a Forever Knight song-fic
by April F.
August 14, 2003
Author's Note: Written in honor of Ben Bass, whose birthday is August 14th. The song--actually a spoken piece--is "Nocturnal Pleasure" by Meatloaf. It doesn't exactly fit what I had in mind, but when I saw the phrase "lost boys," I had to give it to Vachon! Praise, comments, criticisms and kudos are gratefully accepted and made pleasantly drunk. Nasty flames will be drenched in curdled milk. This story will be archived along with all the other 'Bat Out of Hell' stories at my site. Permission to archive is given to the FTP archive, Bright Knight and to any Vachon-oriented sites that want it (just give me a link back). All others must first bribe me with Vamp Energy Drink (only $3 a can at Hot Topic!).
A green bottle dangled loosely from Vachon's fingers as he lounged in the empty cupola. A chill, late fall wind blew strongly through the tower of the abandoned church, mussing his long brown hair. He flexed the fingers on one hand experimentally. It stung a bit still, but not badly. He grinned. "Not bad for having gotten dug out of a trash can."
He could see trash can fires dotting the city, marking the spots where the homeless gathered to warm themselves.
The entire city is burning
You can see the flames like the inside of a mad
He wondered if any of them realized what those fires meant to his people. "Come and get it," he yawned. "They might as well spell out 'Eat At Joe's.'" In a big city like this, with its surplus of street people, hunting was still possible, as long as one was extra careful with the cleanup.
Lost boys stalk the streets with those jungle markings
on their chests
Vachon took a long drink from his bottle, and licked his lips. "Good thing for them that I'm a lazy bastard." He scrubbed a hand over his stubbly chin. Another wind, colder this time. Out of habit, Vachon tossed his leather jacket over his shoulders. He was immune to the cold, of course...
Barbarians prowl in shadows their heads rocking with
The coming of winter would mean a decrease in rats, bad news for his pal Screed. Vachon was concerned for a split second, and then shrugged it off. There were other things besides rats for Screed to munch on, and Screed himself wasn't all that concerned. He'd be okay. And Vachon liked his friends independent, leaving them all free to come and go as they pleased. He liked his independence.
Motorcycles reproduce in nocturnal alleys groaning
with greasy pleasure
But that mortal... Vetter. Tracy Vetter. How in the world he had gotten himself saddled with that responsibility, he was still trying to figure out. Worse still, he couldn't run away from this one. Not unless he wanted to get a visit from her partner. Nick had been real nice to Urs... but he belonged to the Community leader, LaCroix, whose temper was legendary, and Vachon knew that the mortals Nick worked with called him 'The Knightmare.' Not someone whose wrath Vachon wanted to tempt. Which meant that if he skipped town, Nick would kill him, and if he brought Tracy across, Nick would kill him, and if he didn't bring Tracy across, the Enforcers would kill them both.
So in any case, he was screwed. Then no one would fault him for having a bit of fun with her. I wonder if she likes motorcycles. Or guitars.
And they've blown up the YWCA like a giant balloon
And sent it out to sea full of screaming, lovely,
The one thing he could be sure of was that his Urs was in good hands. She truly seemed happy in Toronto--as happy as she could be. She liked living at the Raven, and dancing there, and she seemed to have caught LaCroix's eye. That had worried Vachon a little at first; she didn't have the best of luck with men. But being a leader meant being a sort of uncle to all the vampires in the Community, as well as a bona-fide bastard. Urs would be all right.
Screed was happy, Urs was content, and he had a new pet to keep himself occupied.
Vachon drained the last dregs from his bottle. Maybe staying in Toronto wouldn't be so bad.
"And we shall exist by amusing ourselves, by dreaming of monstrous loves and fantastic universes, by complaining and quarreling with the pretenses of the world..."
--"The Flash of Lightning" by Arthur Rimbaud
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