Hematoma Fanfiction Ch. 01-02

(This is a repost of the chapters I've previously posted. I misspelled Yorick's surname, how I managed to do that I have no idea. It was a terrible mistake that I needed to correct or be shamed forever. The good news, Is that chapters 1 and 2 are now one entity.

The bad news is that Chapter 3 will be posted as soon as I find time. I'm still editing it like crazy, and unfortunately it gets hectic at work in the summer, so I have less time to write and have a social life. I get paid for overtime though, and I'm getting a great tan in this Houston heat...so yay, I guess. I promise it'll be a long chapter and hopefully make up for the wait.)

*I wrote this story to get through Hematoma withdraws. I find Yorick Andersen a fascinating character. This is my headcanon of how he acquired his muscle car.

You don't have to read Hematoma to enjoy/hate this, but if you like the chapter or want insight on a few characters that are mentioned here and there I recommend you do. I also encourage you to read Hematoma because it's well written and addictive.

~ A link to Hematoma can be found here.

*This series is only a few chapters long. I must warn you in advance it's violent and there will be death in the chapters to come.

* I also want to thank Asbel for allowing me to post this.

~WolfFather

-

I wake to the sound of my phone ringing. I answer it out of curiosity, knowing it's well past midnight.

"Yorick Andersen?" A man's voice.

I blink, annoyed at the man's tone. "Yes?"

"Ah, I see..." He pauses, almost like he doesn't know how to proceed, as if he expected to have the wrong number. "My name is Gilbert, I'm the Director of the Chapter here in Philadelphia."

I close my eyes, chastising myself for not looking at the caller I.d. "And?"

"We have someone in our care I believe you know."

"I know many people," I snap.

In my long life I've known numbers beyond counting. Most of them are dead now. Most of them, if not all, have been predictable.

People like to think they're unique, but they're all the same. One generation after another recycle the same personalities, the same tedious tales; Ones of owe and vengeance. Of pioneers thirsty for adventure. Of Men with ambitions of power. Even martyrs ready to sacrifice themselves for everything and yet nothing at all. Everyone thinks they're special, but they're not.

I am special.

In their defense, I might be a tad biased. I do kill and drink the blood of men after all.

The man, Gilbert, sighs. "Yes, I'm aware. Your reputation with us has become one of legend. However, the person in question might be a... unique case? He's recovered well, but mentally...that we aren't so sure of. Oh. Oh dear-" A loud crash vibrates through the speaker of my cellphone. I register just enough to hear something's being shattered before Gilbert's speaking in my ear. "Hold a moment, I've upset him."

I cock an eyebrow, bemused. "Yeah, sure. I have all night."

He doesn't hear my response. Gilbert's muffled voice is already trying to reassure someone gently, patiently. After another brief disturbance he's back on the receiver. "Andersen?"

"What?" My patience is running thin now.

"My apologies. He's still upset after seeing it drive past. Honestly, I've heard him speak more the last few days than I've heard him utter since I've known him. He's usually a quiet young man, mostly busies himself with taking care of the Society's automobiles."

I sigh, my curiosity gone. "Get to the point."

"Hmm, okay let me try to sum this up in the fewest words as possible." Gilbert pauses collecting his thoughts. "Do you own a car? A fast one? Don't-"

I pull the receiver away as a new voice, seemingly just as impatient as I, rips through our conversation.

I sit up, flicking on the lamp next to my bed. It couldn't be...he's dead; Nevertheless the ghost speaks into the phone, voice dripping down my back like whiskey on a open wound.

I look over at the young man sleeping beside me. His bleached hair glows like the moon in the night sky that is my bedspread. The boy's undisturbed, and I'm grateful for it. His name is Shay. A gift so easy to manipulate; The possessive feeling that rises within me when I'm with him, not so much.

A coil of dark acceptance snares around my body and I turn my back to Shay's slumbering form. The last time I felt this gnawing need to possess someone, possess someone heart and soul, had been with another young man...

"Rush Hotchkiss."

-

The windshield wipers rut franticly, trying to help my quarry, a man named Lance, see through the downpour of spring rain.

We're on a country road, supposedly a shortcut through the area. We're driving to the mountains for a weekend trip. Lance, so excited for our adventure, picked me up at my apartment straight from work. I can tell he's regretting that now, trying to get comfortable in the confines of his suit as he drives.

He didn't see the deer until it's too late.

If I was driving I would have stopped in time, but the car belongs to Lance and he's persistent that only he drives it. Instead of stopping, the fool panics and does what you should never do, he swerves. The car smashes head on into a ditch, sinking into a foot of mud.

We sit there in silence, both of us in trances of disbelief.

Finally, Lance curses and gets out of the car to see the damage. I don't bother, I have enough experience with automobiles to know that we weren't driving out of here. I don't bother telling the boy this either. He pissed me off. I let him ruin his clothes, watch him trip and fall with a smirk on my face.

He crawls back in with a curse, his hair now plastered to his head, clothes covered in mud.

I turn the channel to the rock station I like. Music erupts through the speaker system. At least the radio still worked.

Lance pulls off his tie, giving me a sideways look. "Glad your enjoying yourself, Rick."

I turn up the volume.

He responds by punching the off switch, leaving us in total silence.

I turn to face him, eyebrows raised. "Don't like Tool?"

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "I suppose this is when you tell me I should have let you drive?"

"No, this is when I tell you to call someone."

Lance frowns, a worried look creasing his face.

"Left your phone at the office, didn't you?" Annoyed I fished my cellphone out of my pocket. "Unbelievable."

Lance looks over at me. "What's unbelievable?"

"You leaving your phone at the office."

He blinks. "Oh, I have it. It's just..."

Completely confused now, I cross my arms, waiting. "Just what?"

He groans. "It'll take at least a few hours for a tow truck to find us. But...I have family not far from here. My brother, he'll help us." My surprise must have shown on my face, because he adds, "We aren't on the best of terms."

I've fed off this pathetic man for about a month now. This is the first time hearing of him ever having family. I preferred my food to not have attachments, I could use them how I liked that way. Especially in the middle of the wilderness where no one can hear them scream. like the Alleghenies for instance.

"It's late." I look at the digital clock on the radio. "It's eleven at night. Your brother will still help, right?"

"Oh, he'll help," he says, eyes filling with a look I know well. An expression I've seen on faces of men and women through the ages. A look I once saw in the eyes of a young boy before being hanged for piracy. I know that look to be dread.

-

Two sets of headlights pull into a stop next to us. The one in front is a rusted red truck. The one behind the truck has me do a double take. It's a sleek black piece of horsepower, but not a model I know of. By the looks of it, the vehicle's brand new. To anyone else the car would just look like another generic American muscle car. They're fools. If there was a thousand more it would be an instant classic.

Lance glances my way. "It's my brother's. He builds motorcycles, sports cars and the like."

"Will he sell it?"

He snorts. "Sleipnir? Please, he'll die before he sells him. "

I grin broadly, the name a pleasant surprise. "I can wait."

Lance chuckles. He thinks I'm joking.

My gaze shifts back up at the monster, a frown pulling my lips. I hated waiting. The car would belong to me by the end of the weekend, dead brother or no.

A tall man gets out of the truck. He laughs down at us, shaking his head at whoever's driving my prize.

"Can you believe this?" I hear him say as he marches down the ditch in patched jeans and cowboy boots. He walks over as if there wasn't a foot of mud and rain wasn't drenching his hooded sweatshirt; Swaggering the way someone would through a meadow on a sunny day.

He stops beside the car and performs a 'roll down your window' motion with his middle finger.

Lance grudgingly does so. "Well?"

The guy leans his elbows on the window frame and peeks his head in. A face younger than I expected, in his mid twenties at max. He smiles broadly in at us. He's handsome, but he should have been beautiful. The right side of his face sports a wicked scar that destroys that possibility. It runs from the bridge of his nose, over his eyelid, back past his temple and well under his covered scalp. The right eye, still bright blue, has become lazy from the incident, swaying just outside of its intended mark. The left eye however, looks at me with a sharpness of a drawn arrow tip.

His gaze never wavers from mine as he speaks to Lance. "Tell me, would you've bothered to wave as you past the house?" The boy's tone is smooth and hits hard like fine whiskey.

"Yes." Lance's voice is tight, defensive.

We stare at each other, the boy and I. It lasts for a few more seconds before his piercing gaze drifts away to narrow down at his brother. It surprises me how much I want his eyes to travel back my way.

"You're a fucking moron." He says the insult lightly, as if he's ordering dinner. "Who taught you how to drive, Ray Charles?"

I laugh, I can't help it.

Lance, embarrassed from my laughter, turns a brilliant shade of red. "Fuck you, Rush! It was a god damned deer."

The brother, Rush, looks dubious but accepts Lance's story with a shrug. "Well, the parental units will be glad to see you at least."

Lance flinches as if Rush hit him. "Wha-what! I don't think-"

"Obviously," he interrupts smoothly in that same liquid tone. "I won't be able to get this out until tomorrow."

"You can't or you won't?" Lance snaps.

"I won't," he says flatly. "Not until you play the loving son and surprise your family with a little visit."

Lance glances my way. "I can't, we're going-"

Lance's protest dies with Rush ripping the door open, slamming him against the seat with a grip just below the jaw.

"Yes," Rush leans in closer tightening his hold, "you will. You'll be fucking happy doing it too."

Lance throws his arms up in surrender. "Okay, okay!"

"Good." With that Rush swings the door shut, settling in his original position.

Lance rubs his neck when he thinks it's safe. "God damn, Rush. You know, for being the little brother you're sure the bigger prick."

"Why, thank you! Your opinion means so much to me." Rush looks over his shoulder, then back at us with a frown, scrunching his nose up at his brother's mud caked clothes. "You're going to have to drive with me, you're covered in shit." His sharp eye looks me over, examining my attire. "Your boy toy will be driving in Sleipnir."

'Boy toy?' I was definitely not a boy, and I'de never be a toy for any man, especially Lance Hotchkiss. I would have said as much but Sleipnir was calling my name, and the sooner I was in him the better.

I open the passenger seat door and maneuver my way around the Honda and the mud. Rush walks beside me as Lance falls behind, trudging his over packed rucksack.

When we get up the hill Rush grabs my leather jacket. I'm expecting his eyes to be settled on my own but he's looking down at my boots.

"Take them off before you get in the car, please."

I nod. If Sleipnir was mine I'de have me take off my boots too.

Lance's eyes narrow, his face turning a pale shade of white. The boy glances back and forth between the car and me, suddenly realizing what he is bringing to his home, to his family. "Who's driving? Poet? Ma? It can't be Pop..."

Rush flashes his brother a vicious glare. "Why can't it be Pop?"

Lance rolls his eyes. "You know why."

"Please, like you're an expert all of a sudden." Rush opens the driver's seat door, the rusty hinges scream in protest. "Why do you care who's driving, anyway?"

Lance looks my way then shrugs. "Just because..."

'Because he brought home a monster,' I finish to myself.

Rush scrapes a muddy boot on the pavement. "Well, if you must now..." He pauses scrapping the other one now. "...Wendy's driving."

Lance snaps his head back to gawk at the muscle car. "Are you insane!"

Rush furrows his brows. "Huh, no...?"

Lance throws his hands up in exasperation. "She's eight years old, Rush!"

"She's ten. And she's a better driver than you." His whiskey voice is slower now, as if all he wanted in the world was stop talking.

Lance was having none of it. He rushes to the other side of the truck and gets in with a bang. "She's not better than me, she's ten! You never let me drive anything. And I do mean anything! Yet she, a little girl, can drive your precious Sleipnir? Why?"

"Beca-" he tries to stifle a yawn. "Because I taught her, and she's my favorite."

I walk curiously up to the purring beast's front passenger door and open it. Sure enough, a little girl with a bob of black hair sits behind the wheel. She looks up at me with bored blue eyes. I notice she's swimming in a extra large Foo Fighters T-shirt that goes past her knees. A pair of white bunny slippers dangle from her feet. Perhaps she might not be bored after all, just tired.

"Shoes," she says in a slow liquid tone she no doubt picked up from her brother.

A smile escapes my lips. "Wendy, I take it? You look tired. Want me to drive?"

She pops a gum bubble, rolling her eyes. "You can't drive, I'm the only one allowed to drive Sleipnir. Captain's orders."

I sigh, pulling off my shoes. "Understandable."

I get in and plop my belongings between my legs on the floor.

Without another word she turns on the radio.

I recognize the music. "The Sex Pistols."

She pops another bubble and turns up the volume.

I laugh heartily. "That's my little rocker."

She blinks, delightfully surprised. Her laugh rings like soft bells as the sound resonates through the wide gaps of her teeth. "Rush calls me that too!"

"Just Rush?" I look over at her, puzzled. Her eyes are focused on the taillights of the truck. "Your father doesn't call you that?"

Her grin quickly shrinks into a frown. "No. He doesn't know me, really." She pops another bubble. "He has old timers."

"Alzheimer's," I correct her.

She gives me a sideways look that reminds me of Lance. "Yeah, that's what I said."

-

The Hotchkiss house is a two story that sits on a good two acres of land. As we drive closer I notice it's navy blue with white trimming. The front door is a cherry red and so is the swing that hangs from the wraparound porch.

We don't stop, instead we pass the house and drive further down the property. A great tin roofed garage perches at the edge of a tree line. It's been renovated to have a top level, but the attachment looks odd, like a little windowless square tumor. I notice salvaged motorcycles and vehicles snuggle up in tarps throughout the trees.

Rush parks in the driveway while we back into the garage. Two mustangs, beautifully restored, become a complete trio when their king parks amongst them. A cluster of Bobbers stand together as the king's guard; aggressive and fierce like a pack of metal wolves.

Wendy hangs the keys delicately on the rearview mirror, hopping out of the car like one of the rabbits on her feet.

I follow her example and get out. The garage smells like metal and the distinct sent of Rush. He smells good, I realize. Really good. A scent more pleasurable than his older brother's. I take a deep breath, breathing him in. His scent is thick, like the rich aroma of a battlefield. Wendy must come here often, her sweet smell pools throughout her brother's like sugar and cream.

"You're not staying in my loft," I hear Rush say as he enters the garage.

Lance squelches behind him. "Why not?"

Rush ignores his brother, pulling off his sweatshirt, revealing lean muscled flesh. My eyes glimpse a set of pistol tattoos that define his hip bones before his undershirt obstructs my view as it slides back into place.

"Little bro?"

Rush sighs, rolling his eyes as he hangs the dripping hoodie on a hook. He shakes his hair of rain, resulting in mess of black strands that stand savagely in the air. I doubt if he dried and combed it back the shock of hair would have looked much different. Now in the light and fully exposed, I now see the disfiguring scar's true destructive power. It rakes past his ear to the nape of his neck, leaving a river of barren scar tissue that forks off and serpentines across his scalp.

"You're staying in the house, end of story."

"But..." Lance fidgets, trying to come up with a good enough excuse. "The house has skylights." At Rush's blank stare he continues. "Yorick is a... I mean to say, well...Rick's allergic to sunlight, actually. So..."

I can't help but smile as Wendy and Rush exchange a look of disbelief.

Rush turns his skeptical gaze my way, examining my pale skin. "He's full of shit, right? You just don't go out much. You're like one of those computer nerds who stays in the house all day."

"No," I say patiently. "He's right, I have a condition."

Rush groans, giving me a dissatisfied look before sneering at his brother. "Fine he can stay here, due to this 'condition'. But you," he jabs a finger in his brother's chest. "You are leaving."

"Are you serious?" Lance's voice comes out restrained, as if he wants to yell but he's trying his hardest to be civil.

"You haven't seen your family in a long time. So, go see them."

Lance's face contorts into something between furious and frightened, but before he can say anything more Rush walks up a flight of stairs and slams the door.

Wendy pops a bubble, already walking up the staircase. She turns to give Lance an appraising look. I can't tell if he satisfies her expectations of brotherhood or not. "You can sleep in my room. I stay here most of the time, anyway." She settles those big pools of blue my way. "You coming or what?"

"Is that an invitation?"

The child cocks an eyebrow up at me. "You're weird."

I tie my hair back with an elastic. "Weird is good, I think."

She smiles approvingly. "Yeah, I think so too."

Lance takes a step between us, not liking the idea of his sister being alone with me, let alone liking me. He looks at me pleadingly. "You want to come and meet the folks?"

"It's midnight, they're asleep." I pat him lightly on the back and follow Wendy up the stairs. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

I hear a small whimper of fear rip out the boy's throat as I rustle the girl's hair. I turn and give him a knowing smile before making Wendy squeal beautifully with a good tickling.

-

The small loft felt like a cave; not a hard thing to accomplish with no windows. It was a split-level with a suspended bedroom, with the kitchen and living room on the bottom floor. The whole place is lighted by fluorescent tubes that hang from the ceiling.

I'm surprised how monotone the color scheme is. Not many care for grey as much as I do, but Rush certainly did. The floor's poured grey cement. The walls and ceiling painted the dark color of rainclouds.