The Outpost

April, 2012
2315 hours – ChiChi’s Bar

“How are you now feeling? Your face is almost normal,” Boris said, sitting beside Megs on the bed. After she’d drained a couple of plasma packets, they had driven to ChiChi’s bar. Boris had ushered her in through the rear entrance, through the grimy kitchen and up a back stairwell to the adjoined inn.Megs had thought it was an inn, until she’d heard the sounds through the paper thin walls. Any other time and she’d have blushed, and tried not to touch anything in the room. Tonight, she let Boris sit her down on the bed, and drank from the man he’d brought up.

It was terrifyingly easy to burn through the blood as she drank, and Boris had to nudge her to let her know she had taken too much.

“Sorry,” she remembered mumbling, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. The man had been drunk, but so little of his blood remained that she only felt a lingering warmth. The man nodded, and stumbled out the door with a stupid grin on his face. He’d undone his pants, and they fell to his knees as he lumbered down the hallway.

And that was when Boris had sat beside her, resting his arm around her shoulder as he asked about how she felt. Megs had flinched, and hissed. By the time it registered who he was, she had a knife at his throat.“Oh my God Boris, I’m so sorry!” she gasped, tossing away the knife and checking his neck. There was a small cut there, but no more than one might get shaving. With a knife.

“It… it is alright. You are quick, jumpy,” he said with a frown. He kept his distance though. “What happened? Ilya, he did not say that he left you in so poor a shape.”

Megs wrapped her arms around herself, and sat back down on the bed.

“Ilya left me alright, tired and hungry, but alright. It was Mitya,” she said, almost choking on the name. The thing was disgusting. Anything related to him was disgusting. The way he smirked, and the way his teeth had been by her ear. His fucking teeth, she could feel his stale words on her neck, and she pressed a hand there, trying to rub away the memory.

“Mitya?” Boris frowned.

“Yeah he, he said some things. He said that I was out of place, that I was f- that I was sleeping with you and Ilya. I’m not, well, obviously not with you, but I’m not with Ilya either. But he said that stuff, and more,” she said, shaking her head. Her lips were still split, and her eye was still damaged, but at least it wasn’t oozing anymore.

With a huff, she tore a strip of cloth off what remained of her shirt and wound it around her head to cover the socket.

“And he hurt you,” Boris said, his voice tight and angry.

“Yes. He hurt me. He cut me open and he stuck-” she swallowed hard. “he stuck his hand up inside and broke a couple of my ribs. Slowly. That sick fuck.”

Boris said nothing, simply watching her.

“Was that all?”

Megs stood and headed to the closet, rummaging through what had been left inside. Filmy negligees and leather corsets and other fetish wear was tossed out viciously as she looked for something else to wear. Something that wasn’t ruined by Him.

“Katya…” Boris said quietly.

“I broke his neck,” she said coldly. “I broke his neck and I left him there. I wanted to kill him. I want to kill him. You have no fucking idea how hard it is to not kill him.” She found a sailor outfit, and ripped it in two.

“You showed him you were stronger,” Boris said, and Megs looked over at him, her remaining eye a narrowed slit of hate.

“With men like him, there is nothing someone like I can ever do to show them that they are wrong. There is only things that I can do to make them more angry,” she said, her voice a low hiss.

Boris was standing there, watching her with a stony expression.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” she said after a moment, looking around at the carnage of sex wear by her feet. “It’s not your fault. It’s… no. It’s not mine either. It’s just his. Just his fault.” There was no blood left in her to cry, but she wanted to. She wanted to go home and curl up with her kittens. To press her face into their soft purry fur and not see another human or vampire for years.

But she was a long way from home.

Instead of crying, or curling up into a ball, she picked up a corset and a silk kimono. Her hands were shaking as she wrapped the robe around herself, and tied it tightly. Without saying a word, Boris handed her the corset, and tied the strings tight behind her back to hold the cloth in place.

Megs didn’t need a mirror to know she looked like a whore. With a blood stained makeshift bandage over one eye, she looked like a john had just beaten her. Megs stalked over and picked up her knife, slashing off the hanging silk below the corset. Ripping it into strips, she wound the silk around and around her fists, tying the strips off into hand wraps. They hid the way her wrists were still worn down to nearly the bone from the hand cuffs.

“I will take you back to Moscow,” Boris said. “You can fly home. They will understand.” A gentle hand rested on her shoulder, and Megs turned to look at him, flexing her hands to test the wraps.

“No, they won’t. They’ll just see me as weak. I’m not going home, not yet. I’m not done learning. But I need to rest after this. A night, or two. I’ll be at the Bunker.”

Boris nodded and gave her shoulder a small squeeze before letting her go.

Her boots clunked down the wooden stairwell, and Megs reached a whore and her john on the landing. Apparently the room was too far away. Her fingers twitched as she saw a flash of light hair and broad shoulders nestled in between the whore’s breasts.

“Not him,” she snarled to herself, shoving them both aside and stomping down the rest of the stairwell.

“Hey! Watch what you’re doing!” The whore shouted after Megs.

The bar was full, and a number of the patrons looked up at the shout. Some leered, some -the more sober ones- tried not to make eye contact. There was something wrong about that one, they thought. Something wrong with the way she moved and the way she looked around the room.

“Darling!” ChiChi’s affected trill set Megs’s teeth on edge, and she looked over at the bar. “Darling, darling Katya, my little puss puss, here is your payment.”Chichi was waving around a couple of battered rubles over her head. She was grinning broadly, a demented delight in her piggy little eyes.

“My little puss puss, for your work upstairs,” she said loudly, tucking the crumpled bills into the front of the corset Megs was wearing. “He said he quite liked that american woman allow anything, anywhere. But try not to-”

Her shrill voice was cut off as Megs clamped her hand around ChiChi’s throat, and dragged her close.

Weak fists batted ineffectually at the smaller woman, but her fingers only tightened. Unlike Kindred, ChiChi had to breathe.

“Never. Ever. Talk to me again. Never touch me again, you dried up cunt,” Megs snarled, her voice almost a whisper. “The next part of you that does will be cut off, digit by digit, and I will shove each piece down your throat until you choke.”

ChiChi’s face was turning purple, and with a last clench of her fingers, Megs shoved her aside. The woman stumbled, knocking over a chair and waitress. The tray of beer spilled over them both, leaving them sputtering.

“You,” ChiChi wheezed, “Make big mistake.”

Megs walked up to her, and spat. By the time ChiChi’s screech of indignation reached the rafters, the Mekhet was out of the bar, and stalking towards the forest.

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