Bad Blood

Countdown

December 31st 2034

Madison Ave, NY

We are live in Times Square at 11:50 pm on this chilly New Year's Eve. Celebrations are in full swing despite the frigid 19°F, a shocking drop from yesterday's balmy 55°F. Meteorologists have shown some concern over a large stormfront headed this direction, it does not seem to have affected the celebrations however. Record breaking crowds have come out to see the new ball, redesigned by Waterford Crystal after last year's earthquake damaged the famous light. The new ball features 3500 crystals, sitting on a thirteen foot wide frame and weighs well over 12,000 pounds. The company promises a new year's display unlike any we've seen before...

The pert reporter's voice was drowned out by another loud toast. Tanner glared moodily between the massive television screen and Dracula, delivering yet another flowery speech. Former black ops and here he was babysitting a vampire. The Count had wanted to go down to Times Square and participate in the festivities. Tanner had told him it would be 'over his dead body', to which the arrogant little toe rag had replied in that smarmy voice, 'that could easily be arranged Captain.' They had nearly come to blows over it.

Poorly concealed rage brewed in Tanner's gut as he watched the vampire pretend to sip on golden champagne and mingle with his many wealthy guests. The Count was the picture perfect host, tall and dark and alluring, immaculate in his charcoal Savile row suit. But he knew the monster that lurked beneath that handsome exterior. He'd seen it firsthand when Dracula had savaged those prisoners without a second thought. The feral gleam in his eyes as he'd bit into Maggie. The arrogance and greed in his voice when he'd made her say his name. Tanner's throat constricted tightly, the delicate glass flute clenched in his hand, cracking.

Tanner had argued bitterly against Dracula's involvement, even if the idea had originally been Maggie's. The fact that she was not here beside him, that this monster was who he was forced to spend his days and nights with instead, had burned inside him for seven months. Like a slow poison. The Order of Ambrosius was one of the oldest secret societies on the planet. Wealth, power, resources beyond imagining. There was not a country they did not have access to, a government they could not topple if they so chose. All the wealth and power in the world and they chose him.

Dracula's midnight eyes gleamed mysteriously amidst dozens of torches, candles and crystal chandeliers. Centuries of amassed wealth, a state of the art penthouse on Madison Ave and yet the Count clung to the mystique of a bygone era. Expensive vintage suits, classic art, old wine, eclectic preferences in music, a mysterious accent. People loved him for it, drawn like moths to flame. Wherever he went there was not a man, woman or child he could not charm and beguile. Tanner had watched firsthand, disgusted and disappointed in his own gullible race. Dracula had agreed upon certain rules; no unwilling victims, no deaths, no creating more little bloodsuckers. There was nothing in his contract however that stated he could not feed upon willing donors, and Tanner had gone out of his way to make sure each and every one of the Count's little 'playmates' had been willing. The Order had even gone so far as to provide the Count with a steady supply of blood from the local blood bank. Tanner knew it would never be enough. Not in the long run. Dracula was no one's pet.

So the Captain and his team spent their nights babysitting the vampire. Attending one tedious soiree after another, watching him charm the pants off of everyone. He bided his time, knowing that one day the bloodsucker would slip up. One day he would show his true colors, and would let the monster out to play. Tanner would be there. To put him down.

A bosomy blonde in a tight spangled dress sidled up to Tanner, clearly a few drinks gone and oblivious to his foul mood. She giggled flirtatiously as he steered her into the seat beside him, promising to grab her another drink. Instead he escaped to the broad balcony, tossing his cracked glass over the side in a fit of pique.