"Oh, I know you hate it when I leave, don't you," the young man cooed to the orange cat currently in his arms. "Don't you? But I always come back, don't I? Yes, I do. Yes, I do!"
When the cat began to purr, the boy frowned and spoke in his regular voice. "Oh c'mon, that's just not fair. I'm hungry. I have to leave!"
Giving the cat a kiss on the head, the boy released it. It purred loudly, blinked once, and then darted from the room. Chuckling to himself, he grabbed everything he needed—his wallet, his grey trench coat that matched his grey fedora, sunglasses, and car keys.
"Bye, Ginger!"
Making sure the door to his apartment was locked, he began to whistle loudly as he made his way down three flights of stairs. At the bottom of the stairwell he flipped up the high collar of his trench coat, hit the unlock button to his car many more times than necessary, then bolted out the back door of the apartment complex.
Once situated in his car properly (sun visor down, slipping on the black leather gloves taken from his glove box), he relaxed a bit. Pressing the button that would start the engine, he quickly turned on some alt rock music. Smiling, the black BMW pulled out of its spot and whisked its driver away to his favorite diner.
~
The young man, who really wasn't more than a boy, abruptly stopped shoveling pancakes into his mouth and froze. His eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, still stared at the food. For a moment he collected himself. Once he felt adequately prepared, he spoke to the man he knew without even looking up to see who it was; the man who had slipped into the seat across from him utterly silently.
"I don't remember asking for company," the boy commented nonchalantly, still refusing to look up at his uninvited guest.
"Ugh, I don't know how you do that," spoke the voice in French, sounding thoroughly repulsed.
The boy, once on the cusp of being a man, finally lifted his eyes over the rims of his sunglasses. They were green, oddly lacking pupils. "I speak American English now, seeing as I live here."
"Yes, about that. It's a pity, really," the man continued in French.
The boy slammed his fist down, glaring at the man over his dark shades. His eyes, while they didn't hold pupils, became a darker shade of green as the irises became closer to the middle of the eyeball. The man across from him held the same unusual eyes; they were grey though, the color of storms.
"Speak to me in English."
"Fine, Marcus," he replied in heavily accented English with a roll of his eyes. He crossed his arms impatiently. "Any other ridiculous requirements I need to further fulfill?"
Marcus paused long enough to eat more pancakes. "I go by Marc, thank you."
"Tsch."
"Loïc," Marc said, leaning forward and dropping his voice to a deadly whisper. "I didn't ask you to come. If you have a problem with me—leave."
Loïc outright laughed at him. "Oh, my dearest Marcus."
Marc clutched the butter knife in his hand so tightly it bent and nearly broke.
Loïc looked bemused. "Sorry—Marc."
"I'm not your dearest," Marc literally snarled.
Loïc suddenly grew serious. Most people wouldn't have noticed the look as one of being offended. Marcus, however, had known Loïc long enough to read the expression for what it was. Marc smirked triumphantly.
"Fine," Loïc snapped quietly. "I find it pathetic that you're sitting here, eating like one of them. It's insulting to my sensibilities that you'd find residency in America of all places—and what's with that ridiculous accent you're doing?"
"I've lived in Chicago longer now than I ever did in France, Loïc." Marcus rose his natural blonde eyebrows then, slipping into French. "There's nothing ridiculous in the way I speak."
"You've grown soft," Loïc replied in English, his words biting and short. "You didn't even notice me until I was across from you."
Calmly Marcus put down his bent silverware, wiped off his mouth on his napkin, and then looked at his guest evenly. "Like I said, Loïc, if you've come here to do little more than insult me—"
Loïc spoke over him, laughing. "You think I want to be here?"
Marc raised his voice. "—to annoy me—"
"Of course that's not why I'm here—"
"—and to otherwise get on my last fucking nerve—"
"Oh come on, no need to use such language! Utterly unbecoming, for such a fine young man—"
"Leave!"
Loïc now sighed heavily. He looked at Marc evenly. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"I can't."
"Stop speaking in mysteries!" Marcus said to him in annoyed French.
Loïc now smiled. "I am working on behalf of my boss."
Marcus grew utterly serious now. Every fiber in his being was at attention, ready for anything. He was in such a high state of alert it was almost invigorating, not feeling adrenaline like that in years.
"So," Marcus said, his voice not only dropping in volume but in octaves. "You're his lapdog now?"
"Jealous?"
"Hardly."
A beat, and then, "Give it to me."
"No."
"Marcus."
Marcus removed his sunglasses, slipped them into his coat pocket, and gave a rather ferral look at Loïc. "I. Said. No."
Loïc moved his jaw side to side in a way that made it crack. Now looking positively murderous, he replied.
"We can do this the hard way, if you'd like. Although, I really wouldn't suggest it, given what you've just eaten and how soft you've gone."
Marcus grinned, revealing his eye teeth that were large fangs. "Try me."
"Marcus, please—"
"I don't have it."
Loïc blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "Well, where is it?"
Marcus grinned again. "I don't know."
Loïc sighed heavily and lumbered to his feet while shaking his head. In a manner that was purposefully slow, Loïc pulled out his wallet, counted out some money, and tossed it down on the table. Marcus frowned at the fact the money on the table was the correct currency. He then flicked his eyes up at Loïc.
"While I believed you on the first bit, about you not having it, I don't on the second. You know exactly where it is."
Marcus merely pursed his lips, looking up at Loïc.
"The meal's on me," Loïc said in English. He turned his back on Marcus. Pausing, he then spoke in French. "I just hope it's not your last."
Glowering, Marcus watched Loïc walk away. Marcus didn't stop watching him until he had left the diner, the doorbell chiming. It was only when Marcus let out a strangled sigh of relief did all Hell break loose.
Glass rained down on Marcus as the window was broken inward. He was thrown to the ground. To most everyone in the restaurant, it looked as though perhaps two animals were fighting. The gutteral noises being made would have furthered this assumption. People screamed, scrambling away from the booth and the two things fighting each other on the ground with movements that were so quick it was just a blur.
Rather abruptly, Marcus managed to get the upper hand. With both feet he kicked his attacker square in the chest. Causing more frightened and bewildered screams, the man flew clear across the room, hit the wall, and crumpled to the ground in a heap.
Marcus hadn't even waited for his assailant to hit the opposite wall before he took off running. As he flung himself out the door, he could hear the manager of the eatery screaming about suing for damages. Marc sort of scoffed to himself; it seemed he had much bigger problems now than being sued.
As though to prove this thought, Marcus was thrown to the ground by another attacker. The pair fought at such speed it looked as though two animals were fighting—flipping, clawing, biting at each other like two stray cats. The same snarls and growls emitted from the blurred ball, accented occasionally by a cry of pain.
Marc once again got the upper hand, though this time not unscathed. Clutching the right side of his neck, he tried to contain the blood pouring out of the area that had been ripped out by the other man's fangs. Trying to see straight, Marcus did the only thing that might save him; he ran out into oncoming traffic.
I will not pass out, I will not pass out, Marc thought to himself, over and over again as cars blared their horns and swerved around him. Taking the chance to look behind himself, Marc saw three men pursuing him. He moaned, pressing both palms to his neck now, blood pouring over his hands.
"Oh come on."
He was running, but it wasn't as fast as he could. Behind him, he could hear the sound of metallic crashes. His sensitive ears also picked up the sounds of feet running and jumping over and onto the roofs of cars.
Vision blurring, Marcus made his way to the other side of the street. Still running, he zig-zagged his way between buildings. After what felt like forever, he reached his destination. Barely conscious, he got down on his knees in a back alley. Grunting in effort he slid off a sewer cover, scrambled down the first few rungs of the ladder, and then re-covered the hole just as he saw the flash of running feet pass the alley.
Marcus clung to the ladder and shut his eyes. Counting off a minute, he then opened his eyes. Shakily he began his descent. Marc didn't get very far before he missed a rung and flopped to the ground below.
He passed out, though for how long he wasn't sure. He had twitched awake, smelling a rat close by. With movement quicker than lightning his hand shot out and he grabbed the rat. Though he was loathe to do so, he brought the rodent to his mouth and bit down, sucking all the blood from it.
One single rat wouldn't help much. Biting back a moan, Marc dragged himself to his feet. Hitting the wall several times with his shoulder, his feet carried him unsteadily towards the only person he knew he could trust.