit alone with my paints and let the world slouch on.

Each time, I fail. This life has so much to give! Connections, too, are rare. I will pass fifty, eighty, a hundred years before I meet someone who understands me and I them and, if one has ever felt that way, then one will know how hard it is to give that up.

I tell myself this again, now. She understands me; I understand her. We met in a great city, while they were building high towers to prove they could touch clouds. She is a writer. I, like so many times before, am a painter.

I fear I don’t have long left. It’s been a while now, that much I know, but I haven’t been precisely keeping track. After I leave her, after I wrench out my own heart, I won't promise it to another. Never again.

Now, she comes into my studio to get me, to walk home with me. We’ll stop by a new restaurant near our apartment on our way. She claims this place has the best thai food I’ll ever taste, and I smiled and agreed with her, but I fear that food these days never quite tastes the same.

For now, she comes up behind me. She wraps her arms around me and places her chin on my shoulder, watching me paint. I brush a few more strokes against the canvas, weaving the colours together. Her hand rushes through my hair and pauses by my right ear.

A pluck. I wince.

“Look,” she says, holding her finger in front of my eyes.

I squint and look between them. A single strand of my short hair. It’s not dark, though, it’s not the way it should be: it’s sleek silver, shining in the sun.

/r/liswrites

Lol

Truck-kun working overtime on this one.

"Everyone else is a returnee", but a city, instead of the whole planet.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me this is what would happen?"

"Calm down. I'd tell you to breathe, but neither of us need to."

"You don't know what it is like? I was just so hungry, and-" The 'Friendly Neighborhood Dracula' exclaimed.

"There is a reason why I didn't want you to go out and hunt. There are plenty of people who would prefer to be a walking blood bag as long as you don't drink them dry. It is a very, very weird subculture but somebody got impatient." I snapped while staring at the frantic little vampire. "You had plenty to drink when you were with the others, why did you come to Detroit? And also, how?"

The vampire paused and looked back at me. I would've said he went paler, but...

"What. Did. You. Do?" I snarl as I stride towards him.

"Cruise ship. Slipped on-board and I did get thirsty, but the woman I drank was going to poison her husband on the ship and sue the company. She lasted me the trip." The vampire explained meekly.

Grabbing him by his shirt, I hoisted him up in the air with one arm showing off how little effort it takes for me to accomplish that feat.

"Name of your victim. If I find proof that you were wrong." I can feel him shudder in fear. i am very grateful vampires do not need to urinate as I am positive there would've been a puddle of liquid fear.

"Karla Gregson. Email and internet search history have the proof, she even used her husband's credit card and forged the suicide note." My handler answered immediately.

As I tried to figure out how they got the information that fast, they continued. "The Day shift handler got a parcel from one of your network contacts. The contact checked the contents of the envelope, figured that you would need this and sent it to one of your day shift handlers. They made copies for the other handlers as we didn't know when Morbius would get caught."

I lowered the vampire down gently and let go.

"It felt good, protecting an innocent person. As Vampires we don't normally get that opportunity, especially when you have us in a secure facility, and we are grateful you stepped in when you did, but it has been centuries. As an Immortal, you would understand the need to travel and speak with a non-immortal from time to time."

"My network was there to facilitate that. What is this about?" I ask, my curiosity replacing my fury.

"I got into some of those manga and comic books and were told you were starting to make moves to let the world know you exist, and I thought maybe we could too."

"Like that vampire TV show, with the synthetic blood?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"And when those religious zealots and inquisitors discover that you don't have as many weaknesses because you are all over a century old, what would they do then? When they find out that crosses don't work, same with holy ground, and thresholds were imposed by Mother, what do you think they would do...? I was planning on bringing you with me, once I had established credibility with society at large, and didn't have to fend of governments because of what my blood is capable of. Ogres, therianthropes, and all the other supernatural creatures that could fit in safely into a city I guided and protected, that was part of my plan. And you..."

The not so confident Morbius shifted his foot back during my tirade. I am one of the few beings that could easily go toe to toe with any of the surviving vampires with disturbing ease, and I was getting worked up that I missed it.

"You wanted to be a hero, well anti-hero. Protect the citizens while eliminating the threats against them, often with violent or lethal methods."

He nodded sheepishly.

"Dougal McNally. I am sorry for getting worked up. It is just there are so many things to keep track of, that I struggle with it and I don't need to sleep and use that time to catch up on everything else. There are so many..."

I sigh deeply. "You only wanted to help, and I assume my handlers are guiding you to targets?"

Dougal nodded sheepishly.

"Fine, we can find you a base of operations in Detroit and the handlers will feed you intel. As long as it is just-"

"One of the lycan therians are here too." Dougal whimpered. "Last year, three of his tribe were killed and skinned. He tracked the thing to Detroit."

"Thing? What thing?" I ask softly.

"Yautja."

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• laughs in a shit ton of architecture *

Ha! Thanks for finding the typo; one of those things that’s easy to know but even easier to autopilot your way into forgetting.

I also agree that a note home over giggling during a presentation is a little much. That’s why I forged my moms signature back in the first grade

We all have our ups and downs. High highs, low lows. Barely anything in the middle.

Vampires gets high when they feed. With mortal blood in their veins, they feel as if for a second, they have all the power of a vampire and the happiness only mortals could achieve. They are as close to living in that moment as they ever could be. A state of utter euphoria. Like a drug. In this state, they take risks they never would. Get into fights they'd never dare to start sober. Commit acts of love and happiness they wish they could. They even look alive.

When they don't feed, the connection to the dark powers that bind them, enslave them, sucking this happiness out of them. Their minds turn bitter, turn to despair. When they are like this, there is no positive emotion within them of any kind. They simply cannot feel it, and their souls know that this kind of existence is simply wrong, and unnatural. They gaze into the abyss from whence their power came, feeling themselves drawn to this void that will consume all life, in the end. They are dead, but even they fear this entropy despite the tightrope of power. Immeasurable mobility, strength, regeneration and awareness of their surroundings on one end. On the other, an infinite life barely lived as they crave to feed on their kind and kin, weaknesses of all kinds placed upon them by the abyss that forged their new selves. And all know that if the cold void in their dreams touch them, they are lost forever. And so they feed, to keep away from this void.

Many vampires draw from the power of this void to stave off their deaths. Their desire for immortality fulfilled, at the cost of knowing that they can only extend that existence at the costs of others. Many lose themselves to the cycle of euphoria and despair. They live in the moment, craving one feeding after the next, running from boogey who come to wipe them from the face of the earth.

But not all live like that. Some pick the road less travelled by.

A heavy set man sat down in a chair, unbuttoning his suit jacket. The rains were not merciful this night, as the gentle clattering on the windows surged with the winds. In the reflection, only a single light remained on, behind him, with the gentle glow of a mother's caress. His own reflection was barely visible. A silhouette, dark and broad, stared back at him.

On the thirty-fifth floor, the penthouse, he had been cooped up by orders of his superiors. Word had leaked on the streets of his arrival to those who knew of what haunted the scum of this city. Over the last month or so, gang associated murders have skyrocketed. Patterns stuck out so blatantly that it didn't feel a mob war of any kind. This was a calling card. Someone was looking for attention. The visceral and violent deaths now ran up to thirty-four as of yesterday, the number spread across three months with a rising amount over the last one.

While a deep cleaning of the streets was not something regrettable in and of itself, the issue was that it was unsanctioned. Unsanctioned murders on the streets are unacceptable. The aggro a story like this could accumulate would blow open a tidal wave of misery the world had never faced, from which it couldn't recover.

By itself, this sounded like an exaggeration. If only it simply was.

The man had committed the thirty-fifth murder, same as the others. Painstaking details were replicated and no expenses were spared. The tearing wounds in the neck, in the middle of the night at the center of its territory. No cameras, no witnesses. Just a quick call, a gurgling gasp and the ripping of flesh. No blood on the scene. Last but not least, an invitation to the current location of the man who sat patiently.

As he was about to check his watch, a knocking on the glass balcony door disturbed this. Outside stood a drenched woman in a raincoat, gazing through the door. The man got up, unlocked the door and held it open. She did not move in.

"So," She almost yelled with a raised voice, making herself heard as the winds swept the lashing rain without a care, "this was you, right?"

He gestured for her to enter, which she quickly did. As he closed the door, with one fell swoop, she unbuttoned her raincoat and moved to the door to hang it there. A braided ponytail came away from the hood, a leather jacket and jeans from under it. A stark contrast to the man's three piece suit.

After leaving her coat on the rack, she looked him up and down.

"I don't appreciate people trying to take my gig."

"The Conclave does not appreciate your activities in this city, Miss..."

"Call me Jean."

"Jean. Sure. Then I'm Logan."

"Subtle."

"Jean, you have the attention of those whose attention you don't want."

"Good. Took you guys long enough. Though I wouldn't have minded if you dropped by a little later."

"That would have gathered even more attention."

"As if the invitation wouldn't."

"We figured you were proud of your handiwork."

"Not really. Just a matter of convenience."

"Convenience? That's what blood banks are for."

"Listen, jar-head. Blood banks are for people who need that stuff in surgeries. I'm not taking blood from those who willingly give it. I'm taking it from those who don't deserve it."

"Who gave you the right to play judge, jury and executioner?"

"Who gave you the right to intervene? Who watches the watcher?"

"Those who understand the order of how things are better than you."

"I suppose so. No one ever really 'explained' any of this stuff. This whole mess only happened pretty recently. I'm new to all of it."

"Quite the mess, indeed. You have gained the attention of the masses. You target selection has left you in their good graces."

"I did more about the gang problem in one month than the police that's supposed to protect and serve us did in over a decade. Heh. I've done more noticeable and useful things for the place I was raised in in death than I did in life. I don't really plan on stopping."

"Very altruistic. The crusader who bloodies their hands so that others may stay clean. You're not the first to start out this way. I've seen it time and time again."

"Oh? How does it end?"

The man pulled open his jacket on both sides. Dozens of tiny vials of holy water on one side and three stakes, one of iron, one of silver and one of wood on the other.

"Speaking of judge, jury and executioner."

"You know what these do?" The man asked.

"I'm aware." The woman said, now a little more shaken.

"You're a recent convert. That's good. It means you can be reasoned with. For now. But your link to the void is strengthening. Soon, the hunger will consume you."

"The void?"

"The darkness in your dreams that seeks to consume you. It stays its distance when you drink blood."

"What do you know about this?"

"This 'Tobias' didn't tell you much about what you are, did he?"

"No."

"Then I will take on a new role, tonight. And if you take to the lessons I'm willing to teach you, we can discuss the mess you made and how to handle it."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll handle you. You get two minutes to decide. That's more mercy than you gave the people you killed."

"Why do you get to decide who lives and who dies? What have you done to get to do that?"

"I will explain, if you accept my offer."

"This doesn't feel fair."

"Life is unfair. Why does undeath have to be any different? The ones you put in the morgue didn't have a fair chance either. The scales will be balanced. One minute and thirty seconds. Choose, before a decision is made for you."

Soft and sweet.

Thank you for the reply!

Well that’s easy. He’s Batman!!

Thwack!

The jolt of something falling on my head startles me awake. I look beside me, only to see an apple rolling its way down a shallow hill, into a rolling field of grasses and brilliant flowers. I look up, the branches of a large tree crisscrossing high above me, casting me in a cool shade.

"Greetings, child, we meet yet again." a firm, but soft voice wafts into my ears. I look up to see a figure, clad in white robes with a black sash hanging from its shoulders, holding an outstretched hand to me. I cannot make out the figure's visage; it is as if it's always out of focus, always blurry.

"Glad to be back, old friend." I grab the figure's hand, and they pull me to my feet with great ease."Care for a stroll?" the figure says, as they turn on their heel. The two of us walk together down the hill, taking in the beauty which surrounds us. Clouds like pillows roll high above the plain. As we step out from under the canopy of the tree, the warmth of the sun wraps around me like a blanket.

"This is definitely a break from protocol. Where are we going?" I say to the figure.

"Nowhere in particular. Anywhere our feet take us." We come to a stop in a patch of tall goldenrod, busy bees buzzing back and forth between us, covered in pollen.

"The truth is, I am intrigued by you. We have crossed paths dozens of times, far more than any other poor and misguided soul to pay me a visit." The figure turns to face me, their mysterious visage no more discernable than ever. "Why is that? Why do you refuse to enter the realm of rewards or the realms beyond?"

Moments which feel like hours pass, as I rattle responses 'round my brain. Finally, I choose my careful reply.

"Those places just sound boring," I say. "The idea of a 'forever anything' does not interest me. I love our conversations, and I love being able to always see the world through new eyes, a new lens."

The figure shifts its weight, perhaps uncomfortably, and continues walking. "I'm listening." They say.

"Well, how do I put it..." I mutter, my mind searching for examples. "As a human, life is so colorful. So many emotions, so many experiences, so many memories. But as an eagle, I am so free. Nowhere can hold me down. One time I was an oyster, and it was a peaceful existence. Lots of time to think. I think my favorite incarnation was a mantis shrimp, what lovely colors they can see! The coral reef was absolutely breathtaking... so to speak."

"You never cease to fascinate me, old chap." The figure once again stopped, and turned their face to the sky, now a sea of purples and oranges. "But it seems our time is running out. The sun hangs low. Do you have a preference for your next life?"

We walk in a moment of contemplation, the daylight waning. The sound of buzzing bees gives way to the choruses of grasshoppers, and a sea of blinking lights of light betray the presence of lightning bugs. As we meander back to the base of the large tree, I hold my hand out, and a little firefly lands on the tip of my finger, its hindquarters illuminating my fingernail.

"I think I'd like to give one of these lil' fellas a spin." I say, taking a seat where I first awoke.

"Very well. May we meet again, my friend." And with a wave of their arms, the figure vanished, and my eyelids begin to feel heavy. With a sigh, I leaned my head against the rough bark of the tree, and close my eyes.

I slumbered in the shadows, as I always did. The only time I rose was to inspect the child. When he had been naughty, I could get closer. I would brush his dreams, making them scary. When he was good, I couldn't really approach, not without pain.

But a new scent brought me to my senses. The smell of evil. Someone was approaching, someone who had malicious intent. I slithered out, keeping in the dark to examine their approach.

Being a monster, I perceived time differently. I could reach the intruder, examine them, and hide before they could take another step. When their eyes moved, I could step into their temporary blindspots. It allowed me to understand just what their intentions were. They sought to kidnap my child. That could not stand.

I fled back to the room, already decided on a course of action. I couldn't stop it immediately, not without raising the alarm. The boy's parents would be in danger if that happened. He could loose them. Whilst I punished him, I had no wish to force him down a path where I would have to become worse.

Instead I forced myself to approach, picking him up. Even a light touch made my nerves scream in agony. Gritting my teeth I shifted him below the bed, out of sight. I swiftly moved the covers to drape over, taking his place. I shifted my appearance to be him, and acted as though I were asleep.

The person came in, holding a cloth mask. They slipped it over my head, securing it around my mouth and nose. I could taste the chemicals on it, an attempt to ensure my sedation. With it in place they lifted me up, dropping a note in my place. I let them carry me out, hanging limp as though deeply unconscious.

They moved quickly for a human, taking me out to their car. I was clipped into a seat, as though being taken for a drive. The person climbed in, starting the car to drive off. I let us go for a minute, before slipping back into the shadows of the car.

"Naughty."

I whispered in their ear, laughing as they jumped. They turned to the now empty seat, shaking their head.

"How dare you try to kidnap him."

I gave another laugh, forcing shadows to move. They choked the windows, shutting out the night. A manipulation of the engine stopped it, bringing us to a halt.

"What's going on? What are you?"

I manifested a face before him, grinning wide.

"I'm the monster under the bed. I eat bad children. And you are a very bad man."

He tried the door, yelling incoherently. I tightened my shadows around him, keeping him still. I felt his fear rise, a delicious morsel mixed with his evil nature. I hadn't had the pleasure of dining on a human before, and probably wouldn't again. I slowly absorbed him, savouring everything.

Only when he was gone did I leave. I pushed the car off the side of the road, leaving the door open. I couldn't care what happened to it. But I swiftly returned to my home, and my child. They still slept, a blessing for me. I battled through the pain to tuck them back in, before hiding again.

He was a good kid. As long as he stayed that way, I wouldn't have to eat him either.

Like Log Horizon!!

Thank you. I was afraid using JJ would be too ham-fisted at first but went ahead to write it and id revise it as needed. Turned out just fine with the pacing and added a lot of voice.

Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

"One or many? It's not that hard," he said impatiently. "You want to be a hero don't you?"

This was happening so suddenly. I had always wanted to be a superhero and now one wanted to pass his mantle onto me. But it was Trolley Man. I like to think I'm logical, that I wanted the greatest good and could make hard choices.

"Can you explain it again?" I asked.

He sighed. "Ok there is currently a plane that's engines have malfunctioned. It's currently gliding but in 3 minutes it's going to hit a mountain. With the powers I gave you if you kill this child the plane can be shielded and land safely." He then pointed at the news coverage of the event. Say what you will about supers the Newsman kept us up to date.

"And this is a bad kid?" I asked looking at the kid.

"Honor roll student. Loving home. Will be missed."

"And the people on the plane?"

"Normal passenger plane. Some good, some bad. Young, old, and everything in between." he listed off for the third time. "Look this is a superpower not a game you can't cheat this."

Time was running out. I tightened my grip on the dagger he had given me. There was only one choice.

"I'm sorry," I said to the child. Then I pulled back her head and slit her throat. I watched the news as the plane continued to glide towards the mountain.

Then it hit the mountain.

"HAHAHAHA," Trolley Man laughed maniacally.

"What happened?" I asked with tears in my eyes and blood on my hands.

Tearing off his mask to reveal a different mask of a smug smile he said, "I'm not Trolley Man, I'm Troll-Lie Man and you just got trolled. You have no superpowers and you're a murderer"

Thanks! First time I wrote a prompt, actually.

Aka: Edward Cullen’s incredibly interesting backstory that would have made for a far better series.

I'm a ĺot better at describing things than I am at getting characters to speak in a charismatic way. I've also noticed I sorta bounce between scenes with little in the way of transition

"What is that?"

Nitro bent down to take a small folded paper from the hand of the man lying on the floor. "It's his list. A list of everyone with a terminal illness in within a 50 mile radius."

"My god," whispered Freebird, AKA Carli Winstorm, "so it's true. His powers..." her voice trailed off as she stared at the dead man on the sidewalk at her feet. His face marred by the impact of falling twenty stories on to the concrete surface. Despite his injuries, Gene Sandkirk was still recognizable. The small, squat man had visited them months ago with an incredible story. Even in the times of super powers, heroes and villains, his tale seemed unbelievable. "Do you think it was him?" asked Carli.

"It has to have been," replied Marco Ramirez, codename Nitro. "How else can we explain it. Those people were doomed, there was no way for any of us to save them. Not even Slingshot could have gotten a million plus people out of the path of that explosion and gotten them to safety across the bay. "

Nitro looked long and hard at the list. The names of random people scrolled past in his mind. He remembered the meeting with Sandkirk. The wild story of curses and sacrifice. He had wanted help. He asked them how to turn that curse into a force for good, but all he could come up with was a list. A list of innocent people with limited time left on the earth. A list of people whose death, while tragic, could serve to save the lives of one, maybe a hundred people who otherwise would perish unnecessarily. But how could he choose? How could he make that choice?

"He couldn't do it." declared Carli. "He knew what was happening. The alarms, the news, it was clear that those people would die and that only his power could save them. But when the time came, he couldn't go through with it. When presented with ending a person's life he decided to end his own instead."

"How do you know?" asked Marco.

"Look at the first name on the list. The address. It's this building." Carli signed and looked up at the 20th floor of the building. "His first 'victim' lived here."

That's the typical population considered for a small city. Some definitions go down to 50,000 to have something be considered a city.