MEME: AU Drabble Things

[aintnoconvict]

Speaking of AUs: I am blaming Dien and her tumblr for this.

1.) Tag in with your characters.
2.) Someone else tags you with with an alternate universe setting. Inclusion of their character(s) in the AU is totally cool.
3.) Write a three-sentence fic drabble-like thing in response.
4.) You tag others with AU prompts and get drabble-things in return.

GO GO GO!

Comments

[loveawkward]

Vampire!Bagoas in L.A.! :D :D

you and keri get off mah buttons :P

[thepersianyouth]

There were some things that Beth would never understand about the vampire populations spread across the globe. She'd teasingly refer to them as a community, when nothing could be farther from the truth. It didn't matter that Mick would insist that it wasn't a social club, she'd still be teasing them about their vampire community fifty years from now.

But, community or no community, there was one word that could perhaps make a better fit: the vampire population, like all other populations, whether a minority or a sub-category, was all about networks. And come mid-August, the warmest month of the year, the network was buzzing with rumours of a new arrival. Someone who hadn't been seen, much less heard of in easily twohundred years, someone presumed dead.

Some were excited, some utterly terrified, because though the rumours varied greatly, one detail remained the same: no one knew his true age.

It might seem a trivial thing, that such a silly thing as numbers would send currents of alarm through the many co-existing vampire networks, but you learn one thing fast when you're a vampire, and that is how easily boredom kills. If you make it past your first two decades, maybe you have a shot. Make it through to your five hundredth anniversary, you're liable to be insanely bored, a really quite dangerous.

No vampire hid their age unless they had good reason, but even then someone could always figure it out. The more the rumours went on, the more numbers rattled off, joined the army for both world wars, can you believe it?

knew him in Syria in the 1920's

Egypt 1815, the Orient that same year

La Rôche-sur-Yon fifty years prior.

For all anyone knew, the new vampire in town was actually ancient. Or, as ancient as anyone still living to tell the tale.

~*~

They rolled into town as the sun began to set, a procession of black cars, British imports perhaps, and at least 90 years old though kept in perfect condition. They rolled into town like waves crash to shore, a dozen glaring lights foreshadowing the arrival of something deadly and desirable, the new designer drug of choice. The neon lights reflected in sharp slashes over the black tinted windows, the procession winding its way down Wilshire boulevard like a slithering beast, seeming aimless in its search of a nesting place or feeding ground.

They alighted on the Beverly Wilshire, the front passenger seats opening as if on cue, men and women of all ages, looks and races move as one to their respective back seat door to open it.

Out of the middle car stepped a tall man with wavy, silver gray hair, a beaked nose and pale complexion, dressed in an impeccable suit. He waited as the other passengers all made their way out of their cars, after which he walked through the tall domed front entrance.

They moved as one, led by the man with the gray hair and the beaked nose and the slightly sagging jawline of a well preserved sexagenarian. They walked through the expansive, newly redecorated lobby as though they owned the place. The man announced their arrival at the front desk, in the names of Ward and Lewis, in the kind of deep, silky tones one might liken to molten metal. So very pleasing to the ear, but potentially lethal.

They ascended as one on the penthouse floor, shuttled there by elevator, dividing left and right until there were only two people left. The elevator dinged softly behind them, doors closing with a silent hum of electricity.

"I don't see why you insist on these ridiculous aliases," said the tall gray-haired man in utter contempt to the figure beside him, who stood at no more than five-foot-six, who blended in so easily with the diverse entourage. Despite his looks, which still to this day were exquisite, despite his fine mode of Oriental dress which even now seemed to belong, even here, in one of the finest hotels in all of Los Angeles.

"Yes, Arlington," the other one said, flicking his painted, delicate hand gently in the air between them, palm up to the skies in amused dismissal.

"Will that be all, 'Ms Ward'?"

Dark eyes lifted under heavy lids, the corners of a soft mouth curved like the opposite ends of a bow as the figure brought a hand to his veil and lifted it from his head. "Yes, Arlington."

Arlington returned the hint of a smile with a smirk of his own, and ducked down to press soft, lingering kiss to rounded cheek. "That's 'Mr. Lewis' to you, Sire. And next month, it will probably be 'Mr. Flintstone' or somesuch nonsense."

The kiss is accepted but not returned, though one of the small, painted hands come to caress the pale hairline of the seeming older man. "Good night, Arlington."

"Good night. Bagoi."

[loveawkward]

Again I will tell you, this is a delight. Love it so much.