Imported Poems

Next Chapter. New Character. The Miranda scene is staid - I welcome ideas on how to extract it from the land of stereotypical vampire scenes.***********

It was 11PM and Luna’s eye was high on the horizon as Dorian navigated his way through the crowd to the corner of Sunset and Hollywood Blvd. Up and down the avenue pink stiletto-heeled whores slid past urban teens in baggy jeans and hoodies (hanging furtively over Lakers baseball caps) while young prima donnas giggled and glided towards their male escorts. Such a hodge-podge of people Dorian had expected, but had not reckoned the distraction caused by the constant shuffle of feet, neon traffic signs and busy side streets. Everywhere the city hummed and howled, screeched and beeped. Dorian remembered the beauty of the Noctura landscape, the quiet gurgle of silver streams and gentle crash of quiescent waves along the red shore, and felt a pang deep inside his heart - but quickly pushed it aside. He had to focus on their plan, he thought, for a single mistake, a minor overlook could lead to the extinction of his entire race.
The council had agreed upon LA as the initial, tactical rendezvous point, but Dorian had not established a date or time to avoid a possible ambush by Xander’s troops. Having recently become aware of Sang moles within his ranks, he had issued general instructions delineating LA as the target location while simultaneously commanding his soldiers to dissemble…until direct contact with himself or Tristan, his protege and second-in-command, was established. As a result of this mitigation, he and his compatriots had faced a new dilemma: by what method would he recognize them, when variations in the actual worm-hole transit would inexorably alter their final appearance. After intensive research and numerous experiments, they had found a way to hyper-sensitize the median orbito-frontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for intuition, enabling them to forge a non-verbal communication system. Unfortunately, however, simulations had indicated the process would be cumulative over time, effectively rendering their initial contact as nothing more than “vague notions of a certain possibility - an inclination towards a thing.” Although Dorian and Tristan had spent considerable time training to use the new model and both had become exceedingly proficient at it, it did not approximate the presence of the Noctura collective, nor did it allow for extensive coordination of activities. Nevertheless, it gave them advantage over The Sang, and for that, Dorian was grateful.
For over an hour Dorian stood on the corner, looking into the crowd for familiar faces or any sign of Noctii presence, but was sadly disappointed. Just as he was preparing to leave, however, he caught sight of a young male in a black motorcycle jacket slipping effortlessly through the heavily populated street. It was not so much the young man’s appearance that gave Dorian pause, but the celerity by which he expedited his journey. No human eye detected it, nor did anyone appear to suspect the small gust of wind he left in his wake. As the mysterious stranger disappeared behind a building, Dorian decided to follow him.
After several blocks of surreptitious evasion, the young man turned down a congested, albeit filthy side-street and promptly disappeared. Slowing to a pedestrian pace, Dorian studied the landscape: several nightclubs populated both sides of the road, which was consequently flooded with people and impassable by vehicles. Outside of each establishment, virile young men and wealthy male patrons circled semi-naked, artificial amazons, forming a sort of scattered line for admittance. Dorian quickly scanned each, looking for clues that might betray the location of his target, but noticed nothing odd among the frequented venues. However, one particular, unobtrusive building stood out among the rest: located on the far corner of the street, a small, nameless club flashed a neon red sign “open”, but no bouncer guarded the entrance. No lights flickered on the second floor. Dorian cautiously crossed the street and approached the door. Inside he could hear music - an eerie, deep, pulsating electronic rhythm featuring heavily synthesized vocals - and then he noticed that unlike the others, the steps led down into a basement. Dorian descended the stairs.
The hallway opened into a surprisingly prodigious room artificially divided by sliding walls. The high ceiling, white plaster walls and sheer immensity suggested the place had formerly served as a factory, although Dorian was perplexed as to what sort of production would be housed in a basement. The checkered black and white dance floor- apparently a recent installment - was hardly discernable beneath the feet of it’s PVC and latex clad dancers. Dorian remembered what Tristan had said upon his conversion: that there were more “like him” on earth. So The Sang had not eliminated their criminals as many thought: they were here, in LA - but that was Lucien’s fault. After their successful trial runs through the worm-hole, The Sang leader had not tied up loose ends - yet another incompetency that had most likely led to his assassination and the rise of Xander, but Dorian could only speculate. All he knew was Xander was a much more formidable opponent than Lucien, albeit a more respectable one, and after the inept leader’s death, had corrected many of his blunders.
A hand on his shoulder jostled Dorian from his thoughts.
“Looking for someone?” a soft, sultry voice asked.
Turning around, Dorian discovered a raven-haired woman with dark almond eyes smiling up at him. Her opalescent, clear complexion seemed surreal next to her red-bow lips.
“Oh, no,” he responded with his winsome smile. “No one in particular.”
“I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new in town?”
“Yes, absolutely,” he declared, amused by the truth of his answer. “Yes, I am very new in town - you could say ‘brand new’.”
“Oh really?” she uttered, again in a low voice. “So what brings you here to LA? Family?”
“No, I’m not married.”
“Well certainly with your looks you must have a child. At least you have parents or siblings?” she inquired.
“No - no children or siblings. My mother passed away three years ago and my dad,” Dorian paused for dramatic effect, “my father is a drunk. I haven’t seen him in - oh - 20 years now. Anyway, I don’t wish to talk about it - it’s sort of personal.”
“Oh I’m sorry. By the way, I’m Miranda,” she announced, proffering her hand.
Dorian shook it firmly. “I’m Dorian, and don’t worry, I’m not offended. I just want to start over again - start a new life here in LA. Do you know what I mean?”
“Oh absolutely. We all need second chances.”
“Yes. So tell me about this place. I’m curious as to what it was before.”
“Well, the upstairs was a butcher store when it was built, but downstairs served as a liquor factory during the prohibition era.” As she spoke she gazed around nervously, as if looking for clues to substantiate the story.
“By the size of the place it was very successful. So, what is this club called anyway? I couldn’t find the name of it anywhere, and there wasn’t a doorman for admission. What sort of establishment lets customers in for free? I mean, this is LA.”
“It‘s free tonight. Would you like a drink?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Sure,” he agreed, and watched as she went to the bar and returned with a drink, which she promptly offered him. But as he raised the glass to his lips, he detected something strange in the brown liquid, and realized it had been drugged. Pretending to take a sip, Dorian attempted to place the glass on the table, but missed. It shattered on the floor.
“Oh I’m sorry,” he muttered, stooping down to collect the broken shards in his hand. “Did it splatter on you?”
“No, but I’m going to have to buy you another one.”
Dorian shook his head. “Don’t bother; I’m really not thirsty.” Standing up, he lay the dirty napkin on the table.
“I don’t blame you,” she cooed with a practiced laugh as she wrapped her arm in his. Perhaps you’d rather visit our underground tunnel?
”Underground tunnel?”
“Of course an underground tunnel. How do you think they exported their moonshine? It leads to an apartment complex a block over - my apartment complex,” she added.
Dorian raised his eyebrows. He had hoped for an invitation back to her place, where he could coerce information out of her regarding Xander‘s location, but had not envisioned the alacrity with which it happened. “I would love to see your tunnel…and your apartment,” he answered at last.
Dorian followed Miranda across the room to a door which opened into a hallway, and then down the corridor to the last room on the left. Inside, a file cabinet surreptitiously concealed a hole with stairs leading father down into the earth.
After descending the steps, Dorian trailed behind Miranda as they walked through the tunnel, which was made of black asphalt and vast enough to support transportation vehicles. The gas lights on the walls, tokens to an antediluvian era, flickered as they gasped for oxygen.
Neither said a word, and soon they arrived at the far entrance, which was apparently hidden behind a work bench in the maintenance closet. Dorian crawled out first and then Miranda, who secured the furniture behind her. He wondered if she planned to kill him there or wait until they were alone.
Grasping his hand reassuringly, Miranda beamed at him then proceeded to guide him through the exit, down the corridor and then up the stairs to her abode. “I apologize for the mess,” she said, shutting the door behind her.
Dorian scrutinized the room. On the freshly painted, scarlet walls hung red and gold silk throws, which matched the gold trim, the new brick red carpeting, and the spotless velvet and gold sofa and chair.
“What mess?” he inquired. “It’s immaculate.”
“Oh, the one we’re about to make,” she mused, sauntering up to him and wrapping her arms around his waist. Her amber eyes glowed incandescently, a phenomenon Dorian knew preceded a Sang attack.
Reaching behind him, he grabbed the knife he had tucked away in his back pocket and held his breath. As she sank her teeth into his flesh he swung, burying the blade in her neck before retracting it and decapitating her. Without a sound, her head fell to the floor while body collapsed into a heap.
Dashing to the kitchen sink, Dorian quickly washed his knife, then quit the apartment. He had discerned something familiar while ascending the stairs to her place - something quaint and comforting, something that reminded him of home, and he wished to find its source.
After scouring both floors of the complex and finding nothing, Dorian pried open the basement door and descended the stairs. In the right far corner of the cellar, he noticed a murky figure looming in the darkness.
“Tristan?” he whispered into the shadows.
“They were waiting for me.”
“Xander,“ Dorian said, as he darted over to where his friend lay and hit the “off” button on the provisional panel. “This is Sang technology, albeit crude.”
“It wasn’t Xander, although I’m sure he was behind it,” Tristan muttered, but Dorian wasn’t paying attention; he was staring at his friend, who by this time had mastered his feet, and was now standing before him. He was approximately the same height and weight as Dorian - in fact, they shared similar physiques, but his face was markedly different, with paler skin, sharper features and blue eyes.
“It seems Lucien’s botched venture has come back to haunt us,” he responded at last, but Tristan was noticeably taciturn. “What’s the matter?”
“I pretended I was in a simulation, Dorian. It’s the only way I survived.”
Surveying his protege, Dorian labored to connect with his soul but all he felt was projected empathy and a rational understanding of his predicament. These were the consequential limitations of his new humanity, he thought, and for these as well as Tristan’s pain, he ached. “We‘ll talk later. We need to leave.”
The two departed the building and followed the back alley along it’s course behind the bars to the next intersection, where they turned left and continued until they reached a relatively abandoned section of the city. There, iron bars marred the squalid, scarred brick buildings and grime sullied the windows, which were now opaque. Dorian wondered what purpose iron bars served in such a place - to keep others out (who on earth would want to break in?) or to keep the habitants in. He had heard of such desperate living on Earth, but had not imagined it so brutal and callous.
Three young punks in bandanas paced along the contiguous street corner, and a seedy transvestite cruised the street; otherwise, they were alone.
Cutting into a entranceway, the two embraced and sat down.
“Tell me what you know,” Dorian ordered.
“The Sang criminal element didn’t survive beyond a year,“ Tristan replied, “but they converted a number of people before they died. Their offspring are human Sang - dead bodies preserved and occupied by Sang souls - parasites that feed off the blood of others before they murder them. Human society calls them “vampires” but their existence is promulgated as a myth.”
“So you were dying when I found you,” Dorian mused, as he remembered his first experimental mission to the planet when he had discovered a young, teenage boy dying in the back alleyway of a church. Though every rational thought had dictated he should end the botched Sang’s life, instinct had ordered him otherwise; intuition had gleaned something valuable in the otherwise evil devil’s blue eyes.
Tristan smiled self-consciously. “These vampires keep human slaves - terrorize them into obedience. One of their servants - a young kid named Josh - did some surveillance for me. Dorian, the Sang collapsed several worm-holes prematurely. We lost a whole unit.”
“And they lost two. I saw the results of some of our handiwork; it was quite horrible. I almost felt pity for them, and I didn’t think that possible.”
“But they deployed more active soldiers ,” Tristan countered, “which means they have the tactical advantage.”
“For now,” Dorian agreed, then fell silent as he remembered the horrific shrieks and ghastly creatures aboard the ship. How could he explain to Tristan he sacrificed dozens of people out of fear of discovery and exposure? How could he rationalize such wanton disregard for human life? “You may have felt weak and vulnerable in isolation, Tristan, but it is I who have committed murder,” he mumbled under his breath.
Tristan nodded sympathetically, but said nothing.
Averting his eyes from Tristan, Dorian stared off into the distance. “Off starboard, another ship - a yacht of some sort - was floundering in the water. I thought it was on fire, but then I saw the flames running about - I realized they were Sang, the ones we managed to abort through the worm-hole. But the screams I heard and the bodies below their burning feet weren’t our enemy’s, Tristan: they were human, and I turned away.” As Dorian recalled the horror, a deluge of guilt flooded his consciousness and he grasped his head in torment.
“You understand you couldn’t have interfered, Dorian. People would have seen you; word would have traveled back and the whole world would be alerted to our presence, but more importantly, Xander would know you were here. It would mean the end of our race.”
“What race?! What people?!” Dorian roared. “How many humans are worth a few hundred Noctii? How many do we allow to die so we can save ourselves? Do we fight for an endangered race, Tristan, do we really fight for those billions upon billons of Noctii and Bree and Quanta who perished, or do we fight for ourselves? Do we fight just so you and I can survive?”
Covering his face with his hands, Dorian wept quiet tears in frustration. “This is the passion of solitude. I have studied every human history book and every world culture, researched every military political hero from Julius Caesar to Winston Churchhill, even learned the ways of truculent villains like Attila, Minh and Hitler, and what I have gathered is that I am not fit to rule, Dorian, as a man.”
“Maybe you should cease being a man then, Dorian.”
The Noctii prince raised his head and looked at Tristan. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“It just seems we’ve spent so much time and energy and resources trying to adopt and become a part of a culture that is alien to us. We’ve tried to think, feel and be human because we happen to be wearing their clothes these days, but we’re not human and we’ll never be human, because on the inside, we’re Noctii through and through.”
Dorian thought back to the centuries he had spent preparing for this last mission, and wondered to himself if, as his friend had indicated, his intensive studies and rigorous simulation exercises had, in the end, been a tad exaggerated and overweening for the task. “Very well then, my future successor,” he quipped with a smile. “We will leave mankind to her independence and solitude, and we’ll embrace our heritage. People will think we‘re stramge, although I never comprehended how that made one a scoundrel.” Then putting his arm around Tristan, Dorian hugged his friend.
At that, the three young men in bandanas ceased their pacing and started across the street. Dorian and Tristan looked at one another, then rising, went over to meet them.