His mind was a tangled mess of impulse and mix-matched decisions, something that transposed itself through the green eyes as he stood watching the crowds of his once-favored night club. It made him appear as though he thought he were in the most peculiar of dreams. And had that crafted eyebrow not risen (pulling with it the vampire\'s upper lip into a rigid sneer) as his name was stated, asked, or called, Nikolai would have hardly seemed to be the same person as he had been weeks before. His eyes rolled onto different sights with that disquieting indifference uncommon to the openly-opinionated vampire. His mouth, for the most part, remained closed and without the typical cynicisms which laced his voice. That voice, his companions rumored, had somehow been lost when Nikolai\'s mind finally snapped.
How wrong they were.
Of course the voice was still there, lingering in a perpetual snap when the need would finally arise. He would say his bit to clients, to the simple people whom needed his voice for guidance. But that voice otherwise lay locked in the caverns of his hollowed chest, stirred and blended with the black rage and thick self-loathing. There it festered like and infected wound, coated in salt and acid, ready and poised to resurface when the need found him.
It had been this way for weeks on end, ever since the fallout with the blonde vampire who\'s name rattled the very innards of the traitor\'s scarred mind. He hadn\'t touched a body unless it was to feed -- and violently so. Most certainly the flesh had healed from the abuses suffered. But lately it was becomming far too common for Nikolai to awaken early in the dusk to a sharp, flaring pain in his ribs, memories of the night he wished to forget manifesting themselves in electrical impulses with no actual cause. The memories of a foot kicking in shattered ribs into burning, dead organs.
And like the good friends that they were, the Eastwood Disciples could notice the particularly odd behavior of their most well-known clan member. He no longer brought back the staggering number of addicts to sell their souls to the Disciples. He no longer found his interest in the free whores that were his right to take. And, most missed of all, they were confused over the absence of the vampire\'s pompous voice. Yes, there was something wrong with dear Doxy that nothing could fix. Nothing, save for a trip out to Risk, the place where all of the vampire\'s problems had stemmed from.
And so there he was, rigidly relaxing with his back tensely poised against the padded wall, arms folded over his chest and hair over the one eye that wasn\'t sneering. The boys at his sides were jittery: Vincent\'s eyes were that of an eighteen-year-old after his first real fuck. Greg, Jockey, and Ape were all taking seats next to him, jabbering on about a rough orgy -- they were only human after all. Their ridiculous fantasies allowed Nikolai to fade back into reverie with the greatest of ease.
The thought of quitting his immortal life, of taking a bullet through the brain or walking straight into the sunrise was becomming ever-popular in the remnants of thoughts that Nikolai did possess. It was never a rare consideration for the immortal -- he never wanted to live long anyway. His own death was a wonderfully torturing thought that he typically indulged in in any state of mind. of even the most personal of things. He found it quite liberating to know thTo have control at he could end himself when he wanted to, that he was incontrol of nothing but himself.
His eardrums rattled with the bass of the club. Yes, the thought was becomming stronger. He might decide to end his life this night. Maybe piss an immortal off. Maybe overdose of dying drugged-blood, like he was supposed to once upon a time. It was truly romantic.
A glimmer of motion brought his wandering gaze back from reverie. As his eyes focused, he noticed the vaguely familiar shape of a woman. Immortal. Red and sultry. A corset with beautiful breasts nearly over-flowing from the top. Who was it? As he came to realize, something gripped onto the sore walls of his hollow chest in recognition. His body stirred as a flickering of thoughts returned, rage and something that felt vaguely of an instinctual warning. Danger. Danger. Danger.
It was Sonya, that lovely ancient that had nearly killed him months ago. The perpetual sneer lifted into a slight smirk.