forum ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ'ꜱ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴄʀᴜᴇʟʟ || Fantasy/Mystery OxO || CLOSED

Started Feb 25 by @Vitae_

tune

@EldritchHorror-Davadio

_{ORIGINAL PROMPT: The City of Sin, otherwise known as Felicity, celebrates the long-awaited arrest of the notorious serial killer, Wisp. Meanwhile, a wrongfully imprisoned convict despairs at their fate. That is until another body is discovered. The scene is almost identical to the Wisp's work, giving the police department all the evidence they need to suspect a copycat killer is on the loose. One detective, however, fears they've all got it wrong. Strings are pulled, risks are made, and the convict is handed another chance at proving their innocence. The twist? The convict is a vampire, as is the real Wisp. Proving themselves won't be an easy task, but at least this detective seems willing to give them the benefit of the doubt…}

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I found the Google doc with my original prompt and ideas, so there are going to be a few changes from the above!! Let me know if you have any questions/comments/concerns! I'm happy to make more changes if you'd prefer something a different way.

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Welcome to Felicity, the city that never sleeps! Home to the largest population of vampires the world has ever seen, this city is known primarily for its rich history and nightlife.

Recently, however, it’s become known as something far more sinister: The stalking grounds of a mass serial killer known only as Nightbreak.

In order to put an end to Nightbreak's crimes, one brave detective is prepared to risk it all. But what happens when he comes face to face with the biggest risk yet—a young amnesiac vampire, covered in the blood of Nightbreak’s latest victim?

Why, propose a partnership, of course.

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SETTING: Felicity, otherwise known as "The City of Sin" or "The City that Never Sleeps", is a cyberpunk, neo-Tokyo-esque city inhabited by a large population of both humans and vampires. It rains often there, hence, in part, why it's so popular among vampires.

The buildings are tall and the streets narrow, often crowded with traffic. Neon signs flood the otherwise metallic, dreary atmosphere with artificial light and color. Drains line the streets, leading to a massive underground chamber designed to prevent flooding in the rainy city. Many homes even exist in the chamber, constructed specifically to exist underwater during particularly wet months, with vents connected to the surface world able to provide fresh air to inhabitants.

Felicity is incredibly advanced technologically. Here, you'll easily find hoverboards, holograms, nanotech, translators, driverless cars, etc. at your disposal—for a price, of course.

VAMPIRES: For the sake of simplicity, in this world, the only two species to exist are humans and vampires. A few special humans are born capable of learning and wielding magic, but they're still very human, very mortal.

Vampires, however, are immortal. Immune to all human disease and the pull of time. The only way to kill them is sunlight, a stake through the heart, a weapon made with silver, or fire.

It's a common, arguably hurtful misconception that vampires cannot see their reflection. (That's only the case with mirrors that are backed with silver, which are considered antiques nowadays). They have no difficulties entering homes without permission, no difficulties crossing moving streams of water, are not affected negatively by crosses or other holy relics, and they are not repelled by garlic… although it seems it's slightly more common for a vampire to have a mild garlic allergy than humans.

They do, however, require fresh human blood to live. It's been a major source of contention in the past, and the spark of many wars. In current times, it's a simple matter to purchase donated bags of human blood. Alternatively, there are clinics where a vampire could choose to drink from a live source, though carefully monitored throughout the process. It's far more expensive than a simple blood bag, but a popular choice for those who can afford it as the effects are longer lasting and more beneficial.

If those two options are too expensive, which they often are, there's even synthetic blood being produced in many places.

Vampires are capable of eating human food, but it's unnecessary and does nothing for their thirst for human blood. On a related note, humans with an affinity for magic have a much sweeter-tasting blood that's capable of getting a vampire "blood drunk" far more easily.

Now, about the creation of vampires.

There are two types. Those who are born, and those who are reborn.

The first of which is quite self-explanatory. Those are vampires who are born and raised by other vampires in the same manner a human is born and raised by other humans. They make up a minority of the species, as there are too many laws concerning population control to allow otherwise.

Reborn vampires, however, work a little bit differently. These are the vampires that used to be human, turned by a trusted sire through the process of exchanging blood. A newly-turned vampire is known as a fledgling for the first two years of their immortal life. During this period, it's the sire's responsibility to care for the fledgling and teach them to control their bloodlust, which every fledgling is prone to. Fledglings are often incredibly clingy with their sires, dependent on them for guidance with all of the new sensations and feelings they're experiencing for the first time.

Turning a human non consensually is very against the law and will get you turned over to the Vampire Committee to be judged.

There's plenty of paperwork and legal and medical documents one has to fill out before electing to become a vampire. It's a process that can take months to pass and is often accompanied by classes stressing the permanence of the decision.

As for the actual benefits of being a vampire, aside from the immortality… They're designed to be predators of humans. Vampires have developed a type of charm speak, a way to lure in their victims once they've made eye contact. This ability increases in effectiveness with age. Even their bites don't hurt unless they deliberately intend to hurt the victim.

As standard, all vampires are stronger and faster than even the most athletic of humans.

STORY: To elaborate more on the introduction, we'll each play one of two characters. A human detective working to hunt down Nightbreak and bring them to justice, and a young vampire with retrograde amnesia who's being held under suspicion of being Nightbreak. The detective, however, is convinced otherwise. They believe the young vampire's missing memory may be the key to discovering Nightbreak's identity and putting an end to the murders once and for all. They stake their reputation and their very job on that hunch, putting themself responsible for the vampire and giving them a chance to prove their innocence.

Given the only other option is to stay indefinitely in a holding cell, confused, the young vampire agrees.

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Before sharing any other ideas, do you have a preference for which character to play? I'm leaning more towards detective, myself, but I'm open to either!

That's perfect! On that note, my original train of thought was that the vampire is "secretly" (to every other character, that is) still a fledgling, probably around a year and a half in immortal terms. They probably don't even remember that fact, but maybe they're a bit too clingy, a bit too easily influenced by bloodlust, or whatever other variables have you, and the detective eventually pieces it together and realizes they have to play foster sire, as a human, while all of this is happening.

That was just my initial thought! Absolutely alright if you wanna go with an older vampire with the charmspeak ability. There are appeals to that route, too, 'cause now I'm picturing a disgruntled old vampire looking at this human who's a child to them like, "Yeah, sure, you're responsible for me."

Doesn't have to be either of those profiles, though! As long as they can't remember anything leading up to or during the crime scene, do whatever you find most fun because that's the best way to ensure this whole roleplay will be fun!

And on that note, here's the template!! Keeping it basic so there's room for experimentation and learning about them throughout the story. That said, you can add whatever you'd like to it! Go wild!

(Sorry for the rambles lol, I'm decidedly exhausted after all the writing today, but excited to push forward!)

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NAME:
GENDER:
AGE:
DESCRIPTION: (General personality, what they're like, notable physical characteristics. Just a brief summary; we can get into detail in the actual story!)
OTHER:

NAME: Dallas Watts (or Detective Watts)
GENDER: Male, he/him
AGE: Twenty-three
DESCRIPTION: Dallas possesses a short, lean body defined by years of working in the field. His skin is sunkissed, alluding to his origins in another city where the rain clouds don't blot out the large majority of light. His hair is short and wavy and parts in the middle, leaving longer bangs to frame his face. It's also dyed blue, the dark, subtle kind that almost resembles gray from far away. He's consistent with retouching his roots, but at times the natural bronze can be seen shining through. To contrast the darkness of his hair, his eyes are a light, albeit murky green. They, too, can appear gray at times.

The detective, as mentioned before, hails from a city called Cloven. It's another busy city, though not as swarming with vampires as Felicity is. It where he grew up, where he worked his way up to being a detective. It was only two years ago that he unexpectedly transeffered to the city of sin. Soon after, he was assigned Nightbreak's case. The details behind his transfer are a bit fuzzy, but Dallas maintains that he was looking forward to doing some real good. That alone doesn't seem to explain the obsessiveness he has in finding Nightbreak, but his coworkers are hesitant to breach the subject…
OTHER:

• His theme song is Novocaine by Fall Out Boy!! (song) // (lyrics)
• He has a custom painted hoverboard in the backseat of his car, wrapped in a protective cloth.

I have LOTS of ideas, but I figure in the meantime we'll play it by ear and make the connections as we go along! I'm viewing it from a Dungeon Master sort of perspective, where I know how I want things to resolve but I don't have all the pieces to do it yet.

Which is a drawn out way of saying, don't worry about complicating any plot ideas! Just write as you would and sprinkle in any memories or plot devices that best suit your character's needs. I'll build off of what I learn, and you'll build off of what you learn–I'm confident I can guide things to a satisfying resolution regardless of what we throw at each other.

I think it preserves some of the mystery for both of us, and ultimately I'm hoping it's more enjoyable this way ^^

Sounds great! I look forward to meeting them c:

NAME: Unknown. Has the word "Lucky" tattooed on his chest.
GENDER: Male
AGE: Looks 18ish.

DESCRIPTION: Roughly 5'8"/1.7m tall and weighs around 135lbs/61kg. He's lean but not skinny, and has disproportionately large hands and feet for his height. He's got honey blonde hair, and suffers from uncombable hair syndrome (It's a real thing, look it up!), which means his hair never cooperates, leaving him with a head of extremely unruly curly blonde hair, which he usually keeps shorter than 6". His eyes are a light brown and are almond shaped. His nose is aquiline. He has no intentional facial hair, but does grow reddish-blonde stubble. He's got full lips but a rather small mouth, making his face an interesting shape. Not handsome, per se, but interesting. His torso and legs follow normal proportions, other than his hands and feet. Not a gym-rat, but fit. Currently wearing black denim, a flannel shirt and a black hooded poncho, and Timberland boots, always Timberlands.
Personality so far consists of confusion, fear, and glimpses of decency and intelligence. However, he has a clock-stopping accent (which I won't reflect in his writing style, because that would be horrifically unreadable. You'll just have to imagine.) that makes it unclear where he's from.

OTHER: In the pockets of his poncho are 3 things: a wad of cash, a letter written in blood, and a beat-up wallet with nothing but a few photographs in it.

Theme song: everything I wanted- billie eilish

Omg he's adorable. I gotta ask, though, what do you mean by a clock-stopping accent? I tried Google but I couldn't find anything on it!

Also I'll try to get a starter up by today!!

((TW// Swearing, mentions of death and blood, fairly non-descriptive gore))

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An incessant, blaring ringtone is what woke him.

“Mff, what the fuck–”

Dallas rolled over, squinting at the glowing phone on his nightstand. The sight seemed to flip a switch in his brain and he was upright before he could blink. He scrambled to accept the call while he flicked the lamp on, heart pounding at the number on his screen.

“Chief? What’s happening?” he demanded, tearing the blanket off of his legs.

“There was another one.”

The detective cursed, standing upright and searching for his coat. “Where,” he ground out, shrugging the offensive piece of clothing on over the outfit he’d slept in. No point in changing it when he was still dressed from the previous day’s work.

He hurried to the front door, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he crammed his shoes onto his feet. ‘Keys, keys, where are—there!’

As the chief of police recited the address, Dallas shifted his phone back into his hand and typed it into his GPS. “I’ll be there in fifteen,” he responded, hanging up the call and shouldering his way out the door of his apartment.

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Tires crunched against the pavement, announcing Dallas’ arrival to the scene. He threw the vehicle into park and snagged his keys from the ignition, stalking towards the tape with an intimidating singlemindedness.

The chief met him halfway there, wordlessly offering him a to-go cup of coffee. Dallas eyed it for a moment, then hitched his face mask over his chin and took a long draught. He pulled a face, not at the taste, but at what it meant.

“Three shots of espresso? Must be worse than normal, if you’re that desperate to keep me awake,” he observed grimly, tugging his mask back up to his nose and passing the cup off to a nearby officer to hold for the time being. In exchange, they passed him a pair of fresh gloves. He gave them a nod of thanks as he slipped them on, then let his gaze fall on the boutique in front of them.

“You could say that,” the chief responded dryly, providing no other information.

The display window was the first thing to catch his attention, flashing in the red and blue lights of the police cars. The rain made it worse, every droplet catching the light show and further distorting the view inside. It wasn’t enough to distract from the stripe of blood painted on the inside of the window, though—nor, he noted with a sickening lurch of his stomach—the body of a young woman sprawled beneath.

He grimaced, slowing to a stop as he took in all the gory details. Nightbreak was known for having a flair for dramatics, for setting up his victims like dolls in some kind of stage play, and yet this time he seemed to have decided on a more literal approach than usual.

The detective sneered at the mannequins, meant to showcase different styles of clothing the boutique had to offer, manipulated to look as if they were laughing at the crumpled victim. Heads thrown back, arms pointing, model clothes decorated with splatters of blood no doubt belonging to the poor woman.

“Have they identified the victim, yet?” he asked, tearing his eyes away from the scene before him and walking up the stairs leading into the shop.

The chief sighed, rubbing a hand over her face tiredly. “Matilda Gresha. Twenty-seven years old, co-owner of Maven Modiste.” Quieter, almost an afterthought, she added, “Married with three children, one adopted vampire.”

Dallas paused, turning to raise an eyebrow at her. In response, the chief shrugged. “She had pictures in her wallet.”

The detective hummed; of course, she’d feel sympathetic. Adopted vampire—it probably hit close to home for her. He didn’t comment on it, only pushed open the door and swept his gaze across the destruction.

He paused, moving out of the doorway so the chief could follow. “This is…different,” he said, slowly. His eyes trailed between toppled clothing racks and broken bottles of perfume, taking care not to step on any shattered glass. It wasn’t a sound he enjoyed.

On the floor near the check-out counter was a large blood stain. That much blood, in such a concentrated puddle… Almost definitely a head wound of some kind. He turned until he faced the window, then stepped forward to get a clear view of the victim past the puffy skirts of the mannequins.

A glimpse of shining metal caught his eye, and he crouched to get a closer look at the medallion around the woman’s neck. In the process, he noticed there was no sign of blood on or around the woman’s head. Only her neck, and the two puncture marks betraying a vampire bite. His brow furrowed, and he looked back to the chief. “Medical hasn’t tried to move her?”

The vampire pressed her lips into a tight line, then shook her head. “No one’s touched her, yet,” she confirmed.

Dallas frowned beneath his mask. “Nightbreak must have left in a hurry,” he murmured, turning his attention back to the victim. He gently reached for the necklace, turning the pendant over in his palm and narrowing his eyes at the symbol, the killer’s signature.

Every one of Nightbreak’s eleven victims was discovered wearing silver necklaces, each with the symbol of the rising moon etched into the coin-like pendant. It was the origin of the killer’s name, the very piece of evidence they had needed to confirm the existence of a serial killer in Felicity.

Moreover, every victim was found with the symbol piece pressed in their mouth. A representation of the outdated “swallow the moon” mantra that belonged to vampire extremists, those few who still believed themselves to be a superior species. Dallas thought it was a load of bullshit, but given the symbology and the fact that every one of Nightbreak’s victims were human, it was also a lead. One of the only ones, at that, and one of the only consistencies they had when it came to the killer.

And yet, this one wasn’t consistent. The symbol wasn’t in the victim’s mouth, but rather left hanging around her neck. Almost like he ran out of time, or…

“This one’s different,” Dallas spoke suddenly. “Either Matilda here had a chance to fight back, or…” He stood. “Or there was another witness. That’s who the blood by the counter belongs to.” He lifted his head and faced the chief, his voice adopting an accusing tone. “Three shots of espresso?”

The chief’s mouth twitched into a smile. It was weak, but it was enough to have Dallas rolling his eyes.

“Why don’t you tell me what you know, instead of making me work for it,” the detective snapped, and if it was anyone else he may have gotten into trouble for the remark. The chief had a soft spot for him, though, and they both knew it.

Red eyes bright with excitement met his murky green, and she said, “First responders made an arrest tonight—a vampire found covered in the victim’s blood. Had thin silver burns on his fingertips from the necklace, and, get this, he fits the profile. He fits your profile, Watts. We—” she caught herself. “There’s a strong possibility that it’s him.”

“What?!” Dallas exclaimed, and he took a careful step back.

Chief thought they caught him? Nightbreak? He found himself shaking his head. There was just no way. It was impossible, right? Nightbreak was known for leaving no traces, save for the ones he wanted to leave. Two years, eleven victims, and Nightbreak had never yet made a mistake. Nightbreak didn’t make mistakes. Especially not when Dallas was busy sleeping, of all things.

“Watts, hey—this is good news. It means our chase could be over. We need to question him, of course, and there’s still work for you here,” she gestured to the victim’s body. “But—”

Dallas interrupted. “Don’t—don’t talk about ‘but’, yet. It’s too early. I have questions for Matilda that need to be answered before anything else. Let me just,” he let out a breath. “Let me focus on that, first.”

The chief watched him with clear sympathy in her eyes, and Dallas hated it. Still, she nodded and turned to clear everyone out of the building so he could do his job. “Chief,” he said, then stopped as she turned to face him. He hesitated, unsure what he had been about to say, and averted his eyes. “Ten minutes,” he ended up mumbling, and he saw her nod again out of the corner of his eye.

Sighing once more, he stepped over the victim, standing with his back towards the window.

“Alright, Matilda. Let’s find out what you know.”

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︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・
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“Retrograde amnesia?” Dallas repeated, dropping the file onto the table and bonelessly collapsing into the chair beneath him. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, propping his elbow on the table and staring at it blankly. Distantly, he wondered what else the night—or rather, now day—would throw at him.

“That’s what the doctors said,” the chief responded evenly.

“You’re telling me your suspect doesn’t remember a damn thing about the crime scene? And we don’t even have a name for him?”

He huffed and turned his head to view the vampire through the one-way glass. He knew better than most not to judge by appearances, but the suspect sitting there with a bandaged head, bed hair beyond belief, didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer. He looked miserable. And confused, and probably a little scared.

Probably because he couldn’t remember anything, and now he was sitting there, cuffed to a table with what Dallas could only imagine was a splitting headache.

“The doctors also said he could be faking it,” she pointed out. “Undocumented vampires are hard to come by. That alone makes him suspicious.”

Dallas was quiet for a long moment. “You really want this to be him,” he said, unable to tear his gaze from the other vampire.

It was the chief’s turn to be quiet. “Look, we don’t have any other suspects,” she defended. “Cameras didn’t catch anyone else enter or exit the building, but they did catch him. Forensics found no other DNA at the scene and you said yourself, Matilda did push him—”

“Matilda was heavily compelled. Her actions, her memory can’t be trusted. It’s a grain of salt situation, you know this.”

“Watts.”

“Amaranda.”

The chief blinked, taken aback. Dallas only ever called her by her first name when he wanted her undivided attention. Sensing that he had it, Dallas pressed his hands together and leaned forward.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

The chief hesitated. “Watts… Dallas. Of course, I do. You’ve been on this case longer than anyone, longer than me, even—”

“Then let me handle this.” The demand slipped out sounding more like a plea. “He is not Nightbreak! I’m certain of it, beyond any shadow of a doubt. I think you know it, too, or else you wouldn’t be arguing with me right now. And besides, you can’t just keep this guy in a holding cell indefinitely, hoping for his memory to return.”

The vampire shifted uncomfortably, not meeting his eyes. “We can’t release him, either, Dallas. We have procedures, and even if he’s not Nightbreak that doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved—”

“I’m not asking for him to be released, Ran. I’m asking you to trust me. Let me take responsibility for him. I’ll get his memory back… Somehow. And if he turns out to be dangerous, I’ll be right there to stop him from hurting anyone. Besides, aren’t you the one always insisting I find a partner?”

Amaranda was glaring at him now. Dallas held the eye contact unblinkingly. “A licensed partner, Dallas! Another detective!” she grumbled, but she was almost convinced. He could hear it in her tone.

“Hey, for all we know, he could be a detective. No memories, remember? He might not even be from Felicity,” Dallas shot back, the smallest of grins on his face before he returned to being serious. “Let me handle this. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then groaned. “I’d better not regret this—you might be ‘taking responsibility’, but I’m still the chief and I could lose my job if this goes wrong.”

“It won’t,” Dallas swore, standing and knocking his chair back several inches. “Thank you, Ran.”

She waved a hand at him. “Just go. And if you end up in a ditch somewhere, dead, don’t say I didn’t tell you so!”

The detective snorted but neglected to respond as he left through the door. He paused outside the interrogation room, eyeing the folder he’d taken with him. He flipped it open once more, then twisted the doorknob and entered the room.

He didn’t immediately look up at the vampire, instead flipping through the file. His eyes landed on a notation in the margins, jotted down by one of the examiners who had treated the man’s injuries. ‘A tattoo, huh? Better than nothing.’

“Well then,” he mumbled, flipping the folder shut and tapping a spot on his chest tellingly. “Hiya there, Lucky. I’m Detective Watts. How would you like to help me prove your innocence?”

The inky blackness gave way to shadows, with small points of light breaking up the dark. He was sitting upright, and realized, suddenly, that he hadn't been unconscious. There was a splitting headache, but he was holding himself upright, so he couldn't have been out cold. It was more like… he'd abruptly come back to awareness. Like he'd been daydreaming for too long, only to snap back to reality, and not know what time it was, or where he was.

A glance around revealed a scene of blood, gore, and relative horror. Mannequins mocking a corpse, arranged like a trophy in a shop window. And here he was, sitting calmly on the floor just a foot away from the poor dead girl… just staring into space, with his head throbbing like someone had taken one of the mannequins to it.

He wondered who she was, for a brief moment, before realizing he couldn't remember who he was. He looked around more carefully this time, taking in the little boutique, the cutesy displays, several of them toppled over and broken, the check-out counter and the large pool of blood there, and the footprints, smeared in blood, all over the floor.

A set of the prints lead towards him, and he looked down for the first time, getting a glimpse of himself. Blood. Everywhere.

He was covered in blood, and none of it was his. Another horrified glance at the girl, and his conclusions sent questions bouncing around in his head.
Did I do this? How?? Why?? What kind of person am I? Is this who I am??

He scooted over the two feet towards the girl, swallowing the lump in his throat as he got closer to her. Her eyes were open and staring, directly at him it seemed, and there was a single small smear of blood on her cheek.

As he sat there, looking at her, the lump in his throat wouldn't go away. He wasn't really sure why, other than the lingering fear that he'd done this. Whatever catatonic state he'd just woken up from, this was the mess he'd found, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten here, or what had happened, or anything, really. So why he was getting sympathetic over this girl, he didn't know.

Maybe it was that she was pretty. Maybe it was the pitiful circumstances of her death. Maybe it was the fact all the blood in the room was getting to him, and he was beginning to feel the hunger pangs, as well as the wooziness that sometimes came when the smell and sight of blood became too much to fight off.

But something made him linger, when he should have been running. Something made him find a single clean spot on his shirt, which was torn as well as bloodied, and wipe the bit of blood from her face. Something made him close her eyes, whether to give her some dignity, or stop her accusing stare, he wasn't sure.

Up this close to her, he couldn't miss the necklace around her neck, or the… pendant? medallion?… jammed into her mouth. He gently pried her jaws apart, the stiffness of death making it hard to do it without hurting her face further, but he did enough to get the necklace out. He meant to examine it, but as soon as he reached in to pull it out, his fingers sizzled, and he jerked back at the biting sting of silver. The medallion dropped down where it should be, and as much as he wanted to figure out why it was there, he wasn't keen on touching it.

He didn't realize how wrapped up in his own little world he was until the cops pulled up right outside. He hadn't heard sirens, or seen lights, or thought about the fact he was sitting in an active crime scene, until a burly officer kicked in the store door and yelled "ON THE GROUND!"
All sympathetic thoughts or sentimentality disappeared from his head as something instinctive made him leap to his feet. Police = Run in his head, and even if he wasn't sure why, exactly, he knew he had to get out of there.
Two steps later, his head was spinning from the pain of whatever was causing the headache, and his body locked up as the cop hit him with a silver-laced tazer. It dropped him, immediately, and the last thing he remembered was the door frame rushing to meet his face, and then… back to the inky blackness.

………….

"Unit 610, suspect is down, moving to secure."

"Have you searched him yet, Marcus?"

"I'm getting there, Griggs, hold your horses. Check the girl."

"Corpse is cooled, she's been dead a while. Looks like a bite gone wrong for him, with that head wound-… Marcus, take a look at this!"

"What, I'm kinda busy he-… holy smokes, is that the Nightbreak necklace??! This guy?!?"

"Dispatch, Unit 610, this is Griggs. Get me the Chief, we got a possible collar on Nightbreak… Buddy, you tazed the biggest serial killer in recent history!"

"Now hold on Griggs, you're jumping the gun here. We don't know who this guy is. Checking his pockets for ID's here… some cash… wallet with pictures but no cards. What a weirdo… Hey… Griggs, gimme some light over here."

"Is that a letter? Written in blood? And you don't think this is the guy?"

"Nah, you're right, look at this… says here 'If you're reading this, you caught me. Well done. The game is up…' I think we got him! Get the Chief down here, and some backup, we gotta tape this place off."

"Already done, should be on her way. I'll get the tape going, you make sure he doesn't suddenly wake up or something."

"Boy, Watts is gonna be really grumpy about this one. All that work and we got his boy on a lucky collar."

…………….

Waking up was different this time. Instead of coming to, awake and staring, this time he definitely woke up out of deep unconsciousness. And there were no pinpricks of light this time. No, instead, there was an unrelenting white brightness, tinged with the blue of fluorescent lights. He groaned and tried to sit up, only to find himself heavily restrained. Steel bands magnetically locked his arms and legs down to the bed he was on, and as he opened his eyes further, he realized he was in a hospital. Not one of the really nice ones with forcefields and lasers, but certainly not one of the ones in the slums. He didn't know how he could tell the difference, but he instinctively knew.
The little robotic arms above his head were moving quickly, and seemed to be in the act of bandaging his head. The headache had grown, every thought a chore, every glance in a new direction or new sound sending waves of shooting pain through his cranium.
The robonurse finished it's job, and there was a small pinprick of pain as a needle was jabbed down into the muscle of his shoulder. His headache immediately began to lessen, the painkillers doing their job.
A girl stepped towards the bed, looking at him warily. He wanted to tell her he wouldn't hurt her, but she started asking questions before he could say anything.
"We were unable to identify you. What's your name?"

"…I don't know."

She blinked at him, frowning incredulously. He wasn't sure if she didn't believe him, or if she was surprised at the heavy accent on his words. "You don't know your name? What about an ID number? Address? Phone number?"

"…I can't remember… really, I can't…"

She huffed, looking down at the clipboard in her hands. "Sir, you were brought in by the police with a head wound. You are a suspect. If you can't tell me anything about you, then I can't help you. And we can't move forward with further medical care."

"I'm being honest… I really can't remember…"

The nurse turned away. "You're under no obligation to tell us anything, but we will be running DNA and blood testing to identify you. This is your best chance to help yourself."

He was about to ask what had happened, when someone stepped into his line of sight. It wasn't a doctor or nurse, but a cop, who immediately jabbed him in the neck with another needle. His consciousness faded once again, sliding from his grip like sand through a sieve.
The last thing he saw were the robonurse arms descending towards him again, needles extending.

……..

This time, he came to groggy. Like he was trying to surface from below deep water. He was already confused when he woke up, and he had trouble lifting his head.
When he did, though, he found himself bathed in the same fluorescent lighting, though the room his was in was much less clean and stank of old blood and sweat. He managed to open both eyes, and looked around.
Cinderblock walls, painted white. Big panels of black reflective glass across 2 walls. Steel door, probably silver coated. Steel chair and table, both bolted to the floor with massive bolts, meant to stop a vampire from ripping them out of the ground and using them as weapons.
Handcuffs, double thick, blocky, attached to the table, and definitely coated in silver, by the way they were burning his wrists.
His head was hurting him again, though not as badly, the painkillers still in his system. His thoughts were sluggish, and as he tried to remember where he was, his already-ragged memory had nothing new to offer him.
He wished someone would explain what was going on, but… from his situation, it looked like no one would be. That was probably 2-way glass, which meant he was being watched, but they wouldn't be any help.

There was a noise, and someone came through the door. A short man, with dark blue hair, wearing rumpled clothes, looking determined. The interrogator walked over to the table, reading over a file in his hands. A tap on his chest preceeded a question. "Well then. Hiya there, Lucky. I'm Detective Watts. How would you like to help me prove your innocence?"
Something like an electric current shot through Lucky's chest, as the detective said his name. He didn't know why he suddenly knew, but he was completely sure of it. That was his name. He already felt like more of a person with a name, but… it was just one piece.
He swallowed hard, suddenly realizing exactly how dry his throat was. The detective was offering to help him. "Umm, I-… What are my options? And how did you know my name? Can you tell me who I am?" His voice was a bit raspy, and thick, like he'd been drinking syrup. His accent was definitely not from Felicity.
He sat there, cuffed to the table, looking up at Watts with nerves and worry and the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Dallas tilted his head at the words, filing away the foreign accent for later. He was more interested in the vampire's reaction to the name, the flash of recognition so different from the confusion clouding his eyes.

"Lucky is your name, then?" he asked, ignoring the other questions for now and pulling the adjacent chair out. He turned it around to lean against the backrest, then laid the file on the table in front of the vampire and folded his hands patiently.

His expression was hard to read, alternating from the carefully practiced detachment that had been trained into him and an intensity that was all his own. "You have a tattoo on your chest." Again, he tapped the general area. "It says, 'Lucky'." He wondered, briefly, why that was. It wasn’t common to see one's name tattooed on themselves—unless perhaps they were a member of the military hoping to make identifying their remains easier. He made a mental note to revisit the idea later and let himself be satisfied with knowing the vampire’s name for the time being.

“Before I answer your questions, let’s catch you up to speed with the situation. There’s,” he paused, considering. “Yep, there’s no good way to say this,” he sighed, tipping his head back tiredly. “Early this morning, you were arrested for the murder of Matilda Gresha and the suspected murder of ten others under the moniker of ‘Nightbreak’. You’ve spent the better part of the last twelve hours unconscious, during which you were diagnosed with retrograde amnesia. The real kicker? No one knows who you are, Lucky. There’s no record of you anywhere.”

He lifted his head, letting the words sink in and watching Lucky's face carefully. “The department thinks it's found its serial killer in you. As you can imagine, your ‘options’ are…limited. Nonexistent, even.”

Dallas shifted in his seat, leaning forward—close enough to be in striking range. “But I think there’s something more happening here. I’ve been chasing Nightbreak for longer than anyone else; I know how he works. I know he’s not you.”

Leaning back, he crossed his arms. “So, let’s revisit your options. As things stand, you’ll be escorted to a high-security prison for vampires, where you’ll wait indefinitely for your memory to return so they can hold a proper trial. A mass serial killer is too dangerous to have on the streets, even if his memory is missing—” he waved a hand dismissively. “Or.” He met Lucky’s gaze evenly. “You could come with me. Work with me to prove you’re innocent by helping me catch the real Nightbreak.”

"I-… I think so?" Lucky's excitement faded as the interrogator made it clear he didn't know much about Lucky either. He was hoping the man had answers, but clearly that wasn't the case.
Still, Watts had a file on him, which meant he couldn't be completely clueless, didn't it? "What's-… what's in the file?"
The detective mentioned a tattoo, and Lucky instinctively started to reach for his shirt to look down at his chest, but the handcuffs kept his hands firmly in place, and his attempt to move just cause the silver in the cuffs to sting more. He could only assume that the tattoo was a nickname, because what kind of idiot tattoos their name on their own chest? Maybe you, stupid.

Watts began explaining his situation to him, and Lucky went very still as he listened. His eyes widened as he realized the full danger of his predicament, and by the time Watts got around to giving him options, Lucky was so stunned he wasn't really sure what to say.

The detective also made the mistake of leaning forward, and Lucky got a good whiff of him. The man smelled unwashed, overwhelmingly of caffeine, but… the smell that jumped at Lucky was blood. Whether Watts had picked it up at the crime scene, or Lucky was just that sensitive right now, he wasn't sure, but it didn't matter. He was suddenly aware of exactly how thirsty he was, and the human sitting across from him smelled delicious. He fought down the urge, and was glad for the handcuffs for just a moment, as they kept him from moving his hands at all and helped him keep control of himself. Even so, he had to consciously both ignore the smell, and also keep his mouth closed so it wouldn't be so obvious how badly he was salivating.

But Watts hadn't stopped talking, so Lucky did his best to listen as the detective leaned back. He had the option of going to prison for a crime he didn't commit, or at least couldn't remember committing,or… he could work with this detective to try and do some good. The answer should have been obvious, but it had been a long night, and Lucky's head hurt, and he was thirsty, and still partially drugged, and so so confused…

"How can you be so sure I didn't do it?" he asked quietly. "What if I'm just as monstrous as they think I am? I don't remember but… that doesn't mean I didn't do this to that poor girl…" The image of Matilda, lying dead and mocked in the broken down boutique, flashed through his head, and he had to shut his eyes tight to try and block it out. "If I did this to her, and all those other people, then don't I deserve what they're trying to do to me?"

At the mention of the file, one of Dallas' hands instinctively dropped to hover over it. He was quiet for a moment, trying to decide how to best word his reply. "The evidence against you is staggering," he began slowly, giving the window a sidelong glance before returning his gaze to Lucky. "Cameras picked up your entry to the boutique just after one this morning when Matilda should have been the only one there. Forensics found your fingerprints all over the victim and the calling card—the pendant," he explained, predicting Lucky's confusion. "And of course, you being covered in her blood didn't help. The most damning thing, though, was the letter."

He flipped open the file, turning a few pages to a photo of the letter in question, in all its bloody glory. Dallas watched his face as he read it, tapping the table to draw his attention when his eyes stopped moving. "They found this in your pocket at the scene."

A heavy silence followed, which Dallas broke with a weak grin. "Pretty condescending stuff, if you ask me." The smile fell, and his tone grew even more serious. "Eleven victims, eleven crime scenes, and this is the one exception. In no other instance did we find even a scrap of evidence left behind, save for the calling card and one vague witness report in the beginning. The department thinks Nightbreak, thinks you were sloppy; that you got too cocky and didn't anticipate Matilda fighting back. It's also the only scene where such a mess was left behind…"

"Now tell me. Why would a single dressmaker with no history of self-defense become the downfall of an experienced mass killer? It didn't sit right with me. Matilda—" he stopped short, eying the vampire warily. "She was compelled," he concluded, though it seemed he had been heading somewhere else with the thought, judging by the familiarity in which he spoke her name. "Deeply, as every victim before her was. There's no way she should have been able to fight back against the castor, and yet she was the one to inflict that head wound of yours. Either the compulsion went very wrong, which it never has before…or you were never the one to cast it."

"There's also the matter of the letter. It's…odd. Out of character, even. Why go to the trouble of writing a preemptive confession like this?" he frowned, tapping his fingers again, although this time the gesture seemed absentminded. "Nightbreak has a flair for dramatics. Even written with blood, a simple note is too meek for someone like him—unless, of course, he was aiming to frame someone. Trying to frame you." No matter that Dallas wanted to know why the killer seemed to want off the radar all of a sudden.

He looked up at the vampire again, sparing a glance at the cuffs on his wrists. His tone softened somewhat and he said, "You're not a monster, Lucky. If you were, you would've tried to bite me just now." He was no stranger to vampires and their thirst. The set of Lucky's jaw, the way he swallowed and refused to look directly at him—everything was a tell. "But there are worse than monsters out there. Nightbreak is one of them, and I believe your memories are the key to catching him once and for all. That is why I'm so insistent on this."

"I won't lie to you. This is dangerous work. Prison may actually be the more peaceful option. And 'indefinite' might mean nothing to someone immortal…" he trailed off, then gestured towards the handcuffs. "But if you agree, we can start with losing those. We've got a store of synthetic blood in the breakroom you can help yourself to. You won't heal quite as quickly, but given the circumstances…" He let the sentence hang, figuring Lucky was aware enough of his situation by now to know why true blood wasn't an option.

Lucky's heart sank further as Watts laid out all of the evidence. If he was the detective, he'd have condemned himself by now, so clearly, Watts was being merciful.
The mention of the letter made Lucky's eyebrows furrow. He didn't know anything about it. Watts opened the file, and as he flipped to the picture of the letter, Lucky saw 3 photographs: 1 of him and a young girl, one of him and an older man, and one of him and-… was that a horse?
The confusing pictures went out of his head as Watts let him read the letter. Lucky's eyebrows went from furrowed to raised as he read it.

If you're reading this, you caught me. Well done. The game is up.
I have always had this letter prepared and on me, but up to this point, it has never become relevant. However, by now you're probably aware of whom I am. The vampire responsible for the deaths of- (and here the number had been scratched out and re-written, as if adding one for every kill-) 11 people in the last few years, I could only be one person- Nightbreak.
And you, lucky reader, have finally caught up to me. Consider this my resignation from the chess board. I topple my own king by taking credit for those beautifully orchestrated deaths. Do with that what you will.

It was… brazen, at the very least. To have this in his pocket was pretty clear, and yet… Watts seemed to have other ideas. Lucky looked up at the detective, and swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.
His interrogator continued on, expressing all of the reasons why he didn't think it was Lucky. There was a pause after the girl's name, and Lucky watched Watts expectantly, though he didn't ask questions when the detective visibly moved on from what he'd been about to say.
Compulsion wasn't something Lucky remembered being able to do, much less do well. So if she'd been compelled, he wasn't even sure how he would have pulled that off. Then again, he didn't remember all the things he knew or didn't know.
The point about the letter was… interesting. "I mean… having a letter on you to reward those chasing you sounds kinda like a super-dramatic thing to do, to me. Kinda like Moriarty being willing to admit defeat if Holmes could truly catch him.. sorta." Lucky wasn't sure where that comparison had come from, but… a letter in blood certainly struck him as drama-queen material.

Watts glanced at his cuffs, and his next words were gentler. Lucky looked down and away as it was made clear how badly he was hiding his urges. The detective didn't seem bothered about it, though. More just… used to these things.
He listened to the offer, and thought about it, for a moment. The offer of getting rid of the silvered cuffs, and the chance at blood, even synthetic, had him quickly giving in. Even if he had misgivings… he found himself drawn to Watts.
Maybe it was that the detective was offering help. Maybe it was just that he was talking to Lucky like a person. Maybe it was the offer of a chance to right what had been done to that poor girl… but in any case, Lucky nodded slowly.

"I'll do it."

((TW // Descriptive depictions of death and violence))
_{(I think that's pretty established by this point, so I won't be continuing to add these unless something new pops up. Just a heads up for you or any potential stalkers!)}

---

Dallas stared at Lucky for a long moment, his expression flitting between disbelief and pure judgment. "You remember Sherlock, but not your own last name," he deadpanned, and his tapping ceased. For a moment, he almost looked amused. "We'll have to work on that. But, you have a point. Maybe I should rephrase…" He sat straighter, snagging the file back and turning it towards himself to flip through. On the opening cover of the folder was a paper-thin screen that he tapped in an intentional pattern to bring to life. He was in the middle of skimming through various icons when he sensed Lucky nodding before him.

The detective perked up at once. "Great. Here, let me just…" He pulled up the intended video and spun the file around for Lucky to view again. He stood with a grunt and multiple pops could be heard from his spine, which were followed by a few more as the detective stretched his neck. "These will be graphic," he warned as he rounded the table. "Don't watch if you think you'll get sick." Dallas displayed no apparent hesitation in approaching a blood-deprived vampire, wrapping thin fingers around his bound wrists and looming above him in a manner that might've been intimidating were he not so focused on the offending handcuffs. His hands were startlingly cold for a human.

The video, or more accurately slideshow, began to play. The images were graphic indeed, flitting between a variety of dramatically staged murders. Fuzzy notes popped up like alerts, but they were entirely unreadable. Encrypted, though they did little to distract from the general horror of the scenes.

Dallas twisted his free wrist, letting his sleeve fall enough to reveal a silver watch. He brought his forearm closer to the cuffs and pressed the face of the watch against the blocky metal until a soft beep sounded. The metal melted away, a sure indication of nanotech, parting to free the vampire's wrist in a matter of seconds. His eyes flicked to the slideshow now depicting a scene at an empty office building.

Every computer screen in sight displayed the same laughing face constructed out of neon binary numbers. The parallel tables of tech led the eye to a shattered window that would have otherwise spanned from ceiling to floor. A large trail of blood stained the cheap carpeting, coating the fibers of a long rope pulled taut from a weight outside the window. The image seamlessly transitioned into another photo, clearly taken after the body was retrieved from where it hung. Bruises and rope burns lined the victim's throat, sharing the space with two puncture marks near the artery. Duct tape covered the man's mouth, but the silver chain hanging from beneath the tape indicated the presence of Nightbreak's calling card. Another pop-up appeared, and this time it was decipherable. 'Matthew Eichler,' it read. 'Twenty-four. Data entry clerk for Summit Trade.'

Dallas reached out and shut the file. "'For you'," he mumbled, referring to the binary numbers. "That's what it says." Nightbreak almost always left them messages to find, taunting or otherwise gloating at his "victories". Dallas took a step back from Lucky, allowing him space to stand.

"This is the kind of communication Nightbreak favors. Someone like this doesn't plan on losing, Lucky. The narration of the letter, the, 'I could only be one person,' — it's too redundant. He's covering his bases, explaining too much. It's almost like…" He trailed off with a frown. "…Another message entirely." The thought left him feeling distinctly uneasy, and he silently appraised the vampire in front of him. Dallas had long since come to terms with the fact that he was the only one who would ever completely understand his musings, but he felt a stab of disappointment at the thought that the one person who had just as much motivation to find the real Nightbreak might not be on the same page as him. Bringing the killer to justice would only be that much harder if Lucky himself doubted his innocence.

His eyes closed, and he shook his head minutely to clear his thoughts. They opened again, and he said, "You can back out at any point. As far as any of us know, you're not trained for a job like this. If it gets to be too much, I can bring you back. If you try to run, though…" His lips pressed into a thin line. "Not even I could save you from what would happen. Don't try it." He pulled his sleeve back over the watch and indicated with a tilt of his head to follow.

"If you still plan on working with me, I'll take you to the breakroom."