almightythirst | Open Post

"You're asking the wrong question."

Clearly she's enjoying whatever is being held just out of his reach, watching him try to keep composed long enough to get what he came here for. Of course, now that he's here? She has other plans for him. And that oh-so interesting presence that clings to him like a hot desert wind.

"Did it never occur to you that I was simply following orders from the same man you were? Perhaps you simply didn't know our dear Gabriel as well as you thought."

Of course it had occurred to him. Every worst-case scenario has occurred to him in the past eight years of chasing the Reaper and trying to put things right. Not all of them were worth entertaining or following up on, but they’d all kept him up at night at one point or another. Gabriel Reyes had known most, if not all, if Jesse’s secrets, but the reverse had clearly not been true.

So worse than her accusation is that she’s using it to bait him. And that it’s working. Jesse grits his teeth, baring his fangs with a warning growl. It almost feels like he’s been quicker to anger lately overall—stress, no doubt—but this anger at least feels warranted. It’s been a night, and he’s about ready to see if whatever Moira is now can be killed with old-fashioned bullets or not.

or if her blood would taste the same as a vampire’s, don’t you want to know

“Don’t have time to listen to you talk in circles. Guess his secrets died with him.” He motions to the computer behind her with a jerk of his head. “Go on and turn around, real slow, and put in your password. You give me any excuse at all to pull this trigger, I will, so don’t you try anything.”

Her answer is a low, husky chuckle.

"No. I don't think I will."

Of course he might well follow up on that threat. But she shows no sign of concern, mildly amused by the promise of violence if anything. "If you were like the others, we wouldn't be having this conversation. But you're special, aren't you? Twice damned, if you believe that sort of nonsense." She taps her chin thoughtfully, those too-sharp eyes staring as if through him entirely. "I'd be quite interested in seeing how that works, exactly."

Only Moira would find the term “twice-damned” to be a good thing. It’s an uncomfortable reminder how much she knows about him, how dangerous she is, and the liability that comes with letting oneself be known like that. It’s why he had opted to work alone after Reyes. Right up until circumstances had changed.

“Too bad I’m not here to perform.” The way she’s watching him makes his skin scrawl, and it has nothing to do with her inhuman scent or lack of a pulse. She’s looking at him like she wants him strapped down to a table just like one of her specimens.

“Now don’t make me waste a bullet.”

"You can keep them where they are, McCree. I have no use for them. You, on the other hand?"

When she moves, it's almost impossible to track. A split-second from composed and poised to a lunge, as though to tackle him. But before she can collide with him, and before his bullet can pierce her form, she dissolves into dark wisps, like fog on the moors.

It drifts behind him before abruptly condensing into Moira's form once more, and a hand extends, nails curling. Seizing upon the very essence of the man in front of her and beginning to drain it away, like blood from a wound.

But blood is not what she feeds on.

Jesses tenses and shoots, the bullet barely missing the computer that had been behind Moira and hitting the wall instead. The sound of the shot attracting attention is low on his list of priorities now though since she’d just turned into smoke like some kind of two-bit magic act.

The blow he’d been expecting doesn’t come, and he’s only barely able to place her being behind him before he feels a sickening tug somewhere deep in his core. Even though he does not breath, he makes an almost strangled sound as his body seizes up.

The feeling isn’t unfamiliar. It’s not blood that being drained, but something equally vital… it is, he realizes with a sinking feeling, not unlike how it had felt when Reaper had sunk his talons into Jesse’s chest and taken… whatever he’d taken.

“Not your damn lab rat—” he grates out as he turns, forcing his arm up to shoot again. Whatever she’s doing is working, and it’s working fast. He should’ve shot her on sight.

Just as before, she slips away again, leaving but a trail of black wisps behind her. Oh, he's still got quite a bit of fight left in him. And she doesn't want him dead, no. What a waste that would be. Where else would she find such an oddity, one that could test the limits of so many potential experiments in the future?

And here he is, alone. Practically gift-wrapped.

"We will see, won't we?" Moira's purr comes from the side, this time, and again that gut-jerk sensation follows as she extends her hand, fingers more like talons...and for a moment he might see something strange. A figure that matches her poise, her stature, but pale, white-eyed and ghostly, overlayed as Moira closes in to siphon off those last, delicious tendrils of life essence from him. Just enough to leave him...well. As close to alive as their kind got.

"Surrender to my will."

Moira had always been surprisingly formidable in the field, given her role as a scientist, but he’s never seen her do anything like this. The only time he’s encountered anything similar is with the Reaper. The smoke, the energy absorption—but it’s not like the parallels are helping him here. Last time he’d run into that thing, he’d nearly died again, and it appears that this run-in with Moira is no different.

He fights her, much as he can, but the battle is all internal as his body gives way. His gun drops from numb fingers as he grits his teeth, down on one knee now, glaring defiantly up at her until the last.

There’s a flicker of red in his eye, just for a moment as his consciousness fades. Too little too late.

No. He didn’t survive it all just for this. Just to fall here. His fingers curl against the tile as the two versions of her swim in his vision. One alive, human. One very much not.

But it’s too much in the end. His eyes roll back, and his weight hits the floor. Without a pulse, and with no breath, he might as well be truly dead. The only reason he isn’t is the faintest flicker of two pulses of life within him. Two souls, flickering like the wicks of candles in a strong breeze.

Somewhere far across the world, Hanzo might have taken a moment's pause. Looked towards the distance and felt some twisting sense of unease. The possibilities play through his mind, but a moment later his attention is being called. He knows he cannot linger on the feeling.

Instead, he quietly dreads what might be. Perhaps word will reach him soon.

---

But Moira plays her cards close. This is not strictly Talon business, after all. This is furtherance of a personal curiosity, that may or may not prove useful to Talon after the fact. Right now, she has her own goals in mind first and foremost.

When Jesse wakes, it's impossible to tell what time of night it is. He's still in the labs, with its sleek white walls and florescent lights flooding every corner. Gone is his precious Peacemaker, as well as most of his clothing. There's some modesty afford with a pair of lab pants that someone managed to get him into while unconscious, but Moira intends to observe the wound Reaper left behind as well.

She doubts the cowboy will play nicely. Hence the very sturdy iron cuffs at his wrists and ankles, holding him down to the table while she hums quietly to herself over the keyboard, nails tapping away as she makes her notes.

If Jesse dreamed this time, he doesn’t remember it. He returns to consciousness slowly. Haltingly. The mental equivalent of stumbling up a rocky hillside to reach a plateau.

He becomes aware of several things as he blinks his eyes open: one, that he’s sore. It’s a novel feeling now as a vampire. His pains don’t tend to linger like this anymore. The other thing though, the hunger, now that’s familiar. How long as he been out? Hours? Days?

He starts to sit up before realizing that he’s been bound, his few test tugs on the cuffs quickly turning into a full-on struggle. But they’re solid, heavy enough to hold a vampire in place—especially one weakened from whatever the hell she’d done.

"Ah. So you're finally awake."

Moira's eyes dart up briefly, observing his struggle but for a moment before quickly returning to jotting down whatever notes she'd been taking. Plenty of things to take account of before they begin. Any change could be an important one.

"Rest well?"

Jesse strains one last time against his bonds before sagging against the table, already feeling spent. She’d definitely done a number on him. He glares at the ceiling, huffs, then turns his head to point that glare in her direction. Of course she's being so nonchalant about all this. It makes him even angrier, which compounds his sense of helplessness.

“I feel like I got run over by a truck. How long was I out?”

"Approximately twenty-two hours, thirteen minutes. As it happens."

Her lip twitches faintly as Jesse's efforts finally cease, as he eases back into place. Good. He still appears to be somewhat groggy. They'll want to test how much he can withstand at various levels of efficiency, but better to start low for now.

Smoothly, she slips out from behind the computer, hands clasped behind her back, as she approaches the table.

"You might have woken earlier, if not for your particular condition."

His eyes narrow even further at the specificity. It’s no surprise she’s been monitoring him, but the reminder still sets his skin to crawling. As a hunter, he’d prepared for a lot of eventualities, most of them different versions of his grisly, untimely end. This hadn’t been one of them though. He’d never imagined being tied up and at the mercy of a mad scientist.

He watches her with unwavering focus as she steps closer. Groggy he might be, but he’s still of his own sound mind.

“You mean the being a vampire bit, or the part where you sucked the life out of me 'til I just about died again?” He remembers then, suddenly, the version of her he’d glimpsed before, pale and wraithlike just before he'd lost consciousness.

“… What’d you turn yourself into?”

"Your physiology seems to include the curious side-effect of keeping you unconscious during the day, regardless of your condition. Of course, it's not the only thing that's changed over the years, is it?"

She doesn't answer his question right away. Of course she doesn't. She's far more interested in him, her focus falling to the hunter's chest.

"I understand you encountered our dear Gabriel some time back."

Jesse's hands tug at the cuffs in an instinctive attempt to move out of her line of sight. Trust her to bring up one of the only topics that could successfully derail any other train of thought he happened to be having.

The question, however, isn't forgotten. Especially when he's fully aware she could pull that same ghostly stunt again at any moment.

"Don't call it that. Gabe is dead, and that thing is walkin' around in what's left of his skin." He almost asks how she knows about their run-in, but then remembers on his own: Talon. They're all part of the same club. She must've heard it through the grapevine somehow.

"But you already know that. So what's your point?"

"You've become something of an anomaly, cowboy. Even among our kind. Something else stirs within you..."

And one hand lifts to hover briefly, just above Jesse's chest. Seconds later a few, lazy tendrils curl upwards, towards her fingers, almost as if merely to tease what might be to come.

"It's the reason you survived the Reaper. Isn't it?"

It’s just a taste of what Jesse has already felt, but his body tenses anyway, hyperaware now of the tug Moira’s power brings with it. It’s sickening, dizzying, like going upside-down on a rollercoaster without the adrenaline rush or promise of safety.

“I survived—”

Because of Hanzo, he almost says, but catches the words before they can escape. What if she then decides she wants something from the elder vampire? He can’t risk that. But it does make him think, for the first time in a long while, about his demonic passenger. It’s easy to forget most days, it being so much a part of him now that he’d not be able to tell you much at all about it. Its only real outlet is Deadeye, and any sentience it might have had once was sealed by Gabe’s work when he was a teenager. It was supposed to return to whichever plane from whence it came when Jesse died. Not likely to happen anymore, at least not until much later than expected.

And that’s all. Isn’t it?

“I drank blood. Just after the fact, and it was enough.”

His eye hurts again. His head hurts. His whole body still hurts. He grits his teeth, straining against his bindings more on principle than in a genuine escape effort. It’s clear that won’t work, so he needs to figure something else out.

Blood? Blood alone could not have undone the damage so easily. Not the blood of a mortal, at any rate. There's more to this, pieces of the puzzle left undiscovered, but of course Jesse is making a play at stubbornness, now. The tendrils disappear, as Moira's hand lowers. She considers him very sternly for a moment.

"You know lying will do you very few favors, now. If I can't trust that you're telling me what I need to know...then I'll just have to go digging for the truth myself."

With a wave of her hand, one of the trays nearby comes floating closer, laden with tools. Needles, knives, tubes and syringes. "The process is not a pleasant one. But it is thorough. And it will tell me what I want to know." Her head cocks slightly.

"Are you certain you don't recall more than that?"

Even though he has no intention of telling Moira a thing, he does try to remember. He thinks back to that night, his foolishness in getting caught off-guard, the attack and stumbling home after, cold seeming to permeate his entire body from the wound in his chest. Finding Hanzo, back in the room. Their argument, just before he passed out—

wait

Of course he hadn’t wanted to die, so he’d probably thought—

stay

He’d… thought that to himself… hadn’t he?

your soul is not forfeit not yet

He knocks his head back against the table, hissing as a sharp pain lances through his temple.

“You… already did somethin’, didn’t you?” He forces his eyes open, the light in the room suddenly close to overwhelming. He’s had a few migraines in his day, but only while alive. But he also hadn’t had any headaches since being turned until just recently. Before Moira. Even as he accuses her, he realizes with a sinking feeling there might be something else going on here she didn’t have a hand in.

Doesn’t mean he’ll tell her anything regardless.

"A few blood samples. Nothing earth-shattering, I can assure you."

But perhaps whatever else is there will show some measure of self-preservation, even when Jesse himself is helpless. Thoughtfully, she taps the handle of one of her instruments.

"Now. This will have to be done slowly. In order to prevent your body from healing over any incisions we have to make immediately, these blades here have been treated with silver. Too much, and we risk poisoning you. Certainly not the result we're looking for."

Moira's bland tone might suggest she were reading aloud the recommended dosage of a children's vitamin, rather describing the intent to cut him open, then and there.

It’s bad enough she’d taken his blood. No telling what it might say about him, or the blood-borne bond between him and his sire. The rest of it is worse though, something straight out of a horror movie. His eyes follow the line of her arm to the (still floating, what the hell is that about) tray of instruments.

She’s serious. He knows her well enough to recognize that. It’s just never been him at the end of her blades and needles before.

“You’d do it anyway. Doesn’t matter what I do or say, does it?”

To think, he’d trusted her once. She’d stitched him up numerous times, kept him alive through more than one poisoning. And she’d done it all with the same cool professionalism she’s now using to explain how she’s going to torture him in the name of her own curiosity.

He thinks he’d be sick if he were human, between the headache and the dread. It’s too bad he can’t be anymore. He’d take some pride in messing up her pristine lab. Instead, he clings to his anger, he heat of it familiar by now. Almost welcome. It, at least, he has control over.

"It might, if you were planning on being at all forthright. But I know you better than that." Her eyebrows lift. "Somewhat ironic...here you are, attempting to spy on me for Overwatch, and yet the information you'll provide us will be infinitely more valuable. I'd be willing to bet even they don't know the full extent of what you are, do they?"

A scalpel slips into her grasp as she leans closer, observing the way he tenses. How much pain would it take, before they saw something interesting? If the silver doesn't evoke what they need, there are other ways. Iron. Holy water. Monkshood. White oak. All methods of ways to see which earned the loudest screams, the most agony.

Ah well. No time like the present to start.

They really don’t know the full extent. Not about him, and not about where he is or what he’d set out to do. For all they’ll know, he’ll have simply up and run. The only sign to the contrary will be that his laptop was left behind. Even then, they might not realize the significance.

He’s on his own here. He could die, truly die, and not a soul would know except Moira. Though he doubts she’ll let him go quickly.

And she doesn’t.

It’s slow as she’d promised. Agonizing. Jesse has a relatively high pain tolerance, and has been through systematically inflicted pain before. But not like this, and not at the hands of someone so skilled at it. He curses at her from the start. Throws verbal barbs and struggles just to make it that much more difficult. The screaming comes later. His struggling becomes less of a conscious choice and more of an instinct.

He’s not aware of when he slips. His fangs are out, and his bonds actually start to strain under the force of a cornered, starving vampire. It’s then Moira might be able to see the ring of red around the iris of his left eye. As what makes Jesse himself retreats, something else rises to take its place.

At one point, he throws his head back and screams, a sound of pure pain and rage stemming from the very core of him. In his eyes, there’s fear. In his eyes, there’s triumph. The air goes desert hot and dry around him, tinged red from a sun they can't see. The same red that consumes one eye, then the other before darkening to an endless black that swallows iris and sclera both.

Then his eyes shut, and he goes very still. A breeze that had blown in from nowhere ceases, papers fluttering to the tile in its wake.

It's nothing like anything she's seen before, in any other creature she's studied. There is an aura that seems more in the realm of spirits and ghosts, creatures non-corporeal. Harder to study but infinitely more fascinating.

"There you are."

And she leans closer, one finger crooking to tip his chin upwards. The knives are set to the side, damp and ruddy, their job done for the time being.

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just let me know if I should change anything!

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