WAD 2.0! Guaranteed better than Windows Vista.
Yup! I hit a horrible, horrible Writer's Block writing Wilmette After Dark, so I removed them from this community and fixed them up a bit. Here's the improved prologue for now, but I'm fixing up the next few chapters within the week, with a new chapter shortly after that.
Title: Wilmette After Dark
Summary: As a bad dream brings Pete back to the night he became a vampire, William sends out a challenge to our vampire-hunting heroes. Sixteen Candles-verse.
Author: Crispy the Centaur
Rating: PG-13 for a bad word and puppy death in this chapter
Author's Notes: I've been having bad luck with LJcuts working this whole week. Am I cursed? This better work.
The streets were oddly quiet for a Saturday night. Even for a main street, the hot-spot for rock clubs, there was something amiss.
None of this, however, phased Pete Wentz. Head bowed beneath his hooded sweatshirt, bass case over one shoulder, Hemingway's leash wound tightly around the opposite wrist. The young man pressed on beneath flickering streetlights. For a brief moment, a cold wind swept past the path, and he closed his eyes lightly as he felt it scrape past his face. The moment ended soon when Hemingway gave a tug on the leash, snapping his owner back to reality. As he glanced down, he noticed the bulldog sniffing the feet of an oddly-dressed stranger. Pete's eyes wandered upward, past the freshly polished wingtip shoes, up the creased dress-pants, to the velvet vest and silken cravat. He gave a slight jump when he realized that the stranger's face was actually all-too-familiar.
"Brendon...? Brendon Urie?" Pete tilted his head to one side as he examined the outfit once more.
"You know, next time you and your boys go shopping for your latest crazy wardrobe, I wish you'd tell me."
There was no reply from Brendon, so Pete continued with a relieved smile - unaware of a quartet of figures approaching from behind.
"Had me worried for two weeks straight, man. Everyone's just been up and vanishing. Thought you might have been dead, or caught by a crazy fan, or...say, you okay Urie? You're looking pretty damn pale...Almost like a--"
He got no further. In less time than it took to draw breath, six hands seized the bassist as a sharp pain shot through his neck - vampire fangs. Hemingway began to snarl and run forward, but Brendon seized the hapless pup by the scruff of the neck. Though Pete was unable to turn his head away, he shut his eyes tightly as the bulldog whimpered and cried, then went silent with one last howl. The hands holding their victim down released their grip, letting Pete fall limply to the floor. His eyes were roughly forced open by well-manicured fingers as he was forced to stare at the vampire that drained his body.
"Dying, or being captured...such negative words, my dear."
The face hovered into view, gently dabbing the remains of his sustenance away from his lips with a silken handkerchief as he spoke.
"Reborn. Now that's a much better word."
Though barely able to stay conscious, Pete managed to gasp out one question.
"W..Wuh...William...?"
As the darkness began to envelop him, the vampire's voice burned into his mind.
"Though I doubt you'd ever make as debonair of a vampire as we are, Wentz."
"Williaaaaaaaaaaaam!" Pete screeched as he shot awake, banging his head on the top of his makeshift coffin as he did.
Falling back against his pillow and clutching his forehead, the bassist sent out a signal to his bandmates that he was awake.
"Gyahh! Son of a BITCH!"
There was no reply for either of the three, so Pete took it upon himself to push open the lid and search about. He found them gathered around one of the larger tables in Patrick's workshop, murmuring worriedly among themselves. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stuck his head between Joe and Andy's shoulders to get a close look. Pete cringed at the sight. A dead body, albeit only a drifter, drained of all his blood with a gaping wound below his throat. Patrick walked over to his bandmate's side, arms folded, voice grim.
"We found him only a block away from here, pinned to a trashcan."
"Pinned?"
"Yeah. With this."
The singer returned to the table, producing a long, ornamental knife from beneath it. Pete gently took it in his hands, examining the handle of the weapon. Tracing a finger around the carved designs, he noticed the engraved name.
"Carden. One of the Dandies. But what was he doing draining a drifter and just tossing it aside? I know how those guys work. Nothing like that."
"It was a warning." Andy cut in without turning around, instead holding up a bloody scrap of parchment.
"Found this next to the guy."
Pete plucked the note from the drummer's hand, scanned it, then crumpled the paper with a hiss. As flowery and proper as the writing of a Dandy was, it spelled out a grim challenge. Tomorrow night, Penumbra Street underpass, one-on-one, winner takes all.
As Pete let the note fell to the floor, it re-opened slightly. In William's writing, next to a smiley-face with two sharp fangs, were two words.
"Play fair."
Title: Wilmette After Dark
Summary: As a bad dream brings Pete back to the night he became a vampire, William sends out a challenge to our vampire-hunting heroes. Sixteen Candles-verse.
Author: Crispy the Centaur
Rating: PG-13 for a bad word and puppy death in this chapter
Author's Notes: I've been having bad luck with LJcuts working this whole week. Am I cursed? This better work.
The streets were oddly quiet for a Saturday night. Even for a main street, the hot-spot for rock clubs, there was something amiss.
None of this, however, phased Pete Wentz. Head bowed beneath his hooded sweatshirt, bass case over one shoulder, Hemingway's leash wound tightly around the opposite wrist. The young man pressed on beneath flickering streetlights. For a brief moment, a cold wind swept past the path, and he closed his eyes lightly as he felt it scrape past his face. The moment ended soon when Hemingway gave a tug on the leash, snapping his owner back to reality. As he glanced down, he noticed the bulldog sniffing the feet of an oddly-dressed stranger. Pete's eyes wandered upward, past the freshly polished wingtip shoes, up the creased dress-pants, to the velvet vest and silken cravat. He gave a slight jump when he realized that the stranger's face was actually all-too-familiar.
"Brendon...? Brendon Urie?" Pete tilted his head to one side as he examined the outfit once more.
"You know, next time you and your boys go shopping for your latest crazy wardrobe, I wish you'd tell me."
There was no reply from Brendon, so Pete continued with a relieved smile - unaware of a quartet of figures approaching from behind.
"Had me worried for two weeks straight, man. Everyone's just been up and vanishing. Thought you might have been dead, or caught by a crazy fan, or...say, you okay Urie? You're looking pretty damn pale...Almost like a--"
He got no further. In less time than it took to draw breath, six hands seized the bassist as a sharp pain shot through his neck - vampire fangs. Hemingway began to snarl and run forward, but Brendon seized the hapless pup by the scruff of the neck. Though Pete was unable to turn his head away, he shut his eyes tightly as the bulldog whimpered and cried, then went silent with one last howl. The hands holding their victim down released their grip, letting Pete fall limply to the floor. His eyes were roughly forced open by well-manicured fingers as he was forced to stare at the vampire that drained his body.
"Dying, or being captured...such negative words, my dear."
The face hovered into view, gently dabbing the remains of his sustenance away from his lips with a silken handkerchief as he spoke.
"Reborn. Now that's a much better word."
Though barely able to stay conscious, Pete managed to gasp out one question.
"W..Wuh...William...?"
As the darkness began to envelop him, the vampire's voice burned into his mind.
"Though I doubt you'd ever make as debonair of a vampire as we are, Wentz."
"Williaaaaaaaaaaaam!" Pete screeched as he shot awake, banging his head on the top of his makeshift coffin as he did.
Falling back against his pillow and clutching his forehead, the bassist sent out a signal to his bandmates that he was awake.
"Gyahh! Son of a BITCH!"
There was no reply for either of the three, so Pete took it upon himself to push open the lid and search about. He found them gathered around one of the larger tables in Patrick's workshop, murmuring worriedly among themselves. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stuck his head between Joe and Andy's shoulders to get a close look. Pete cringed at the sight. A dead body, albeit only a drifter, drained of all his blood with a gaping wound below his throat. Patrick walked over to his bandmate's side, arms folded, voice grim.
"We found him only a block away from here, pinned to a trashcan."
"Pinned?"
"Yeah. With this."
The singer returned to the table, producing a long, ornamental knife from beneath it. Pete gently took it in his hands, examining the handle of the weapon. Tracing a finger around the carved designs, he noticed the engraved name.
"Carden. One of the Dandies. But what was he doing draining a drifter and just tossing it aside? I know how those guys work. Nothing like that."
"It was a warning." Andy cut in without turning around, instead holding up a bloody scrap of parchment.
"Found this next to the guy."
Pete plucked the note from the drummer's hand, scanned it, then crumpled the paper with a hiss. As flowery and proper as the writing of a Dandy was, it spelled out a grim challenge. Tomorrow night, Penumbra Street underpass, one-on-one, winner takes all.
As Pete let the note fell to the floor, it re-opened slightly. In William's writing, next to a smiley-face with two sharp fangs, were two words.
"Play fair."