Paragon Vanguard

The pretty blonde reporter stood in front of the blown out building, at a distance hardly considered safe even now, 8 hours later. The Vault Reserve sign was still standing, even though it was now covered in debris and dust. "As you can see we are the scene now, PPD only now allowing reporters to get this close, and only if we have the proper insurance clearance." "What is it like there on scene, Trish?" The male talking head from their studio asked, a look of deep concern on his over make up'ed face. "It is quiet here now, most officers and first responders have left, with a smaller crew here to keep lookie lues at a distance." "What is the feel on the scene, what are they telling you," the male head asked. "We have spoken to some first responders, off record of course, but it looks as if some unknown group is behind this. Possibly targeting first responders, or, more likely, the hero that showed up. We cannot confirm this information as it is an ongoing investigation, but it also has not been denied. The hero," she said, looking down at a paper she held just below camera shot, "Cyborgtron, confronted the responsible party, and moments later he detonated.....but we are not sure what. The second suspect, now dead, entered the building after first responders were inside, and also detonated some unknown bomb." "So you are saying it may appear that the suspect, or suspects, knew the hero involved?" The studio reporter furled his brows, barely able to get his forehead to wrinkle under the make up. "Off the record, it appears it may be the case. We have been unable to garner an interview with the hero," she looks back down to her notes, "Cyborgtron." "Just turn that off Mike," Tim said, a deep frown on his face. "Man, she is pretty, but she sure is dumb," Mike said, shaking his head in frustration. "The boss had nothing to do with this, and she knows it." "Maybe she knows, maybe not. She is simply reporting what others have told her, so she is not lying." Anson White, code named Storm Cloud, said with a look of concern. "That is her way of getting around it," Mike complained. Anson said nothing, but merely turned to his own business on the computer, even as Mike turned the news off. "We won't get any straight answers there," Mike said. "I still have friends in the media, I am trying to get what they know about this, even as Cyborgtron is speaking with the PPD," Anson assured Mike. Anson worked as a meteorologist before becoming a full time member of the Justice Fighters. "He may not get many straight answers there as well," Tim said, but it was not as accusing as Mike was. "They have to protect their investigation, and we are not officially being called in to help. Our charter allows us to patrol, to assist when needed, but we are not allowed to step over the PPD or any local law enforcement," Anson said, not looking up from his computer screen. The others just looked over to him, but said nothing else. Anson knew their charter by the letter, and would point out their directives without hardly thinking on it. Even now he only said what he said without really engaging the group, or taking his mind off of the computer screen. Still, it ended the conversation. The others simply nodded to what Anson said, before breaking up and going to tend to their own business. Cyborgtron and his wife, Electric Lady, stepped into the mayor's office. The chubby man offered a wide smile, before realizing this was a somber moment and frowned, wrinkling his brow and shaking his head in sorrow. "I am so sorry this occurred, and I hope you are okay," the mayor offered. "You wanted to speak to me?" The cyborg asked, as always, getting straight to the point.

He had ringing in the one ear that was actually his, the cybernetic ear on the other side was fine. It was capable of handling such a noise, as his body was of handling the explosion. His natural eye was unable to focus, but his cybernetic eye was feeding him plenty of information. Detective Rogers was standing over him asking him if he was okay, and there was smoke and debris everywhere. Apparently the explosion was enough to knock him out for a moment, even though he had programs still running in his mind that retained the information, and fed it to him as memory. No one in the building could have possibly survived, this memory was telling him. Memory of the human bomb exploding, the gore it produced for a brief moment before even that pretty much disintegrated. The cyborg gained his footing fairly easy and fast, the mechanics smooth and efficient. It was Rikti technology, at least some of it, and it was far beyond human in most functions. In fact, getting to his feet was so fast it caused Detective Rogers to step back, even though he was in no danger. "I guess you are, okay," the man said, then looked behind him at the building. There was no fire. The explosion was pure energy. Officers, followed by medics and firefighters, were rushing into the building. Cyborgtron was sure that was not a good idea, but it was not his call. There was no way of knowing if the integrity of the building was compromised. "Come on, you should get checked anyway," Detective Rogers said, but the cyborg shook his head no, and looked to the building. "There was nothing you could have done," he added, before heading to their command truck, no doubt to call his superiors. "Are you okay," the woman asked, and she was dressed as a nurse. It seemed a bit odd, a nurse and not a medic, but she may have been on her way to work, or on her way back. "I am fine, my components protect me, even the human looking part of me," he said, assuring. "Good, because that was some explosion. Those people in there," she said, frowning deeply. Cyborgtron looked to her face. She seemed truly worried and that bothered him, because maybe she blamed him, even if Detective Rogers did not. "You are not to blame," she said, as if reading his look. Something hard to do considering his face was mostly metal. "However, I cannot say the same for these first responders. They seem to let us down all the time." "I don't agree," he said, kind of shocked that a nurse would say such. "Well, anyway, I should get inside. Tick tick tick, time is wasting," she nodded reassuringly, with a pat on his arm. Cyborgtron watched as she hurried in, her tick tick tick not sitting well with him. He evaluated the situation outside, before moving toward the building himself. As he closed distance, another explosion sounded. This time the cyborg did not fall, but only stopped in his tracks, completely stunned at the horror that just occurred.

The bank had been robbed before, but Vault Reserve, to his knowledge, had not. It was high tech security, even though it did not appear to be from the outside. The thought was, that the vault and the safes within were so secure, armed security was minimal. Of course there were always those that strove to test something that seemed impossible. No doubt, this was one of those times. "Glad you are here," detective Rogers said. He was a middle aged black man, polite and kind, but always to the point when it came to his job. While Cyborgtron was on good terms with most officers, he really liked Rogers. They were actually friends that worked together on the police force, before Cyborgtron was maimed in the line of duty. They seldom visited now, and usually only saw one another at times like this. "What are we looking at?" Cyborgtron stood behind the police units and barricades, but if it was a two bit thief with a gun they could hardly harm him. "I don't know. He said he has some kind of bomb, and is willing to kill the civilians if we move close." "Do we know for sure he has a bomb," Cyborgtron asked, even as he began to scan the place with his heat seeking cybernetic eye. There were six people inside, but he could not tell who the potential bomber was. "No. We have not seen him yet, he called us on his cell phone and reported what he was doing." Cyborgtron nodded at first, then looked to the detective, even as the thermal seeking mechanism shut off. "He called?" "Yes, he called 911 and reported what he was doing. Possibly before he even entered, but we can't be sure. He said everyone inside is safe, but if we try to enter he will blow them all up." "Credible?" Detective Rogers shrugged, "I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine. He hasn't spoken to any of us, hasn't made any calls since, and no one has exited the building." "There are six people in there that I could tell," Cyborgtron said. There were cases where he could not see the criminal, even with his thermal imaging. "That's more than we knew," the detective replied, writing the information down. "I guess I should make contact with him," the cyborg said, but was also asking. He was trained in negotiating. "Your credentials are better than mine these days," the detective said. Cyborgtron looked over to see if there was some kind of negativity in his face to that. There was not, but he still wondered if Rogers resented his position with the federal government. He just nodded to that, and approached the building. "You rang," the middle aged man said, standing just in the doorway. He was heavy set and balding, nothing like what Cyborgtron thought. The cyborg approached the door, and before he could look in the man came out, very suddenly. "I am called Cyborgtron," he said, holding his hands chest level and out in a show of non-aggression. It was quite comical, if the situation was not serious, considering the cyborg was a walking weapon. "I know who you are. I know what group you belong to. I know you were an officer. I know ...I know...I know...." the middle aged man said, his smile growing broad. "You do not appear to have a bomb," the cyborg said, looking the man over. "Am I to assume you do not, and that this is simply a way to get some attention for something?" "No, you cannot assume such," the man said. "I am Ticking Bomb. Tick tick tick, and if you make a move toward me or to enter, I will blow everyone up." In a city of super powered people, it was hard to not take the man serious, even if Cyborgtron doubted. "You know all about that don't you. Blowing up. Kaboom. You aren't really a super, you are a machine." Cyborgtron looked the man over, and began to think this was something personal. He did not recognize the man, but surely this guy had a grudge. "It's hard to tell if that upset you, you know, you are not very expressive. I suppose it is hard to do when half of your face is made of metal." "So you have explosives inside, do you have demands," the cyborg asked, refusing to be drawn into an argument with the man. "No, I do not. My only demand is do not enter. It is very important that no one enters. You have to understand that," the man said, his voice now low as if someone was listening. "Do you understand that?" Cyborgtron didn't answer, instead he looked past the man to the building. "If we are to take you serious, you will have to give us something. At least tell us what we are dealing with." "A bomb....tick tick tick.......a bomb." the middle aged man replied, looking past the hero to the officers and civilians all lined up to watch the show. "A bomb doesn't know, does it. It doesn't care. The only thing it cares about is exploding. It is those that use the bomb that have demands. If the bomb is walking and talking, tick tick tick, why should it care. It has only one demand, that it explodes." "Are you the bomb," the cyborg asked, looking at the man, skeptical of him living to this age and having been a human bomb. "I am, and no one needs to be harmed," he replied, backing back into Vault Reserve. "But they will," he said with a smile, before the entire building exploded outwards, knocking the 500 pound cyborg off of his feet and flinging him through two bus stops before smashing him into a police unit.

Maurice Feldon looked over the cyborg's hardware before glancing up at him with a smile. "I see you have new teleportation cybernetics implanted. Unless I miss my guess, these are from the auction house?" David Hatchinson nodded, "It helps to get me around the city quickly when needed." Maurice chuckled only slightly, knowing that many heroes auctioned items they found, in order to support their income. Equipment could be expensive, especially if one of them decided they wish fight the more equipped criminals. "It all checks out. How is that Ouroboros program working? I know you said it was clunky and did not interface well." "It will do," Cyborgtron offered a smile. "Whatever power is obtained through the strange symbol causes problems with other programming, especially my teleportation ones. It does not seem to effect my defenses though." Maurice looked at the symbol but simply shook his head, not knowing enough about it all to even venture a solution. His only solution would be to remove it, and never use it again. He had no intention of ever venturing to such a place, and could see no good in others using time travel. "We can remove it if necessary, but other than that I would suggest using it cautiously." David Hatchinson had been a well decorated officer, before a bomb tore him and his world apart. The city council petitioned the federal government to have experimental cybernetics used on him, and the operation was a success. They then had a program introduced to keep him under their control. They justified this because the cybernetics were experimental. However, with the help of his wife, David Hatchinson overcame this program, and they eventually relented, and removed it. Maurice tended to Cyborgtron's check ups, his lab on the lower floor of City Hall. His system was working as well as it had 10 years ago, yet Maurice did not like to see unknown programming attached. However, neither he, nor the council, nor the federal government, had any say over Cyborgtron. The hero won his suit in court to be a free man, and the government had to help him maintain his cybernetics. It helped that Cyborgtron's wife, also a hero, was a well known lawyer. "Thank you Maurice," Cybortron said offering a smile. He was a friendly, kind man. Maurice knew him to be a true hero, someone who thought of the good of others over himself. Of course they were in a city of heroes, and many like him could be found. "No worries, and remember what I said about the Ouroboros program," he reminded the cyborg. Cyborgtron simply shook his head and left, Maurice knowing full well that if he felt it was necessary, the cyborg would use the program, even at his own detriment. Cyborgtron walked through the base, the sound of his metallic feet hitting the floor echoing throughout. He could never hope to sneak up on anyone, they all knew when he was near. Of course he was built like a tank, so sneaking was not something he deemed necessary. Well, not often. "Where is everyone," he asked, the giant Tim looking back from the huge chair he was sitting in. The huge chare that he made look small. "Your wife and daughter are off the radar," he said, meaning they were on personal errands. David knew this already, but did not say anything. He knew they were shopping in one of the new stores built in Skyway. "Uhm, Deathbinder is on Peregrin Island, he did not say why. I decided not to keep track on him, but his relay is still on and I can track it if you wish." Cyborgtron shook his head, and waited for the rest of the report. "Shock Therapy and the Twins are dealing with some gang activity in King's Row, but they said all is clear, and only awaiting PPD," he finished, then shrugged after that. The cyborg nodded, looking at the map of the city. There were no real hot spots. PPD would put up the warning at times for those heroes able to monitor. They had a police scanner fed directly to the base, as well each individual member with their own scanners for the precinct they were currently near. Cyborgtron had left Titan Tim to his monitoring duty, something they took turns doing week to week. All members could be summoned, including the one monitoring, if need be, but day to day activities usually did not require such. They were Justice Fighters, and they were willing to help, from the beat cop, to the president of the United States, to the United Nations, if need be. They were registered in every way possible, making their team legal to practice in most states across the country. Their base however was in Paragon City, and it was a city that seemed to attract enough crime to keep them busy. David entered his own private quarters, shared with his wife and children, which branched into their different bedrooms. However, he was not coming here to rest. He then entered his personal monitoring station, in hopes to catch his wife before she left Skyway. There were some personal items he was hoping she could pick up. The equipment was basically a private phone service, something he had put together. It could not be monitored by any outside source. It was for private family moments, not to be shared with even his team. They all lived and breathed Justice Fighters, even his kids were junior members, but there was something about the privacy of family that was needed. He was about to call them when he saw the red flashing light. Titan Tim needed him, and that always meant trouble, somewhere.

*Luke reads the bulletin asking for advice, nods a bit, and pens an answer* First I must say, I don't see anything wrong with bragging if it is truth. Personally, I don't bother with one of those outdated super hero names, I am Luke Minhere, and if you spend anytime in Paragon City, especially around Steel or Skyway, you will see me modeling todays most fashionable underwear via billboards. Don't fall in love, and for the record, my sidekicks in those escapades are all female. With that said, I do have some advice for you. Stay away from the Islands, the water there will turn you ghoulish and there are people who will try and throw up on you, right out on the street. I know people will claim the same in the city, but at least there aren't officers standing there watching them do it. The ones in Paragon have to stay closer to, and in, the sewers, where they belong. As far as worrying about teams, again, let me impart some advice. Don't join them. You can make a fortune freelancing, trust me. If you need a team, there are always some suckers who will join for minimal pay. Trust me, not all of my bank has come from my awesomely good looks. Besides, you can take a trip to the Islands anytime you like, though I can't see why you would like. As far as Arachnos goes, losers, everyone of them. They don't pay near what they should, especially since you will be fighting against every sup that stretches spandex. Live in comfort while you adventure in style is what I say, among many other great words of intellect. Paragon City is your best bet. I see this notice is a bit old possibly, and I am in hopes you actually see my response before it is too late. However, you can always learn your lesson and hitch a ride back to civilization. I have met some people from where you are from, and you should be thanking every god out there that you were able to transition to here, even if you are stuck Rogue Islanding it for a while. Peace, and remember, it isn't truly heroic, unless you truly do it in style. Don't Mind Using My Name, Luke Minhere P.S. You may be tempted to hit Pocket D, but last I was in there I couldn't find any shorties better than a Paragon 6....Rogue Island 8.

( https://forums.homecomingservers.com/topic/13502-jerrin-bloodlette-vampire/?tab=comments#comment-151960 Origin story, not needed for this short story) The Blood I Seek A Jerrin Bloodlette Story I met him, just the other day. He was pale and cold, and while this describes his appearance perfectly, it also describes his mood. I do not wish to get too far ahead of myself, but I must describe to any reader who he is, even before I tell the tale. He told me his name was Jerrin Crimlette. An odd name to be sure, but I chose not to question him further on it. I knew there was something special about him when I met him, something different, yet at the time I could not say for sure what it was. Many have lived tragic lives and are brooding and downcast, and Mr. Crimlette was definitely that, but there was more. The first thing one would notice of him is his hair. A dark, almost crimson color. It hung to his shoulders, perfect in form. His skin is pale, and makes one think of the first frost of the year. When he shook my hand, he felt cold, as if his blood was not delivering the warmth that it should. Mind you, these are not aspects that I have not seen on others, but I have never seen ones form match their personality as I did him. We were at a ball hosted by one of the high societies of Paragon City, no doubt to impress some politician or other powerful person. It is unimportant at this time who hosted a party for whom, and I must leave their names from this. I will say that he enthralled any who spoke to him. It was hard to take your eyes from him, or to pull your attention away to speak to others, that is, until he pulled his own attention away. Maybe my years of reporting and writing allowed me to see this, but the others went on with their nights and their conversations, some looking back to him almost in hopes that they would draw his attention again. That is saying much as these parties always bring in some of the heroes of the city, who themselves would draw much attention. In contrast, he did not seem to want the attention for long. He knew the power he had over others, but it seemed a reluctant power, and it seemed at times an unwanted attribute, as if he was simply wishing to have a real conversation with someone. Sadly, it did not happen, and as the night moved on he seemed to speak to fewer people. I caught some of the conversations, and none were really worth retelling. He spoke of how things were going in the city. He spoke of how his own business investments were doing, depending on whom he was speaking to. It was apparent that he was quite wealthy, but I have no idea where his wealth comes from. As a reporter it seems odd I had no knowledge of a man that garnered so much unwanted scrutiny. The night grew long, as they do for these parties, until it was no longer evening, but early morning. I had made my own way around the party, speaking to some I know, being avoided by others who had no desire to speak to a reporter. Yes, I was there working the party, but not really in need of an angle or any such. It spoke for itself. The rich gathering to speak of how rich they were, the popular and beautiful being tugged along by the rich. The heroes being invited because a party is not a party without some of them mixing with high society. Heroes are a true novelty among this group. My mind wondered back to Mr. Crimlette even as the party began to dwindle, and eventually I found him, the attention of two debutants focused sharply on him, as he charmed them with some conversation. I had a feeling he could have been insulting them and they would have still looked on him with such awe. Or was it lust? There was something about this man, and I found myself wanting to speak to him again. It wasn't the same emotion that the two ladies were experiencing, but my curiosity about who he is was just as strong. As he made his way from the ballroom with the two ladies, I followed at a distance. I felt like a creep, wishing to take a peep at something not meant for my eyes, yet I knew there was something besides sexuality going on here. I carefully entered the bedroom, one of so many on this top floor, that the three entered. It was very large, as large as some apartments, and it was easy to hide behind the many pieces of cloth that hung about. The ladies were giggling as if intoxicated, but also saying things that I cannot write, telling that they were neither debutantes nor ladies. Needless to say they were very much in anticipation of the experience they would soon share. Mr. Crimlette's back was to me. The ladies could not take their eyes from him, so I was secure in my hiding place. One was laid across the bed, exposed and reaching for him, the other was rubbing his back and biting at his ear. He bent over, as if to kiss the one laying down. She moaned, as if the two shared more than a very long kiss. When he lifted his head, she had stopped moving, as if she had fallen asleep, no longer interested in the night's escapade. Her friend pushed Mr. Crimlette to his back, the two alongside the sleeping girl, and climbed on top of him. She began to kiss his neck, but suddenly stiffened, as if ecstasy had rendered her immobile. She too fell over, as if asleep, with Mr. Crimlette sitting there, his lips now blood red. I wanted to run, but I could not. Something kept me there, as if my legs simply would not listen to me. Maybe it was my fear, or maybe it was him, because his eyes soon found my hiding place and bore into me, red and dangerous now. "I am Jerrin Bloodlette, though you would not know the name," he said to me, and I could only listen. "These women, as you will find out soon enough, are not suppose to be here. They are in fact members of the Carnival of Shadows, young members, not very dangerous really. However, they were here for a reason, as was I. I was here to find them. I found them. Had I not enthralled them, they would have enthralled some other, a target of some desire. I will not get into that, as it has nothing to do with you, and it is something you do not wish to know, I assure you. However, you will write your story, minus my name. You will point the authorities in the right direction." Jerrin Bloodlette wiped his mouth, and buttoned his fine shirt up, preparing to leave. "W--wait. Why did ....are you some kind of hero?" I foolishly asked him. His cold eyes looked on me, and I found myself locked in his gaze. He was no hero. "I am looking for something. I found this information as I was looking for it. Had I not, I would have fed on someone else tonight. Someone less, deserving. When I am hungry, it matters little. The blood I seek," he replied. He was deeply saddened by what he was, it was apparent, but he also was resigned to what he was. I have printed the part of the story he wished me to print, leaving out what he wished me leave out. I have not caved to The Family, nor any other gang in my reporting of truth, yet, in this case, I knew it was not my life only that was at stake, but my mortal soul was in danger, were I to release more of this story. Instead, I have kept it on a flashdrive, for what reason I do not know, but well hidden. If you are reading this now though, I beg if you stole it do not release it, ever. If it has been released, then I am, most probably, dead, and found my own life flow the blood that he sought.

Great Idea! Try to color the power to fit what you would think is wind, and go from there. Maybe make some emotes so people know you are using wind and not gravity.

((Most awesome. I did have a look about, though no one was there. Am interested in fostering some rp from it. I cannot at this time join the guild, but can make some toons if you are in need. My idea is for one of my SG's young wards to attend it.)) Head Mistress Blackthistle, I was made aware of your school and am very interested in it. We have a young ward that is in need of proper schooling, especially in his abilities. While we provide some training to him, our time is sparse, and none of us are actual teachers. I can see where your school would be very helpful to him. I have concerns about it's location and the safety of my ward, and would like to speak further with you on this. For obvious reasons I prefer to not name him, or even his other guardians, at this time. Please let me know when you are available and I will attempt to meet you then. Dr. James K. Wild, PHD ((Let me know the times you are usually on, or how to get in touch if you will. Looking forward to rp))

Vanguard found the two conspirators hiding in Vinny's office. Vinny was no coward, though the big man's power was quite scary. Still, he shot a slug from his .44 magnum directly into the big V on the chest of the hero. It had little effect. Vanguard quickly took the man's gun away, and careful not to kill him, slapped Vinny in the jaw. The gangster boss crumpled to the floor, his gun, now just a ball of crushed metal, dropped with a thud by him. Stanford, however, coward beneath Vinny's desk, until Vanguard told him to come out. He was obviously scared for his life, the gunshot not having helped that one bit. "I, I can give you......." he began, but seeing the frown on the big man deepen let the sentence drop. "Well done, Paragon Vanguard," Detective Hutchinson said, a big smile on his face as he motioned for the PPD officers to take the two criminals that were hanging helpless from the big hands of the hero. "Not really, sir," Vanguard said, handing the two miscreants over to the officers. He had stood there, holding the two, who at first were kicking and trying to get away, for about 5 minutes. He endured the promises of plenty of cash if he just put them down and let them go. "I actually followed that one," he said, pointing to Stanford," because I was worried he would kill himself over the loss of his wife. I was as fooled as everyone else." Hutchinson grinned and patted Vanguard on his massive shoulder. "Luck is just as good as skill, my friend." Epilogue Michael Summers was up late looking out of his back sliding glass doors, the moon light showing in on him, when Kathy came up from behind and placed her hand on his back. "You okay?" She asked, offering him a smile. "Yeah, I am. Just beating myself up because I really believed Stanford. He had me convinced." "So," she said, the smile still there. Michael looked to her, his head tilted a bit, wondering where she was going with that. "I believed him too," she went on. "Is Michael Summers then beyond being fooled by an apparent grieving man, even though his wife is not. Should I be beating myself up over it?" "Of course not," he said, then let out a sigh. "I am doing it again, aren't I?" "Yes you are. You think because God has gifted you with the power to protect people, that you must be perfect. Well you aren't, and no one expects you to be. We expect you to be a good man, and I would rather you concern yourself with 10 friends who need your support, and 1 turn out to be liar, than you to refuse to care." Michael smiled, and was about to say something when his phone rang. "You get that, I will get the hot chocolate, and you can meet me in the bed room, big boy," Kathy said, and headed to the kitchen. Kathy sighed as she made the hot chocolate. Her husband tried to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. As massive as they were, they could not hold the weight of what the world was becoming. The water began to boil as Michael walked back in, a grin on his face. "It seems Bob Smith and his wife were arrested by the Memphis Police Department. He was trying to skip out of the Hilton Towers without paying the bill. Hutchinson is taking a plane to get him." "Well thank God this is all over, he will be relieved for sure." Memphis, Hours Later Detective Hutchinson had the two brought to the airport via taxi. He was not putting them in his rental. He could still hear Mrs. Smith as the taxi screeched off. She was present when the detective explained everything that happened to the Memphis police officers, and assured them that the Hilton bill would be paid. "......and further more, momma said I should have never married you, you were no good, you were two bit, and you had shifty eyes. I kind of liked your eyes Bob, but they are shifty sometimes. Momma said you weren't normal. You know what Bob, THIS IS NOT NORMAL!" Bob sighed, and looked out at the Memphis buildings, as the taxi carried him to the airport. He could not help but wonder if normal was ever going to be normal again. THE END

Oddly, Stanford did not head to his home. He headed to the docks. Not a particularly safe place for an accountant, and Paragon Vanguard wondered if the man even cared. He seemed very emotional, and who would not be, considering the trials the man went through. Stanford's car rounded the docks, and stopped by a warehouse. It was a very unimposing warehouse, for that matter. It was not in the safest of areas, as this part of town was full of gang members, and this particular part filled with Family, notorious gangsters that cared only for money and power. The doors were opened however, and Stanford was motioned inside. It was really becoming odd. Odder still, Vanguard was pretty sure this was near where the man's wife was found murdered. Maybe Stanford was investigating the murder on his own, his mourning causing him to not think things through? Paragon Vanguard would have to investigate further. Stanford, little to his own knowledge, was surely in great danger now. "They call us Mirror...." the one began. ".....Mirror" the other finished. It mattered little to Vanguard, as both connected his jaw with a very powerful punch, sending him falling back. Falling back, something Paragon Vanguard seldom did. As fast as the two look alike thugs hit him, they were back on top of him, ready to pound some more. They wore pin stripe suits, and were obvious gang members. However, by the chords leading from their arms to their backs, they were augmented in some way. To make things worse, they worked perfectly together. Before the hero could get up, the two connected his ribs with a very powerful kick, one on each side, causing Vanguard to lose his breath completely. Vanguard sent a back fist right into the face of one of the twins. He didn't hold back like he normally had to, these guys were tough, and surely a match for him. As the one that was hit spun about and slid across the floor, the other also looked dazed, and but for a moment, stumbled backwards. This gave Vanguard enough time to recover, and he was on the twin still standing. He covered the distance quickly, leading with his fist, right into the chest of his target, before he felt the other brother on his back, an arm snaking around his neck. Once again though, both brothers grunted, and Vanguard began to wonder if he was really dealing with twins. Vanguard had made his way into the warehouse, unnoticed as he entered through a sky window. What he saw shocked him. What he heard, shocked him even more. "Where is that coward of a man," Stanford asked, then chuckled a bit. "What are you doing here, Stanford. You really should not be here," Vinny said, a deep frown on his face. "If anyone saw you come in..." "Relax. No one is watching me. I am the grieving husband that finds it hard to believe his employee, Bob Smith, would actually kill is wife in a lover's fit. Bob was perfect," Stanford laughed. "And now I am done with the bimbo, and she can't touch a bit of money. I am free to party, like any rich man should, without the fear of paying alimony." Vinny shook his head, and continued to frown. "You are having too much fun, Stanford. For me, this is business." "Good. Here is the money I said I would pay you, a fraction of what my wife would have gotten. We are done after this. No more contact. You will be done with my firm, not wanting the trouble. I will be a saddened millionaire, who's only consolable bright spot in this darkness is that the life insurance I took out on my wife will pay me a considerable amount." "You are a hard man Stanford. However, if you get caught, it's all on you. You killed her, not me. I only helped you cook up this story of Bob Smith," Vinny said, taking the money. It was at this time that Vanguard had heard enough. His anger had gotten the better of him. He should have simply called the police, and let them handle Stanford and Vinny. He just couldn't wait. "You aren't going anywhere, either of you," Paragon called as he lighted to the floor. "The police will be notified and you two will be going to jail. You, Stanford, for the murder of your wife." Stanford's eyes got big, he knew he was caught. "Vinny, help," Stanford squeaked, and turned to run. "Boys, take the trash out," Vinny called, backing away from Vanguard, as twins dressed in tailored pin stripe suits stood between Vanguard and the two conspirators. Vanguard spun the one on his back around, and crashed directly into the other. With all of his strength he pushed them all through the side of the building, taking down metal beams and steel siding. The twins were ripped apart from him, as all three sprawled onto the cement outside. One of the twins was bleeding pretty bad from a cut on his cheek, oddly enough, the other was holding the same cheek as if he felt the pain as well. They both looked to him, this time hate and murder were etched in their eyes. Paragon knew murder was not something new to these guys. "You die, hero, like other heroes before you," they both said together. "No," Vanguard said, and with supersonic speed, raced to the one that had the injured cheek, both fists in front of him. At the last moment he drew back his right fist, and then drove it into the face of the gangster, a "superman punch" from a super man. Bone and flesh gave, and the gangster fell with a thud. Vanguard looked back, and knew then that his theory was correct, as the other one buckled and fell to the ground. They were not twins. As their bodies melded back together, it was apparent they were really one person. "Mirror Mirror," he said low, understanding the name now. Vanguard looked up from the super villain, to the building where the devious plotters were hiding. This was not over.

"Well, it seems then at least they have a lead," Michael told Stanford, and nodded as he did so. The man was very distraught, still. He was telling Michael how he had to see a psychologist now, and seemed very embarrassed about it. "Yes, but nothing they do will bring my wife back," he put his head down. What could Michael say to that? It was true. He was not really much of a help either. He was not a detective. Not all heroes were detectives, that was only in the comic books. This was real life. A real person was dead. He was not about to play detective. Instead, he offered as much help and comfort to his accountant as possible. "I am so depressed," Stanford said, and lowered his head and cried. Michael simply patted him on the shoulder, gentle even for a huge man with super strength. Kathy came in with some cookies and placed the platter before the two, before sitting down as well. She looked to her husband who apparently looked at a loss for words. Kathy could not blame him, she had no idea what to tell Stanford either. A story of her mother passing away of old age? A distant cousin that she had a pen pal friendship with that died in a car wreck? No, none of those can compare to the loss of a spouse. Apparently a very beloved spouse. There was few words between them, though Stanford did pull himself together as he headed for the door. He said that the police were looking into Bob Smith, an employee of his accounting firm. He was sure that Bob had nothing to do with it though, but the police insisted. "Where are you going?" Kathy asked, as they walked him to the door. "For a drive, I just need to be alone," he said, his head bowed some. "You can stay here longer if you need," Michael assured him, but deep down he really was a bit relieved to see the man go. "No no, I have taken up too much of your evening already. It is getting near 10," he assured them, and was soon in his car and driving off. "I can't even imagine how he must feel," Michael said, looking to Kathy as they watched the tail lights of the car leave the drive. "Me either, I kept trying to think of words, but came up blank." "Guess there really isn't words that can help someone so depressed," Michael sighed, then noticed his wife's very worried look as she watched the car. "What are you thinking?" He asked, following her gaze. "He is very depressed. Do you think it would be best for you to maybe follow him a bit and make sure he does not harm himself?" She asked, looking to her husband. Michael nodded, and grabbed for the keys to their car. "Michael," she chuckled a bit looking to him, with one brow raised. "Oh, yeah, I will get my suit," he said, with a grin on his own face. It would be much easier to follow him as Paragon Vanguard than as Michael Summers.

"Why are we leaving, we should be here for two weeks, you said Vinny said we could," Mrs. Smith complained, as Bob hurriedly packed his bags. "We have other sites to see," he said, motioning her to hurry. "So why the hurry Bob, why the hurry? I had planned for a good movie tonight, you know that one with that handsome curly haired guy I like," she fussed, but began packing. "Bob, you are sweating. You never hardly ever sweat. Why are you sweating?" "It's hot in here, and I am in my sweater, dear," he offered, hurriedly packing still. Bob Smith's day was okay, considering he was on the run for a murder he did not commit, the victim a friend's wife he did not have an affair with, despite how it all looked. It was okay, that is, until he got the bill. The bill. Not the receipt. Not the paper showing that he paid in full. No no, the bill. To many this would not mean time to panic, but to Bob, this was somewhere beyond panic time. It was more like sit down and have a panic attack, and hope to die, time. He tried hard to call Vinny, but only got his voice mail. There was no way he could afford 4 days and nights in the Memphis Hilton Towers. It would completely drain his bank account, and then some. He would then be stuck on the streets of Memphis. "Out of control, this is out of control," he said low, to himself. "What did you say honey, I didn't hear you," Mrs. Smith asked, as she slowly, ever so slowly it seemed to Bob, packed her things. "Nothing dear, just pack. Just pack that suitcase, and dont worry about nothing." How could he tell her that they were on the run from the cops, that Vinny said had been snooping around. He said that he would deal with them, but it was a good idea to lay low none the less. He said all expenses would be paid. He said he would take care of Bob. He of course knew how to do that, in the line of work he did. The fact that he was obviously associated with the Family of Paragon City meant he had plenty of connections. Bob on the other hand had no connections. He was not connected to anything but his wife and two kids. His two car garage, and his very normal life. No, no connections. Except for Vinny. Vinny, who, for some reason, has stopped paying for the Hotel Room. All expenses paid has suddenly turned into no expenses paid. Call me anytime has turned into can't get in touch with you Vinny. This may be normal for some people, but not for Bob Smith. "Can we take the drinks," Mrs. Smith asked, looking to Bob with a grin. "WOULD YOU JUST PACK", Bob shouted, and quickly covered his mouth. Not normal at all.

Poplar street, Memphis Bob was very unsure why it was called that. It was not a normal street, no not at all. He watched the traffic out of his hotel room, thinking at any moment one of those cars could be the cops, or FBI, are whoever they sent after men who murdered their mistress and skipped town. Never mind he did not murder anyone, and did not have a mistress. He did however skip town. It was the only way Vinny would help him. He would set him up in Memphis for a bit, at least until things cooled down. This was a week ago. "Oh Bob, you should relax. It is our first vacation we have had in years!" Mrs. Smith called from the other room. This caused his lip to twitch a bit. A twitch was not normal. He liked his life with his normal wife, and normal kids. The kids, thank God, was at their aunts in Washington for now. He and his wife were enjoying their "second honeymoon", or so he told everyone. They were in a popular, expensive hotel chain. Vinny had him sign up, but was paying the cost. In fact, the first two nights receipts were shoved under his door, marked "paid in full", despite the fact that his wife ordered midnight snacks brought up to the room, all of the movies she could watch in a day, and additions to the wet bar. Sometimes she did not even watch the movies, she ordered them and left the room to do whatever she was doing, the cost fully paid, the movie going unwatched. His life was spiraling completely out of control. Of course he never told her that they were in a room paid for by a gangster, because it appeared that he killed his mistress, which happened to be his boss' wife, while at a party full of hookers and alcohol. No, one did not tell their wives this. Not normally, anyway. And if he was nothing else, he was normal. "I will be there in a minute," he called back, barely loud enough for her to hear over the television that she was not watching. Bob watched as the snow began to fall, ever so slightly. Paragon City Michael Summers stood at the door of the house, as the Sheriff's detective went through the proper etiquette's of a search warrant. Stanford kept looking to Michael for answers, Michael only shook his head and nodded toward the officers. Once they were done explaining it to him, they began to search the home. "Why are they doing this Mr. Summers?" he asked. Michael had received a heads up that they were doing the search from his detective friend, that he called in some favors and Michael would be allowed to be present, as long as he stayed out of the way. "They have to cover all bases, that is all." Michael assured him, but was not completely sure that was the case. He would not have been made privy to any information concerning this case. He was neither a detective nor an officer. People misunderstood many heroes rolls in society, thinking all of them worked directly with the police departments. It simply was not true. Michael was, in fact, simply a professor, that happened to have super powers. Brolin, his friend at the police department, was only returning a favor, after Michael helped him with some gangs in Atlas. He did not seem too pleased about that. Thankfully Brolin worked well with heroes, even the ones that were not considered law enforcement. "Do they think that I killed her," he asked, a look of fear on his face, mixed with the sadness of his situation. "I could never have." Michael simply shook his head. "What little I do know is that they have to cover all bases, which means they have to show that you did not do it." This seemed to put Stanford a bit more at ease, and the two stood their silently for a bit until one of the detectives called Stanford over. Michael followed. "Ever seen this before," the detective asked, showing Stanford a loose leaf paper with something written on it. "Or these," he showed him some other opened envelopes with apparently more letters in them. Stanford went to reach for them, but the detective pulled them back. "Just read, don't touch." Stanford read over it, his face a mask of confusion. "Bob?" He asked, and looked to the detective. The detective simply looked to him for answers. "I didn't write that letter," he said. Another detective looked over, as he was looking through the other letters. "All signed, 'love Bob' ", he offered. "Bob? She doesn't know a Bob. Could those be old letters or something?" he asked, but even as he was asking, it was obvious the paper on many of them was not that old. "I never saw these, where did you find them?" "They were in her wardrobe closet, in the drawer, under some magazines." The detective offered. Michael suddenly felt very uncomfortable, as Stanford looked to him, then back to the officers. "Bob Smith is the only Bob that we know," he offered, but shook his head even as he said it. "Bob Smith just is not the type, could never." The first detective looked to the other, and both nodded at one another. "Tell me about Bob Smith," he prompted.

"I can't believe she is dead," he kept telling Michael, after having explained that his wife was found murdered at the dock in Independence Port. Michael felt a bit out of place, standing there with his W forms, his pay checks from the last year, his receipts, and everything he would need to have his taxes done. Tax time can be a bit of an emotional time for many, happy if you are getting back, a bit stressed if you are giving, and at ease if you find neither true for you. Stanford just stood there at the door of the Summer's house, just on the edge of Paragon City. It was indeed a suburb of the city, though the yards were large and flush, and the neighbors were not very close. "Invite him in honey," Kathy said behind Michael, who apparently had no idea how to deal with a sobbing accountant that was suppose to be showing up to gather his tax information. Stanford always did come to the Summer's home, feeling it was a privilege to work with a super hero. Michael was a bit put off with this at first, but he soon warmed up to the idea, especially since Stanford was a no nonsense accountant. He never cut corners. He did not try to gain you a better tax cut by "fluffing the numbers", as one accountant promised Michael one year. No, he seemed to be very honest. "Please come in," he said to the man, moving his huge frame out of the doorway, and allowing the accountant to enter. Stanford was normally well in control of things. He was handsome, blond wavy hair, and a pleasant smile that put everyone around him at ease. He was built like an athlete, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. Michael lead Stanford into their dining room, and the two sat at the table. Kathy went to get them some coffee, making motions to her husband to encourage the accountant to speak. Michael Summers could not help but think that he was a teacher, not a psychologist. Alas, the man did need to talk, and Michael could not turn him away. Especially with Mrs. Summers expecting otherwise. "I am so sorry, Mr. Summers. I do not usually bring my troubles to my clients, you do understand," Stanford said, a deep frown of sadness marring his face. "No no, I understand. I just don't get why you are working. You said they just told you that your wife was dead only four days ago. Why are you even here. You should have sent someone else, or something...." Michael said. "I must confess, I did not come to do your taxes. I do not think I could keep my mind on it well enough to even begin to do a good job," his head then flopped into his hands, and a few sobs began to shake his body. Michael was not a man without a heart. He felt for Stanford. He was just not in the habit of comforting non-family members at such an intimate time. The death of a spouse, well, Michael could not imagine. However, when Kathy walked in, and he saw the gray streaks in her hair, and he watched as she opened and closed her hands after setting the coffee cups before them, he realized time was doing to him, what this killer did to his accountant. "I need you to help," the man suddenly said, lifting his head from his hands, and grabbing the sleeve of Michael's green sweater. "Help, what can I do?" Michael asked, which seems absurd to some, considering him being a super hero. However, this seemed like a case for a detective. While Michael Summers, more specifically Paragon Vanguard, was more than capable of meeting threats that even law enforcement could not, he was not a detective. "You are a hero, and a very powerful one. Can't you help with this? I loved her very much. Synthia Stanford was my life, Mr. Summers. My life! We were even trying to have our first child," the man, normally handsome, was not looking so great with the tears drying on his face, the look of desperation causing creases on the corner of his eyes. Synthia. Now she had a name. It was becoming harder and harder to excuse himself from the situation. "I do not know even where to start, Mr. Stanford," Michael said, and felt the warm hand of his wife rest on his massive shoulder. He looked up to her, but she was simply looking at the accountant with sadness. "I am not a detective. I have only slim contacts with the police department. I helped PPD a bit with some gang stuff, but other than that," he just shrugged. "I am sorry to put this on you, sir. I had no right to come in and ask you to do anything," Stanford nodded. His head dropped a bit, and he looked embarrassed. "No no, my husband will do what he can son," Kathy spoke up quickly, a deep look of concern on her own face. Michael looked to her pretty blue eyes, then back to Stanford. "I will ask around a bit, see if I can find any leads. Other than that, I really don't know what else I can do," Michael offered. Stanford looked up to him with new hope. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He said, and began sobbing again. The Summers' watched as the accountant drove away. "You are a good man, Michael Summers," Kathy said, a pretty smile crossing her lips. "I don't know what all I can do, honey. I am not a detective. Show me the bad guy, then I can help." "You will figure out what to do to help, you always do," she encouraged him. "I noticed your hands are hurting again," Michael said, gently cupping her hands into his massive hands. The warmth of his hands indeed made her's feel better. "It's nothing. The cold air is all. Nothing that no one else at our age doesn't experience," she laughed and then kissed his hands before laying her head into his chest. "You are a great guy, Michael Summers." This normally would bring a big grin to his face, but had she been looking she would have only seen worry, as he though that the cold effected most people at their age. It had no effect on him. His age had no effect on him.

Samantha Summers was actually enjoying herself serving the homeless. She did not know what to expect. Her dad would not let her come to this part of the city until she was grown, which basically meant she would never have his permission. She knew her dad was simply being too much like a, well, like a dad. The end of the day was a bit harder, as the lines of the homeless started to finally shorten. It was nine at night, and she had been at it for over 12 hours. Her feet hurt, her hands hurt, and she had a headache. However, she felt very good about what they did. Turkey and ham, black beans and rolls, someone had given roasts and deserts even. Samantha almost cried when a little old lady offered her a quarter and a blessing. The clean up team came in, and they were now relieved. "Oh thank goodness," Leana, her new friend from college declared. "I couldn't bare it any longer. My feet are killing me." Of course they were, Leana decided to serve while wearing high heels. At least Samantha knew enough to wear her tennis shoes. She just laughed at Leana's complaining. Her friend was dark skinned, dark eyed. She was tall, with much of her lower leg showing from beneath a skirt that would have gone near Samantha's ankles. Leana was beautiful, but she did not always think before she did things. "It's over, and I thank you for joining me," Samantha said, considering she had to talk her well to do friend into it. "You just cant tell pops, he would kill us both if he found out you put me in danger of being killed!" She laughed, and Samantha laughed with her. Samantha was almost a stark difference to her friend. She was light skinned, blonde haired like her dad, more average height. She did have wonderful blue eyes like her mother, and where Leana's legs usually caught someone's first attention, Samantha's eyes did. Both of their parents were college professors, but while Samantha's dad was a professor of a state college, PCU, Leana's dad was teaching in an ivey league school in New York. The difference did not stop there, of course. Samantha's dad was also Paragon Vanguard, and she was pretty sure Leana's dad was not a super hero, though he was a super guy, and a very loving dad. Her mother had died from cancer a few years ago, something Leana was not over. The two chatted as they exited the back door of the soup hall, into the alley. Much of the other volunteer servers had already left while Leana was trying to wash the smell of food off of her, to no avail. Anything less than a full shower was not going to do, and Samantha knew Leana would not stop complaining about it, until she actually got the shower. As the two got to the road, Samantha stopped. "My purse, I forgot my purse!" She exclaimed. "Well, you go back and get it, I will get us a cab," Leana said, looking down the street for one. Samantha nodded, and headed back into the dim lit alley. As she reached for the door, her small white purse dangled in front of her, held by a large meaty hand. "See, you do need your dad," the huge man said, as he stepped from the shadows. Samantha did not even startle, though most would. She had lived with Paragon Vanguard her entire life. A smile simply crossed her face. "Daddy!" She said, and offered a hug, that was gladly received. From behind they both heard a noise, and Samantha looked back to see her friend, armed with a can of pepper spray, eyeing the two. It didn't matter to Michael Summers that the young lady saw them, he did not hide who he was. "Leana, I told you about my dad," Samantha said, and motioned to him. Leana looked at him, and blinked. "Dad? This man cant be but maybe 30! What was he, 10 when you were born?" "I do not age," was all Michael said, offering a big hand, and bit of an embarrassed smile. Leana took his hand, very dainty like, as was her way, and smiled a beautiful smile. "Please to meet you," she said. "I have to go, I just wanted to see you," Michael kissed his daughter's cheek. "And dont leave that purse lying about, with all the cash you have in it." Samantha watched her dad take to the air, the snow swirling up and following him, and he was gone. She looked to Leana and smiled, then back to her purse. "I dont have any cash, I am flat.....Oh dad," she blew another kiss to the sky. Samantha then looked to her friend, who was also looking up to the sky. She still had the pepper spray can in her hand. "What exaclty were you going to do with that?" Samantha laughed, pointing to the can. "You dont even know how to use the thing, do you?" "Oh dont you doubt I can use it, my dad showed me, in fact, I even accidentally sprayed him so I know it works, besides......" Paragon Vanguard watched as the two climbed into a cab, Samantha's new friend going on and on about her pepper spray abilities. He was pleased that she had a friend that would protect her. Still, he wanted to follow the cab anyway. Alas no, he had been there long enough. His wife was waiting at home. She would shake her head at his endeavors that night, and pick on him when Samantha was around, but truth be told, she as much wanted him to check on her as he wanted to check on her himself. As the cab blended in with other New York City traffic, Paragon Vanguard made his way back to Rhode Island at near super sonic speed.

Ok, waking up in a shipping container is NOT normal, Bob thought. Sprawled across a woman who has apparently NOT woken up is NOT normal either. Bob was cold, he was very cold. Abnormally cold in fact. He was not use to being so cold because in his normal home the temperature was always set at 76 degrees. His normal home is where Bob was use to waking up. Not in a shipping container, and especially not sprawled across a prostitute. His head was spinning, and he was sure he would be sick soon. Bob recognized the woman as one of the "ladies" the night before. She had short blonde hair and pretty green eyes. Her hair barely came to her shoulders, and Bob wondered what would possess her to crop it so short. Bob staggered to the container entrance, that was still partially opened. He was not even sure how he got there. He smelled like booze and cheap perfume. He still had the derby on, and his tie. Other than that, he was sporting his plain white boxers and calf high black dress socks. Bob winced as he looked out of the container. Obviously he was in the shipping yard, amidst a bunch of other containers. He could hear muffled talking but it did not sound as if anyone was really all that close to him. With a quick glance around, he did not see his clothes anywhere. Worse still, he did not see any clothes for the woman laying on container floor either. He felt very uncomfortable, and it was not just the cold. Being in a container with an unconscious naked woman is very hard to explain. Thankfully early morning on a weekend, on this part of the docks of Independence Port, was not very busy. Bob walked over and shook the woman, who groaned slightly and began to turn over to her back. Bob quickly stopped her, and insured that she did not further embarrass him by exposing him further to her being exposed. "N-no ma'm, you just lay there. I will uhm, I will get us some clothes, and uhm, well, we can get out of here," he told the woman, who merely seemed to go back to sleep. As cold as it was, they would both be dead if he did not get them out of there. It was definitely below freezing outside, and he was thankful that they probably had not been there that long. Bob looked out of the container again, and saw some boxes. They weren't much, but surely he could pull them apart and place them on the woman to keep her somewhat warm while he found his way back to his client's warehouse. If anyone would know what to do it would be Vinny. Vinny was his friend, and Vinny knew how to do things that weren't normal. This was really past normal. So past normal, that Bob was feeling greatly abnormal. Bob tenderly walked over the cold asphalt, and felt he would freeze if he did not get some clothes soon. He grabbed some of the cleaner looking boxes, and hurried back to the container. As he pulled them apart and placed them on the woman, she stirred again, halfway opened one eye, groaned, and went back to sleep. Bob knew how she felt. His own head was killing him, and he felt he would lose his supper, if indeed he had any supper in him. He was not sure, he did not remember if he ate or not. The nausea would come and go though. Bob knew enough to know he had what others called a "hang over". Bob did not like hang overs. As Bob exited the box, the sun hit his eyes, having now poked out from the city skyline. A new wave of nausea hit, and he released what little he did have in his stomach on the side of the box. Once he got his barrings, he was able to determine which way the warehouse was. Vinny would understand and Vinny would help him. Vinny lead the way to the container. They were blocks away from the warehouse, and Bob walked all that way in his boxers. Bob was thankful Vinny had a pair of pants he could put on, and a shirt, though it was all very baggy on him. Unfortunately either Vinny did not have any extra shoes, or he simply was not letting Bob use them. Bob looked around now, not completely sure which container it was. The morning sun was rising, and people were beginning to come out for work. "You sure you left her out here," Vinny asked, and did not look amused at all. He also seemed to have a hangover. "I-I am sure, sir," Bob said, and began to retrace his steps. Along the way back he was sure to mark where he had been, so he could find the box. Vinny was now following Bob, a long overcoat over his shoulder for the naked woman Bob told him about. "I tell you Bob, I aint never seen someone change so much as you did, you were an animal man! I almost didn't want you to leave, but you said you had to go. Hah, I saw that look in your eye like I seen in many others, I know you gave someone a good time! I just assumed it would have been your wife!" Bob didn't say anything. He was sure he did not give anyone a good time. He was pretty sure he didn't have a time, good or bad, with anyone. Vinny was lead around to the right container, and they both peeped in. Bob saw the hand poking out from under the boxes, and recognized the red nail polish. "You are one crazy son of a gun, Bob. I don't think I will be letting you drink so much next time though. Hah, you even had me worried about you for a while. However, I know these types of girls, and you aint nothing she couldn't handle," he went on, as he pulled the boxes back. Bob decided to stand back and let Vinny handle this. He was not sure if he would throw up again, since he already had to stop two or three times on this trip. "Bob, what did you do?" Vinny asked, and looked over very seriously at Bob. Bob felt his face flush, because truth be told, he had no idea what he did. He was sure however it was nothing that Mrs. Smith would be happy about, no not at all. "C-can we just hurry up, get her up and get out," Bob asked, and Vinny was still staring at him, a very concerned look on his face. "Bob, she is dead," Vinny said. Bob was sure he heard wrong. Surely Vinny said dead drunk, and he just did not hear the drunk part. Dead tired, and he did not hear the tired part. That would have made sense to his senses, but dead, with nothing added behind it, was too preposterous. "Dead?" Bob had to ask. This was definitely something one must clarify if one is told this. Bob of course had to ask the normal question, that anyone in his unshoe'ed feet would have asked. "What do you mean dead?" "Dead Bob," Vinny said, irritated now. "Dead as in dead. Dead as in she aint putting this coat on you made me drag over here for her, dead. Dead as in I do not need this problem, this should have been something you told me about so I could send someone else to get her, dead. DEAD BOB!" Vinny was clearly irritated, but Bob could not think on that too much. Bob pushed past Vinny and looked over. The woman was dead. "Hypothermia?" He asked. "I tried to cover her up to keep her warm. I was not gone that long Vinny!" "Hypo-what? Last I checked hypothermia doesn't cause deep bruises to the neck Bob, or scratches on their neck," Vinny stared at Bob now. "Bob, where did those scratches on your face come from." Bob put his hand up to his face, and felt the scratches. He didn't notice them before, but of course his head was spinning, and he was all but naked in a box with a fully naked woman. "Wait a moment," Vinny looked closer at the woman. "Bob, this aint one of my girls." Bob walked over, and looked closer. "Bob do you know who this woman is?" Bob just looked. A part of his brain was thinking yes, he knew. Another part of his brain was saying impossible. "Bob, this is Danny Stanford's wife. I met her several times at business lunchings." Vinny said, but Bob's mind was saying no way. Bob's knees were saying I cant hold you up buddy as he collapsed against the container wall. Stanford was Bob's boss. In fact, Stanford was one of the closest things he had to a friend at his job. Stanford was the only one that would seem to put up with his odd behaviours, as others called them. Stanford was young, cool, handsome, and actually considered Bob a friend. "I, I don't know...." Vinny just stared at Bob for a moment, and for the first time Bob could see doubt, and maybe worry even, on Vinny's face. "I don't think I want to get involved with this, Bob," Vinny said, shaking his head a bit. "I didn't. I didn't," Bob said, his eyes going from Vinny to the naked Mrs. Stanford. "Well, it sure don't look good for you buddy. I remember you made a phone call before you left," Vinny said. "I had no idea you would be calling Stanford's wife." Bob looked to Vinny, then felt for his phone. He looked at it quickly, checking his calls. There was definitely a number on there he did not recognize, and he was willing to bet it would be her number. "We need to call the police," Bob said, his face another shade of white now. Vinny looked over, and shook his head. "You givin' yourself up? Ifn' you are, you aint making me part of this, you hear!" Bob tilted his head, as it was just now sinking in. Bob was a murderer.

Vinny tweaked the brim of the derby that now sat upon the head of Bob Smith, then he straightened Bob's tie. His suit was gray, and his shirt was white, all normal like, like Bob likes. "You lookin' good there, my friend," Vinny said, with a snap of his finger and a wink. Bob just smiled. It took them only three weeks. Three weeks and Bob Smith was not feeling normal at all. He was not sure if he liked it or not. Oh, he liked the extra money he was getting, but he did not like having to explain it away as nothing to his wife. It felt like lying. Lying was not something Bob normally did. Bob liked the attention he got from these rough, powerful men. He did not like how they treated others, though he kept his mouth shut. It felt like he was just as responsible. He liked to make Vinny happy when he "doctored" the books, but he did not like that much of it, if ever found out, would be criminal. It felt dishonest. "Th-thanks Mr. Vinny. Uhm, I have a good report for you, as always," Bob said, and it was not bragging. He always made sure he had a good report for Vinny. He was not sure what happened to the last accountant. He was not sure he wanted to know. He was sure he did not want to end up like the last accountant, and always made sure Vinny got a good report. "You always have a good report Bob! Always! I like that Bob. My people like that Bob," he said, spreading his arms out to motion to the men all around the warehouse, who were not paying much attention to Bob anymore. "My boss likes that as well Bob!" "That is, uhm, that is great. I just wanted to point out..." he began, but Vinny, as usual, wanted little to do with it. "Put away all those papers. Put that briefcase in your car, Bob. We have worked enough today," though Bob was not sure what kind of work Vinny did today. The man pretty much sat in his office while Bob worked on the numbers. "In but a moment a car is going to pull up Bob, and in that limo is going to be more ladies than we have men here," Vinny grinned. Bob was pretty sure of what Vinny meant. He was also sure that he would not like this, no not one bit. Bob was normal, as he liked to point out to others, though not to Vinny. He was also certain however that his very normal wife would not exactly understand. "I see your worry in your face, but I have something for you Bob. I have a wonderful year of brandy, and I tell you, it goes down smooth like water." Vinny slapped Bob on the back, and headed to his office to retrieve the drinks. Bob just stood there. He was actually exploring the idea of making a run for it. Head to his car, and race off, never to look back. That would not have been normal. It would have been such an odd thing for someone to do, he could not bring himself to do it. It soon no longer mattered, because Vinny showed back up with drinks. "Here you go my friend. Drink up, and enjoy. Life is great." What was Bob to do? Vinny gulped his own drink down, and then began yelling at one of his thugs to open the warehouse's giant doors so the "gals" can come on in when they get here. The men all cheered. Bob did not exactly gulp his down. In fact, it took quite a few sniffs, sips, and finger stirs before he actually took a real drink. He was only halfway done when Vinny returned with another for himself. He was only 2/3s done when the limo pulled in. In fact, the ladies, if you can call them such, were all popping open wine bottles and champagne by the time Bob finished his first drink. People kept pouring different kinds of alcohol in his glass, but usually Vinny came along and dumped out whatever strange concoction he had in his glass. "You and me aint like them, are we Bob? We are refined. We like the real stuff," he would proclaim as he poured from the Brandy bottle. Bob did begin to loosen up, as his head began to spin. In fact, he was not such a fuddy duddy as to keep pushing these nice girls off of him. They were friendly, and did not deserve to be treated as such, as Vinny well pointed out. "Okay. This is not normal", was one of the last thoughts that he would remember.

Michael Summers looked out at the snow falling to the ground, from the sliding glass doors in the dining room. The trees on his 2 acre lot were blowing in the north wind, making a swishing noise from time to time, when the wind would pick up. He kind of liked the winter, and he and his wife always anxiously awaited Christmas, watching it pass far too quickly before a New Year set in. Michael looked down to his blue fuzzy slippers, the ones his daughter bought him only last year. How she found any to fit him, he would never know. The morning sun was shining in, causing the fuzz to glitter, and warming the pajamas he wore. Michael let out a big sigh. He was a professor at the university. He was also Paragon Vanguard, guardian of the city, along with a host of others, in a city of heroes. He felt somewhat displaced now, as he looked to the city that peeked over the trees in the distance. He was there when Galaxy City fell into ruin from an attack of the aliens. The whole state of Rhode Island was in shambles because of it, much more so Paragon City. His daughter was gone. She was now in college in New York. She said she felt the curriculum was better suited for her majoring in journalism, but Michael was not so sure that was the reason. It would have been hard enough her attending a college that her dad was a professor at, but he was also Paragon Vanguard, a "hero" of that city. His identity was not a secret. "Can't stop wondering where your daughter has gone," Kathy Summers said, as she handed the big man a cup of hot chocolate. She leaned up against him, pulling her robe up tight at the neck to protect her from the chill. "New York, I know where she is," he said, looking to her. She was in her forties now, and every bit as beautiful as she was when they met in high school. The gray began to show around her temples, only slightly. Michael on the other hand had not aged a day since the accident that made him into Paragon Vanguard, 15 years ago. It was as if, along with the super strength and near invulnerability, time froze for him. "I meant, where that little girl went, that would sit and listen to you read a bed time story, the same one about the bears, every night. The one that would steal sips of your coffee when she thought you weren't looking. The one that would run to the door when she heard it open, anticipating you coming in. Sometimes she would run to that door just thinking she heard it, and become very disappointed when you weren't home yet." Michael looked to his wife, a bit of frown on his face. "Trying to make me feel better?" He asked, as a smile curved at the edge of his lips. Kathy laughed. "No. You are melancholy right now, and I know there isn't much I can say to make you feel better. All I can do is say you aren't alone," she kissed his cheek, and patted his massive chest. There was two meanings in that, and Michael knew it. He was not alone, because she was there. He was not alone in his missing their little girl. "We all grow up honey," she added. Michael watched her as she left the dining room, obviously going to get dressed and prepare for the day. With a sigh, the big man followed his wife towards their bedroom. Nothing was going to change his mood right now, his little girl was not going to be there for the next few months, her Christmas break over now for a couple of weeks. He may as well get dressed and prepare for the day. He had a class in about an hour, and he wanted to prepare his lecture properly. He would have much preferred to just stay home, drinking coffee and hot chocolate, kicking his slippers up, and wishing his daughter was home. This was the last sad thought of the moment to cross his mind, as he entered the bedroom, and found his wife having slipped from her robe, and not exactly trying to get dressed. Maybe the day was not going to start off as bad as he thought.

Bob Smith kissed Mary Smith as he left the house that morning. His house looked like every other house on the block of this nice Rhode Island suburb. In fact, his nice small Toyota, and his nice big SUV looked pretty much like everyone else's vehicles in his nice normal neighborhood. Bob liked it like that. The truth of it all was that he, his wife and two kids moved here because he was guaranteed by the neighborhood committee that everything in the neighborhood was quite normal. Bob liked normal. His ride to work went fairly normal. Traffic was backed up in all the right places. He honked his horn at all the right times, in fact, his face became red, and he shook his head in anger at the usual bottlenecks that he always ran into. While it was irritating, Bob was happy enough that it was nothing new. Bob however began to become worried this morning. His normal exit was now behind him, as he traveled 15 minutes and 32 seconds further to the Paragon City exit, and then another 20 minutes to reach the city. Bob then traveled to Independence Port. His nerves were all a bundle now. This was not normal for Bob. Bob Smith works for an accounting company based out of Paragon City, though he seldom ever travels to their down town office in Atlas Park. Instead, he handles the more normal clients in their satellite office. This always pleased Bob. He did not want to handle the finances of the strange and bizarre that seemed to flock to the big city. He especially did not want to be near the port, which Bob felt could hardly be considered civilized. Bob found the client's office, a warehouse strategically situated right on the docks. He swallowed hard as two rough looking men in suits motioned him to drive on in to the warehouse, and then closed the doors behind him. There were two other men with rifles in hand standing by an office. These two wore derby hats, a suit, white shirts with no ties. Their loafers were shiney, and their frowns were evident. They motioned Bob to get out. Bob got out of his car, though he really did not wish to. All normality left him as he walked on the concrete flooring toward the wooden office. One of the ruffians opened the door and motioned for Bob to enter. Of course Bob entered. What else could he do? Bob really did not like this, because it really was not normal. The rough looking man that sat behind the desk also wore a suit, though it looked tailor made from some fancy material. This many suits in a warehouse on the docks? It was simply not normal, no, not normal at all. Bob was not happy. "Ah, my new accountant. Come in, come in, have a seat," the man said in a strong Italian accent, motioning to a chair as he took a puff of a big cigar. "Your office said they would send someone else. Ashamed what happened to Fred. I liked Fred," the man said with such a deep frown, eyeing Bob, who had no idea that anything had happened to Fred. In fact, Bob did not know who Fred was. He made it an effort not to socialize with too many of his fellow workers. "F-Fred, what happened to Fred," Bob managed to squeak out, as his eyes began to blink a bit too rapid. It was a nervous twitch he developed anytime he found himself in such abnormalities. "Friend of your's eh? Who wouldn't like Fred. The only thing about Fred was he liked to talk. Talk talk talk, it's all he ever did. Talking too much get's you in trouble. Get's you to meeting the fishies, if you know what I mean," the man laughed, which turned into coughs, which turned into fits of coughs as he slammed a huge meaty fist onto the desk several times. Bob's eyes were really blinking now. He was pretty sure that he knew what meeting the fishies meant, as he looked behind him toward the river. He could not see it however, as he was completely concealed from the rest of the world in this warehouse. "Sorry to see him go none the less," the man said, then offered a big meaty, nicotine stained hand. Bob shook his hand. "They call me Vinny, but my real name is Slone. You can call me Vinny. I kinda earned the name, you know," he said, running his hand through his slicked back hair. 'Well, you know how people get names." Bob was unsure how Slone turned into Vinny, but he did not bother to tell Slone, uhm, Vinny this. Instead, he just nodded his head. "Anyway, you and me, we gots lots to do, so we best get to doing it. I pay you guys to make sure I pay the government less than I pay you guys," and this seemed to amuse Vinny very much, but Bob did not quite catch the joke. He just smiled, or at least attempted one, with his eyes blinking so rapidly. "I am Bob Smith," Bob offered, and then suddenly thought that maybe he should have given a fake name. It was too late, he already gave his real name, and changing it at this point probably would not help. Vinny just nodded. "Good, Bob. Let's get to work on suckering the government shall we!" Bob just nodded. No no, this was not normal.

The reality of leaving my home became apparent when the constable came knocking, looking for the shop keepers wife and young son. Of course I told him I had not seen them. What is a lie to a being as cursed as I? Shall some devil come and claim me in the night? I am the devil that comes in the night, and it was in the night that I fed on the very ones they sought. I was quite secure in the knowledge that they would not believe one as sickly as I could have anything to do with the missing mother and child, but then he said something quite strange. She was seen the night before last, but when her name was called she did not respond. She simply vanished into the wooded swamp on the north side of town. It was strange because I fed on her a week ago, her and her child. I waited in the dark for her, something in her blood calling to the sickness in my blood. I could not say what it was, but understand I could not have fought it, even had I tried. The child could not have survived without it's mother, so I did the merciful thing. It sounds horrid, of course, to one that is not as I. In truth, it is horror. Yet, I said I would be honest in my writings, and convincing my own journal of another truth, of something more romantic or less depraved would mean I truly am mad, and only fool myself. That night I sought her, fearing I may have turned her into something as I, hoping I had turned her into something as I. She was beautiful in life, what would she be in death, or undeath? I was torn between my shame and guilt and my hope. My desire for a companion as I. It was in this double mind that I found her. She stood over a quiet pool deep in the forest. She stared into it, even as I approached. Had I a heartbeat it would have been racing. Finally her eyes turned to me, green as the sea. She was beautiful. Her garments were so white, as if the earth refused to settle on her. She was only marred by the red that seeped from her mouth. Her blood red lips a stark contrast to her dress. "He thought I was a goddess," she said, her eyes flowing up to me. "Do you think I am a goddess?" I looked about, unsure of who she meant, until I saw the constable lying dead only a few yards from her. When I looked back to her she was already upon me, only a breath away, a smile showing her fanged teeth. I did not answer her, so she asked again, only this time closer to me. Her cold breath brushing against me. "Tell me I am a goddess," she said seductively. I know now that she had no idea I was a vampire as her, and no idea that I was who turned her. She thought I was human, and she thought to feed on me as she did the constable. She brushed my neck with her lips, only to recoil in disgust. It was then she knew that she could not feed on me. She turned away immediately, without a second glance back at me, and returned to the pool of water and stared once more into it. I tried to speak to her, but she would never again acknowledge me. She was not as some would call feral, but she was quite mad it seemed. In the coming days people began to vanish, some returning pale and strange looking. Others never returning. The town was far removed from cities and other towns, so by the time folks began to understand that something was quite wrong, there were so few left to do anything about it. I sent Ms. Harting away as soon as I discovered what had happened. I remained behind, to try and destroy as many of these ill creatures as I could. None seemed to be anything but the disease, with only the desire to feed. Most were dirty, and animal like, hunting on the few humans still alive. Others were more aware, but locked in their last moment, last "feelings", much as the shop keeper's wife. I destroyed the shop keeper's wife, at the very pool she went to every night after feeding. Again, she did not acknowledge me in the least, making it easy to cut her head off with my saber. Her body quickly bloated, and looked as if it had been laying there rotting for weeks. I then knew she was destroyed. As I wrote above, I destroyed as many of the creatures as I could, none having the awareness I had. Though if any escaped, I would not know, not even now. The ones I was able to decapitate were lucky. Others I was forced to burn, fire being a horrific end for a vampire. Even the feral ones screamed as they would have in life, the clarity of their condition striking them in the last moments it seemed. They were cursed, you see, and damned, and the burning was only a precursor of what they would suffer eternally. If you believe such, of course. This will end my journal of vanity. It may be that some day I shall write again, for there was much that happened in London, where I finally met with Ms. Harting. The trek there was dangerous, especially for a vampire that would burn in the daylight. Years to come I heard rumors of a town that was beset by disease, a blood disease it seemed. Any that may have survived the disease must have burned the bodies, before fleeing from the town themselves. Only a nearby mansion, overlooking a vast plantation and a garden of apple trees remains. The owner having moved away, to London, before the disease could claim him. Unfortunately his staff were not spared, all found dead, completely devoid of blood. Oh what would my dear Abrielle think of me now.

Maybe I can control my lust more, and in the beginning, truth be told I certainly tried. The blood calls to me though. Even now, as I am much older, it still calls to me, and I still must answer. It isn't a matter of if I will feed or not, it is a matter of when I will feed. Some victims are fed upon with little care, and I choose not to even consider the horror they experience, because emotion, be it fear or ecstasy, is all the same to a vampire. Others experience great ecstasy, the host sharing that with the vampire, unto death. You must understand that drinking the blood for sustenance is only part of it. Through the blood, we also drink experiences and emotions. Things we know of, but never feel. We never feel, unless feeding. This is why some vampires gorge and become bloated and often times quite mad from it. They crave the feelings. The feelings that they felt when alive. It calls to us, over time, and it's call becomes louder and louder until it is all we can hear. The taste. The ecstasy. The desire. The fear. The anger. The hate. The love. The warmth. The life. It all matters, the very things that make humans human. We feed on the blood, we feed on their humanity. But we are not human.

A town, even a large one, is no place for a vampire, not even one with great wealth. I could not bear to sell the house, nor the plantation surrounding, but it was growing increasingly evident that I could not stay. The bodies were, and forgive the saying, piling up. No, of course I did not indulge past more than needed. I tried to restrain myself, even considered starvation as a way out. Vampires do not really starve though. My attempt only proved that the disease will feed, with or without my consent. I awakened in my darkened room to Ms. Harting changing me from the blood soaked clothes I wore. I believed that this was the first time she suspected me of being a murderer, though she claimed to believe it was my illness. I suppose she was not wrong. Now I am sure she knew something was different about me even before then. Being an atheist of sorts, she did not believe me to be a vampire, a devil. However, she may have suspected me of being a murderer, much like the killer stalking Whitechapel in London at this time. She spoke of him quite often, and read the stories of the murders to me. It interested her, but I did not find that odd, as it interested most people at the time. I listened with marginal interest, drifting between the need to sleep and the desire to feed. It may have been because of Jack the Knife, or The Apron as they called him at this time, that she suggested we move to London, a place where even a vampire could blend. Especially a vampire. Her reasoning was to seek the best doctors, to see to my illness. She knew I hardly ate, she knew I was weak most days, and she knew bright sunlight was torture to my eyes. Indeed my whole body if truth be told. You see at this time I had not yet learned to sleep in a coffin, which is to say, in a place completely devoid of any light. Though I avoided direct sunlight, and kept my thick black curtains closed, I still tried to function during the day. It seems foolish, perhaps now, but we did not have information at our finger tips, as we do now. I assure you, there are more vampires than one may suspect, even today, but they know more of their own illness than I did. I knew only rumor, and I knew it was hard to separate truth from fiction. To understand some things about me, I must write some truths now, no matter how depraved they seem, about my condition.

It easy to look back at a different time, and criticize things that they have done and believed. Superstitions have now been judged by science, and yet, with my appearance, science is being judged by superstition. Who is to say what is real and what is fantasy? In the end, it is a matter of the mind, of thought. What is fantasy is real to the one that believes. The same is true for science. What one believes, is real. I say this because Bart Harting believed fully that they buried me alive. Of course I was not alive then, nor was I alive as he was apologizing to me, even in tears at the horror I must have went through, awakening in a coffin buried deep beneath the earth. He was ashamed for not having examined me better. Of course "these things were journaled as having happened in the past". "Any educated man would have known of such". I merely listened to him go on about it. The irony of it was that I had no idea how to explain my return, and in fact, considered simply removing every living soul from my home if it came to that. Yet, here was a student of mine, giving me the reason I needed. I had been through a tragedy. I had been attacked. My wife had been killed. I contracted some disease that left me with a slow heart rate and hardly no breath, and they buried me. This he chose to believe. For the next few weeks I surrounded myself with the elect of the colleges, the thinkers of our time. They were more than willing to come to my call. I was quite wealthy, and they always desired my charity, which in the past was given freely. Now it had to come with a price though. If Abrielle would see me now, bartering charity for the precious peace of not being hounded by the suspicious, she would be shamed. They vouched for me though. They quickly challenged any archaic thought that I was something other than a sick man. They ridiculed the religious, the very priests and men of God that use to call me friend, and called them out as fear mongers. I let them do this. I dare say, it even amused me. Or maybe the disease, the curse, was amused. Sometimes it is difficult to tell the difference between who I was, and what I am now. Sometimes who I was hauntingly returns to chastise what I am. Weeks turned into months. Months into a year. Bart Harting left to finish his schooling at the university, but not without finding someone who could properly handle my affairs. Of course it had to be someone with no notions of vampires and undead and werewolves. Someone that did not believe in a God, therefor did not believe in a devil. He found her easy enough. His sister, Natalie Harting. Ms. Harting, to those that did not know her well enough. One of the most well educated women I had ever met, especially for those times. She perfectly satisfied my need.

I watched the servant girl pass, her dark skin blending in the night. She was singing a song in her own language, but not a kids song like she should have been singing. I could not tell you what the words were, but the song was definitely dark and morose. I liked it, I listened for a while. I, loved this child, that I did not know. Her song moved me, and I felt a tear fall. Living a life of poverty, and servitude, would bring anyone to sadness as hers. My hunger was very strong in those days. It was new. It was an unknown to me. Also, and do not judge me on this, seeing the life that mortals lived made me feel pity for them. The release I would give her through death would surely be better than the life she lived. Maybe it is a way to stifle my shame. Shame is absolutely what I felt, afterwards. I stood over her, her dead brown eyes permanently staring into something I never saw. Her death was real. Her death was freeing. I still tasted her blood even as the shame came. With the hunger gone, shame was all that was left. No freedom for me. This went on for some time. Night after night. At first people spoke of disease, the plague having invaded our house. Something new maybe. However, superstition took over, and they soon became to suspect that there was something more than a plague. I was tired of hiding in the woods near the home. Tired of stalking prey as an animal. I was the master of my home, and it was time to return.

I died, but not in the sense that a mortal would consider, of course. Were it a complete death, I would not be writing this now. It was an undeath, as people have come to call it now. Of course my heart had stopped beating, I had no breath in my lungs, and I was lying in my own filth, when they found me. To them, I had died. Of a disease, of terror, or maybe just of heartache. Back then we could come up with all kinds of reasons to fit something we had no understanding of. Science was not prominent, and no more real to people than their own superstitions. They had my funeral. My friends and family came to mourn over me, speak words over me, and dedicate me to our God. All meaningless. I cannot tell you what happens to one that dies, a real death, but I can tell you that I was locked in a body that could neither see, hear, speak, nor move, in any way. It was horror, it was a nightmare, and yet, in the end it is what saved me, if this can be called saved. Had they not been prompt in burying me next to Abrielle, the sun would have burned me like any vampire. I believe that the body had to go through rigor first, as the rest of my humanity was disposed of. When I came to, and able to function again, it was days later. I was in a coffin, but it did not concern me. I had no need for breath, I could see well enough, and my limbs felt quite strong. I did not feel a need to test whether I could ascend to the surface, as much as I knew I could. It was like any new creature, coming from it's cocoon or womb. It was natural to me. I knew immediately that I was something else, I knew immediately that I had become the creature that killed my wife. I knew I was vampire. I had heard many tales of vampires and the like, and considering the days past, I had no doubt that there were some truth to the things told. I felt as much as knew that I could not stand in the sun light. I knew I must find a place to hide, and gather my wits. I knew I would have to feed. I will stop here and impart some wisdom upon you, the reader. A vampire's mind, though very similar to the mortal, works somewhat differently. Knowledge and cunning are as much our defense as strength, and other unnatural powers that form within us. Not all of us are the same as far as our abilities are concerned, but we are all the same in one thing. Survival. It changes how we feel, if feel is even the correct word anymore. Maybe it is best to say, we no longer feel the same as humans. Kinship is different. Our thoughts and our responses are different. Survival is different. Love, is different. Raw emotions are real. Anger, lust, hunger. Deeper emotions are no longer needed, therefor, discarded. A vampire may call you friend, and believe you to be a friend, but his nature will always surface. Lust will always rule him, even as he tries to deny it. I say this as a vampire, never fully put your trust in a vampire. Whatever moral compass humanity possesses is lost in the new creature. Survival is an emotion, and is our strongest most dominant. I remember love, I remember what it must feel like, but I do not feel love. The false love, we call it lust and desire, has taken it's place. I realize this can be very confusing, especially to a mortal, but as I tell my tale, you will come to understand the difference,. How alike the two are, lust and love, but in the end, how different.