Chapter 3: Batman.

Vampire Rule N°2: Don't drink the blood of junkies.

. . . . . . . . . .

"See ya later Johnny Boy!"

And just like that, John was alone in the city with ten dollars in his pocket and a mind full of borderline insane plans.

The night was young, and he had much to do.

With barely a third of his blood reserves filled, he couldn't risk testing the limits of his capacity, not to mention the lack of living relatives for him to slaughter.

But he couldn't go on a hunt either, lest he feeds on inferior blood, and his instincts told him that it was a very bad idea.

He didn't want to catch the vampire equivalent of an STD.

Truth be told, what he needed right now was money.

Money to secure a roof over his head.

He ought to get himself some supplies to protect his home from the sunlight, sleeping in the bathtub because the windows couldn't close properly wasn't sustainable.

He also needed clothes, everything he owned was dirty, oversized rags that literally smelled like poverty.

Keeping that Crackhouse Resident title wasn't good for business.

You can look as good as you want, but dressed like the lowliest of hood rats, he wouldn't even be able to attract some wicked cougar looking to take advantage of him.

Then he would need weapons, knives or at least a good baseball bat, he couldn't exactly reveal his claws and fangs each time he got into a fight, now could he?

Guns might be a bit too ambitious for the moment, not to mention his lack of experience with anything but those small revolvers for self-defence, and he never even used it.

Anything else could wait until he got his affairs sorted out.

As for his hunger, if push comes to shove he'll just sneak into someone's house and bite them while they sleep.

'Let's hope it doesn't come to that,' He thought, not particularly thrilled by the prospect of sinking his teeths into a stranger's neck, but that was the cost of being a vampire.

At least he didn't buzz around like a mosquito when he feeds.

John sighed, before focusing his senses to check for a possible tail, finding none.

Call him paranoid, but he wasn't about to act recklessly when he was still literally a newborn.

His eyes burned red, enhancing his already clear vision and turning him into a radar for blood, his ears picked up on people's heartbeats, discussions in the apartment nearby, the homeless woman squirming in a vacant house.

It was thrilling, until the culmination of his sharp senses resulted in him knowing that an obese man was jerking off to catgirls somewhere in the scrapyard.

'Yuck.' Was his thought on the matter.

Somewhere, a blue haired lady of easy virtue and loud disposition likely imploded in a rant about kink shaming.

John followed his instincts, crouched low, feeling the tension build up in his legs before releasing it in an inhumanly high jump.

He couldn't help but smile widely, it was utterly amazing.

'And that's without Bloodbuff.'

The young man felt light as a feather, in control despite being a whopping thirty feet above the ground.

Said control promptly vanished when he started falling into a nearby low-rise building, barely holding onto the edge and almost smashing somebody's window in the process.

'Alright, I'll have to work on this.' He thought, easily pushing himself up to the roof.

He started running, his attention divided between making sure he wasn't being observed, trying to not break the roof on accident and avoiding another potential crash.

*whoosh*

His second attempt was more successful, and so was the third one, and the fourth...

Moving like this was becoming easier and easier, and soon he was able to pick more speed, avoid the obstacles more easily, keep tabs on his surroundings without losing his focus.

He could still improve, mastering his basic abilities was very much a work in progress, one that would take him weeks if not months to finish.

Only then could consider developing new ones.

'Being a human mosquito is awesome.'

. . . . . .

"Yo, get your ass in the stash boy, we need a refill!" A young, fat teenager yelled at his wiry counterpart after yet another sale.

His street name was ironically Little Kevin, one of the many soldiers looking to make his fortune in the corners, one dopefiend at a time.

He's been in the game since he was a younger, more naive fatso, started as a lookout, working for clout in the kindergarten then graduated to hopper working day and night in the corners making that bread.

It's been years, years of paying up the lion's share of the package, only making minimum wage despite months spent in the boy's village and more than a couple 'rough rides' with those nice folks in the Gotham PD.

His ribs still hurt from that one time...

But that was then, and now was now.

He's been promoted, made a real soldier for his trouble, and he makes points on the package.

He gets a percentage, if you're a school boy.

"How much did we make?" He unwrapped a lollipop and asked his money guy, a youngster wearing an oversized Tom and Jerry hoody.

Kevin wasn't dumb, the older guys schooled him right and he listened well.

They told him to always separate the dope guy from the money guy, and never to touch the drugs himself.

"Maaaan, we're heavy as f*ck!" The kid removed a huge stack of bills and smelled them like it was his hot teacher's panties.

"How much?" Kevin spat on the ground, before tasting the sweets, he didn't have time for this dumbass bullshit.

"F-five hundred, maybe six?" He stammered, he thought he was sneaky counting the bills again.

"Five or six? Make up your fu*king mind….shit, I'm getting hungry, go stash it with Duke while Mikey's refilling. Amma get us some Chinese food."

Lil' Kevin glared at each one of the socially promoted retards that made up his crew as a warning not to muck up while he's off. He only had five boys to work with, two children working as lookout on a school night, one middle school kids slinging for him, one bank and one guy holding the stash.

His boss would send someone to get the money and deliver a new package every week, the time it takes them to run a couple G-pack in this corner, it wasn't prime real estate but still pretty fucking good.

Good enough to need a big nigga with a big gun off the streets to protect the dope and money.

The three stooges went into of the many vacant houses nearby and knocked three time on the large wooden plank they used to cover the door before opening.

The guy inside had orders to shoot first and ask later, so they needed a way to recognize each others.

It wasn't necessary though, the man with the gun had been busy polishing his other weapon while holding a roughed up issue of the Gotham Playboys Magazine and barely managed to make himself look right when they got in.

He was slouching on scavenged torn up sofa right next to the flash light they used to light up the room.

Any other night, they would've laughed their asses off before threatening to tell Kevin about it unless the horny shithead paid their mouths shut, but tonight was different.

"Man! You're gonna get—Yooo you heard that?" The Tom & Jerry guy, Dennis, said, his smile fading instantly. "Don't tell me you bought a girl Duke, or I'm seriously gonna bury your ass!"

"Fuck you." Duke flipped him off, though he didn't look that threatening with his pants half-on , "Must've been a rat."

He still picked up his gun, just in case.

Criminals are a superstitious bunch, after all.

But in this case, they were right.

*Crack*

A black blue broke through the make-shift door and collided with a helpless Mikey, slamming him face first at the wall.

"THE HELL IS THAT!?" Duke screamed, raising his gun just in time to see the business end of some disgusting sneakers two inches away from his face.

*Crunch*

Dennis felt numb, his gaze locked in the ground.

In less than three seconds, his entire world was flipped upside down.

Mikey was french kissing the wall.

Duke was knocked out cold, his face a broken mess.

And he was alone with this...this thing, his only weapon a flip knife he didn't dare bring out, that would just be suicide.

Maybe if he begged, it would let him go?

He mustered enough courage to raise his eyes, and then wish he hadn't.

For an instant, the light blinded him, but what came next was much worse.

It stood there, freakishly tall, it's foot soaked in his crewmate's blood was stepping on the one flashlight lighting the room, keeping firmly pointed at him.

That thing was covered in the shadows, and the only thing he could see was a pair of burning red eyes peering into his soul and finding it lacking.

He felt his stomach turning, and his pants felt all warm and tight, then blacked out.

Dennis woke up to someone screaming and slapping him, he opened his eyes to see a furious looking Lil' Kevin towering over him holding a bag full of Chinese food.

His Tom & Jerry hoody was mess of blood and what smelled like urine, Duke and Mikey were groaning loudly on the ground, clearly needing medical help, and there was a hole in the wall where they kept the dope and money.

They'd lost nearly a grand worth of dope and twice as much cash.

"What in the flying fuck happened here!?" His boss shouted, spittle flying everywhere, his fist clenching so tight his fat ass started sweating.

To that, Dennis could only say one word.

"Batman."