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The Gift


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Jameson Orlav

The first thing that registers in Jameson's mind is pain.

Even before his eyesight has adjusted, he's fighting against the shooting sensations that power through his body like lightning. Right away, he's unable to tell how many bones in his body are broken. He's in no position to give himself an examination, nor is he able to put any pressure on any important bones or ligaments.

From where he sits (very uncomfortably), he can hear a low rumble through each and every wall around him. Each time the noise envelopes him, the walls shake with a dull vibration; one that Jameson can both feel beneath him, and hear crumbling all around.

When his eyes finally open completely, he's greeted by a near pitch black atmosphere. There's a warm, dull light that shines up on a platform and the doctor can finally make out that he's adequately strapped to a t-rail track. There's a steel chair beneath him, the cold of the metal long faded from the warm and stuffy air in the tunnel. While he's not able to make it out just yet, when his eyes adjust fully he'd see that the are was mostly devoid of mess and debris - an indication that whomever frequented these halls took pristine care of them.

Not that it mattered right now.

There's a dull hunger that churns in the pit of his stomach, and it makes him wonder how long he's been here and completely out of it. His mouth is dry, and the faint pounding of his heart in his throat alerts him right away that he hasn't had any hydration, either. It breeds a certain irritation - one that unsettles his breathing and causes him to squirm. Jameson can't make any sense of this situation, and the thought finally floods his mind to a point where he's more than entirely overwhelmed.

How long had he been there? Was his captor going to return? Was he going to die?

Death, while less than terrifying for someone who had stared it in the face many times, brought many new mixed emotions to the slayer.

Somewhere (who knows how far away) Elouise was waiting for him to come home. Or, at least, if all was well she was home and healthy, carrying their child and preparing for his birth. Jameson knows that it's his duty to get home to them alive, but with so many missing pieces to this puzzle, how could he be sure that was going to happen?

How could he make it happen?

Jameson's head begins to pound.

It's no pale ache, and it comes all at once - like a tidal wave after an earth shattering quake. He squirms in the chair, which is a great mistake, as immediately his body screams in contempt. Whichever bones were broken - whichever muscles or ligaments were torn, ripped or bruised, they all yelled at him; warning him that if he were to move anymore he might incite a kind of pain that would surely cause him more agony.

But Jameson is desperate.

Whatever was happening here, he needed to get out.

He blinks rapidly, salty puddles springing from his eyes as his body fails to adjust to the pain. The doctor wants to get out of the chair, make his way as far down the abandoned tunnel as possible and try to find an exit. In his haste, he hadn't given any thought to the fact that he wouldn't be able to climb any ladder out into a street - or pull himself up onto a concrete platform...

It's clear that Jameson is not in his right mind.

The struggle he makes against the binds is futile, for as a breeze carries through the dark corridor ahead, the man is greeted by the stale scent of coagulating blood. It's sudden, and it crosses his nose in such a way that his face scrambles in both disgust and intrigue. Suddenly, his stomach feels like it's going to detach and burst through his stomach, seeking out sustenance on it's own - with or without Jameson's help.

At once, a rush of bile forces it's way up his esophagus, the substance hitching at the crest of his throat and stalling before forcing it's way through his mouth and onto his lap.

Then again, the hunger demands his attention.

This time Jameson cries out, a low rumble among the total silence that shrouds him in darkness. His growl echoes around his body, and then something snaps inside of him; igniting a flame of ferocity that powers his desperation. He's fighting now - against the binds and every bit of good sense that lingered inside of his mind.

Suddenly Elouise and his unborn child are not at the forefront of his thoughts, because all that he cares about is food.


Behind his back, the sticky bind snaps beneath the pressure of his struggle and from atop the steel chair, he topples until both of his knees and the palms of his hands are flush against the concrete rubble below. A searing white pain overtakes his vision, blinding him temporarily. The same charge of affliction brawls against his stubborn desire, but it's mind over matter and nothing is going to stop him.

The smell of blood gets stronger as he inches (ever so slowly) forward, toward what he doesn't realize is a body with it's throat ripped out. Gender doesn't matter. Size and build doesn't matter. What mattered most was the fact that it was there, and for whatever reason, Jameson needed it.

No one was there to witness the way Jameson's eyes went bloodshot. Rimmed with the dark shadow of blood, and flushed with darkness where the once vibrant chestnut of his irises once radiated, he looked like something out of a horror show. It wouldn't be until he finally reached the body that he'd feel the prick of elongated canines that would plunge forth from his gums, allowing for an easier ingestion of his would-be meal.

It was the change.

The change that was going to destroy his entire life.
July 20, 2017 06:41 pm


Shortly after reuniting with Victor Lockheed, she’d lost him again. All of this, of course, is totally to blame on Jameson Orlav. A challenge had been issued. She’d do nothing about his torture, he spat at her. Whether he had meant the words, or used them as a fine way to manipulate her, Mackenzie did not care. The Doctor had become an endangered species at that very moment.

Being a model citizen by day in her time with Solomon, Mackenzie kept her extracurriculars under lock and key. The duo had a strong rule: Don’t ask, don’t tell. They both know that she had to do certain things to survive, but what Solomon does not know does not hurt him. He would never catch wind of this. She would make sure of it. Extra care was taken to keep the stench of anguish, blood, and death from her body when she would return home to the happy cabin in the woods.

The process had been drawn out. Days upon days of torture were first. Mackenzie extracted first a lock of hair. Then, a fingernail. She followed that with a pound of flesh, weight before his very eyes. She had taken scar tissue, leading from his arm and over the back of his hand. Afterwards, she’d taken it a step further, repeatedly reopening the wound and tasting it.

One night, when she could tell he had had more than his fill, she committed to it. She bit into the palm of her own hand, standing behind Jameson Orlav as she clamped the deep wound over his mouth and yanked it back. There was nowhere for her blood to escape, though he fought it. It slid down his throat, and that is when the turning began.

The art of dying is different for everyone. Sometimes, it is fast. For Dr. Orlav, it took ages.

Stubborn b-stard.

She'd been standing outside, listening the strange way his heart would beat. At times, it would be hard and fast, Mackenzie would assume it was out of fear. He has good reason. Others, dangerously slow and quiet. She has zero regrets over what she has done.

Hearing the movement, she waits until it stops. Mackenzie visualizes the disgust and fear he must be feeling. She recalls fondly her first meal. The girl had wretched for an hour after her first feeding out of sheer horror of what she had done. A small smile spreads across her face. What she has done is wrong, but so, so right. Pushing herself from the wall, she slinks around the corner and through the open door.

The only light in the room comes from the screen of her cellphone which illuminates her face as she reads aloud.

"Elouise Orlav is still pregnant, still married, and still the devil. It is rumored that she is keeping her husband's best Dino and brother-in-law quite cozy. Does Rambo have a new Daddy? The answer is yes." She gasps in mock shock. Mackenzie had broken his body, and now she would break his spirit. “Jameson, I didn’t know you had a dinosaur. Is that figuratively speaking, or…?”

Slowly, she steps forward, letting each click of her heels echo. "Oh my.. and your sister," her smile can be heard through her lilting brogue, sickenly sweet upon her face. "But who cares about her?"

She stops at the other side of the lifeless form she’d left on the floor to entice his senses, his only form of nourishment. From this place, she towers over him despite her petite frame. Mackenzie does not look like she could hurt a fly, but those who know her know the punch she packs. “Dr. Jameson Orlav… tell me, how does one such as yourself retain a license in the medical field?”

Years of darkness grant her the ability to see through the night. With a cruel glance downward at Jameson, Mackenzie smirks as she flicks her finger across the screen and illuminates the scene below. The light would be an irritation, and so much more. For the first time, the devil before her would see what has become of his world. He would see the blood, and find himself in the lifeless gaze of a young woman. Blonde. Beautiful. Beyond and within the blood, alcohol and drugs taint her. Her bright blue eyes wide in horror, staring right at him, though lifeless.

She had screamed as her throat was torn open. Kenz had felt the vibrations with her bare hands.

“Here’s the thing, Dr. Orlav,” she crouches down, bringing herself closer to his level. With that actions, she also lowers her voice to a coo. “You remember Victor Lockheed, don’t you? He was in the British Army. A Captain, I think. I don’t know. I always called him names. Lobsterback, Feb, Tan. He hated that last one. Always insisted he wasn’t a Tan. You know what a Tan is, yea? No? No matter.”

Her head tilts, sending short, natural curls shifting to one side. Innocent. If not for the bloodstains on her clothes, and the dangerous glint within her light eyes, not a soul would dare suppose she could do something the likes of this. Reaching forward, she brushes her fingers through his dark, dirtied hair. “What matters is that you know Victor, and I know Victor. I know him very well.”

Without hesitation, her fingers curl into his hair, latching onto his greasy strands and yanking to bring his lips just an inch from his long dead meal. Never mind that feeding a vampire anything dead is lethal, sick, and would have serious repercussions. She wants him to suffer.

And he will.

“You f-cking carved him,” she hisses her words, fury evident as she speaks slowly through her teeth. “You cut out his eyes. You starved him, you motherf-cker. Why? Because he gave your sister a f-cking gift? F-CK YOU.”

Standing, she relieves her grip, wiping her hand upon her thigh to glare down at him. Her voice is lower once more, calm, the model of political mastership. “Eat up, Dr. Orlav. You don’t want to disappoint him.”
July 20, 2017 06:42 pm

Jameson Orlav

Jameson knows the rules.

He didn't spend half of his life studying the undead to come up with a complete lack of understanding. When vampires fed upon the dead, or even worse, one of their own dead, what could become of them was ultimate annihilation. Although that wasn't always the case, or even usually the case, Jameson knew that if he didn't drink the dead girls blood of his own accord, Mackenzie would force him in ways that he'd yet to be able to imagine.

The girl had a knack for torture, that much was certain.

So he did was he thought he needed to do to survive, which as he understood, was play ball. He'd yet to fully understand the inner workings of sire-ship, and truth be told was almost completely unaware that all Mackenzie really needed to do was insinuate what she wanted from him... And he would do it.

Of course, he would think it was his idea, until some day he came to realize what was happening. But that would be a long, long time from now.

Sometime after wars had been won. Even longer after that, when he had lost complete and total control over himself. Only then would he find the strength to break that bond.

But not now.

Now he pulls himself forward, biceps flexing beneath his crumpled body as he continues to inch towards the lifeless carcass of a bottle blonde. He can smell it just before him- the way the bleach and peroxide had burned the strands of her hair. A fleeting thought about her natural hair color invades his mind, but he only allows it in passing. The stink of her rotting meat invades his nose, causing his eyes to water in discontent. Briefly, his darkened oak eyes glance up as far as they can, barely capturing Mackenzie in the dull light.

His eyes do not plead, and they do not beg. He has already accepted his fate. Instead they widen, announcing his defiance in his lack of willingness to beg her for mercy. Mackenzie did not show mercy, as the stories had told; it was not her style.

The darkness takes total control of his facial structure, eyes completely enveloped by a sickening shade of blood red. Though his cheeks remained hollowed, the dark shadowed over the sides of his face and down over his mouth, bright white canines forcing their way to an elongated status- sharper than an assassins blade and twice as deadly. With the intensity of a hundred roars, a growl rips through Jameson's chest and then:

He feasts.

The stale taste of coagulated blood hits the back of his throat and he immediately wants to retch. In fact, his entire body tenses as it screams at him to expel the poison he had just ingested. But he would not - instead forcing another gulp down his throat as his stubborn disposition forbids him from backing down.

It also may have had something to do with Mackenzie's insistence on the matter.

But that's neither here nor there at the moment.

Before long his body forces it's hand over his mind, and he is no longer in control of his feeding. A shrill scream tears it's way from his throat, and soon Jameson is on his back, clawing at his abdomen in agonizing pain. His vision goes white, stars be damned, and he doesn't even realize that he's emptied the content of his blood soaked stomach twice.

Though he struggles to remain conscious, his body's inability to digest the dead blood has other plans for the Doctor. To kill him, slowly, without any consideration for his contempt.
July 21, 2017 05:55 pm


Mackenzie stands over him, watching with a twisted little smirk upon her lips as Jameson feeds on poison. It is poetic, really. He’d poisoned his world with his alleged curiosity. It had never been anything more than the darkness everyone has in them. The difference here is that Jameson Orlav considers himself above the rest, and Kenz never could stand anyone who thought themselves better than others. He would have continued flying under her radar, if he had not touched one of the few people she actually gives a sh-t about.


Taking out her phone, the screen illuminates her once more. A quick text to Victor merits a quick response, and she rolls her eyes. He is such an artist when it comes to death. She admires his tenacity, and stubborn nature. Setting up a crime scene, and she has no doubt he is still in New York. Mackenzie knows he's being honest, and she also knows it is meant to be a dig considering their current state (hint: there is no state). She snaps a picture, flash on, to catch every little detail. Jameson Orlav, on the ground howling in pain as he claws at his stomach. There is a distinct change to his usual appearance, agony aside, and the bloodstained, near white hair splayed on the edge of the picture might be a good indication.

Funny. I have a similar situation, Tan.
[IMG Attachment Received]

The message she receives in return is something she should have seen coming. A question, poised for her to answer. Has she changed her mind about them. Mackenzie wrinkles her nose at her phone, stepping around the corpse, accidentally kicking her pretty head along the way. Click. Click. Click. Each step she takes would echo in the space around them. All the while, she texts her response to the dark-eyed devil.

I'm not the one who changed their mind.
This one is going to suffer for a very long time.

She reads the returned text, blinking before a slightly sinister grin takes residence upon her face. She is rather proud of her work thus far, and admittedly, Mackenzie always has been excitable when making life especially painful for others. This is a side of her she had banished when she moved in with Solomon, but that was before Victor dropped a bombshell in her lap. He had to know this would be her only natural course of action. She stops just out of arm’s reach of the her hoarse counterpart.

Glancing down at Jameson, Kenz lets out a quiet laugh followed by a huff of frustration. God damn Victor Lockheed.

F-cking English B-stard
I disagree with your agreement to disagree.
Show me yours, Tan.

“I don’t know how you don’t like him, Jameson. You should like him,” Mackenzie plants the first seed. “In fact, you should worship the ground he walks on, and be so lucky to be in his presence.”

Right on time, her phone chimes and Mackenzie looks at the screen with a delighted smile. Well, f-ck. She stares down at the mess of a girl held hostage by Victor, obviously terrorized and likely soon dead. She knows it, too. Mackenzie can see it written all over her blotchy face. It makes her miss doing these things with him. Torturing, killing for the sheer thrill of it, and all that ever came after it. “Looks like Vic might be visiting.”

She tilts the screen, moving to hold it up for Jameson to see the picture she’d been sent. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Taking the phone back, she sends her reply.

Right where you left me.
Didn't realize you had a type.

Mackenzie sets her phone side, stepping up to Jameson before kneeling beside him. A hand is raised, and this time, the backs of her fingers run across his cheek before finding their path along his jaw. The sweetest smile is upon his face. Talking to him is like talking to a corpse. He has not heard a single word of her own, nor seen the picture presented, or anything else for that matter. He’s passed out cold. Talking to Jameson Orlav is like talking to a blade of freshly cut grass. Useless. But she still does it.

“Don’t you die now, handsome. I’ll be just outside.”

With that, she stands and casually walks out of the room. Jameson would wake up eventually, and Victor would most likely appear. It’s just a matter of who comes first.
July 22, 2017 06:25 pm

Jameson Orlav

The pain was blinding, and it came in waves of suffocation and relief. His body was changing, and with that change came the curse of hypersensitivity, muddled with a mixed blessing that kicked the alleviation of his pain into high gear. While he was no where near close to some magical being who miraculously healed immediately following injury.. the way about him that allowed for pain to cease only did so much as he wretched following his consumption of coagulated blood.

Jameson loses consciousness, his body helpless and left to the lenience of Mackenzie.

He can't remember the last time it was this cold in Warsaw. April saw a break in the weather, with temperatures rising slowly in the day; bringing hope that a warm spring was right around the corner. Winters were fierce. Frigid, dry, and dark. It was harder to keep track of coven movement when the day offered waning hours of light, and the nights were so silent that there was no way to mask their movements. Most days, there was no way he was willing to risk it. Jameson wouldn't allow for his team to head out to their imminent death.

He cared too much about them back then.

It was not until May sauntered around the corner that his options, and opinions, had changed.

There was a dramatic change in the mannerisms of the Warsaw coven. Jameson was always sure that they knew they were being tracked, but his haughty group of vampires never seemed to pay much attention. They were poised by nights filled with gluttonous routine; alcohol, debauchery and live meals. The impoverish slums of capital Poland were easy pickings. Women readily gave themselves up for the promise of 100 zloty, just enough for a few days meals. What they had never banked on was that they'd never return.

Some of the coven members would hunt only for women or men who left behind no responsibility by way of family or dependents. But don't assume that that changed Jameson's mind about how they operated.

There was a very deep and gestural need for the Doctor to understand why these creatures operated in the way that they did. How could one turn from human to vampire, and with that anatomical exchange also disregard all cognizance for human life? Or for life in general? It made absolutely no sense to him.

But he had made it a part of his life's purpose to find out.


The word still feels so fresh to Jameson, rolling off of his tongue with a new bittered flavor. Everything around him is so vivid in his mind; a memory. Vague in it's coloring but still as rich as the day it had happened.

There are footsteps that echo around the hollowed walls outside of his surgical suite. Though his latex gloves are bloodied, he pushes his dark framed glasses up over his tousled hair, brow knitting in confusion at the commotion. A simple glance is offered to the dead woman on the table; a cadaver who'd been mangled the night previous by a sullied ritual carried out by a group of vampires. She couldn't have been more than 19 years old, with her entire life ahead of her.

Jameson frowns, creasing his forehead. But then he takes his gloves off and disposes them in the small red trash bin at his side and rises to his feet, shrugging off his white coat in the process.

Out the door he peeks, into the hallway where he would see more than one member of the institution hurrying towards the foyer. While his primary team had consisted of just four people including himself, there were others who he had met along his travels and decided they wanted to join his cause. Others who had been burned by the curse itself, in one way or another.

"What's going on?" Jameson steps into the hall, blocking the way of a young man who seemed to be in a hurry to figure out just that.

Above them, the crash of lightning sounds out all around them in a thunderous boom that nearly shakes the whole building.

"There's an outsider, sir."
Jameson raises a brow and gives him a 'look'.
"Er- Jim. Some kid and his sister, soaked to the brim. Cole said she was in the nest."

Chestnut eyes go wide, and Jameson waves the man down the hallway, allowing him to take his leave. If this was true, Cole and Noura would already be inside the infirmary with these visitors and if he knew anything about Cole, they hadn't been spared one single second of questioning since they'd arrived.

The slayer high tailed it to an adjacent corridor, until he saw a small congregation of bodies crowded around a set of infirmary doors.

"Alright, guys. It's not like you've never seen people before." He waves through the bodies, turning to face them with a deep breath. "Go on and let us take care of this. We'll meet in the morning."

There are a few mumbles as most of them turn to walk away, which he understands to be the disappointment of a group of people who worked tirelessly with no answers. Jameson often wished that he could provide them with all of the knowledge that they wanted, and could offer answers to the questions that begged their souls. The truth was that he had very little even for himself.


"Please, Jim. I-"

Jameson shakes his head, his arm finding a place around the crest of the kids shoulders, and he offers a small pat against his back as he led him into the small medical room where he'd find both Noura and Cole. He offers no words, but in silence grants a type of permission that would allow Elliot to stay with the three of them while they figured out who had showed up in the middle of the night and why. Jameson's guilt had always gotten the better of him and, much like the patron of an orphanage or a nanny, it had always resulted in a plethora of extra bodies that he felt responsible for. This in addition to his own sister, Noura, who was his ultimate responsibility.

And there she stood as they walked in, just a little closer to Cole than he would have thought comfortable.

But he doesn't give it any consideration. He never did. Because Cole was his closest companion and the protector of his institution. They were brothers, so to speak. Inseparable and impenetrable.

He trusted him.

"Cole?" Jameson releases his grip on Elliot and sends him to an empty chair next to the door. With arms folded over one another, he crosses the room where a girl lay unconscious in one of their medical beds. There was a light, damp cloth across her forehead and another over her chest. Though her breathing was shallow, her color was less than pale.

That was good. It meant she was still human.

"Bratr." Cole grunts, his head tipping towards the boy of equal age who sat quietly next to the bedridden girl. "This is Oliver and his sister, Lise."

Jameson's eyes dart slowly from one of them to the other, noting very little differences in the outward appearance of the two. From the sandy hair to the pale blue eyes, and even the absence of fluctuation from one skin tone to the next. Easily the same age...

"Oliver." The Doctor closes the space between himself and the bed, reaching out to touch the girl at the wrist. From the corner of his eye he can see the boys fingers contract around the wooden chair arm, clearly uncomfortable with strangers touching his sister. "You and your sister. Twins?"

Oliver swallows and nods while Jameson checks the girls pulse against the steady ticks of the watch on his wrist.

"Can you tell me exactly what happened to her?" Again, his dark eyes find their way between the siblings, his dark brows folded over an analytical stare. He's now noticing the blood smeared across the front of the kids clothes, and it's then that he scans the exposed skin for any wounds or breaking of the skin.

Oliver was clean.

"I don't know what happened before I got there." Oliver speaks through gritted teeth, and Jameson commences with his inspection of Lise. The jacket she had been wearing when brought inside had been removed, tucked into one of the chairs behind where Cole and Noura stood. "But I got her out. I had to get her out. They were going to-"

"Jim, myslíme si, že byla uštěpaná." [Jim, we think she's been bitten.] Cole mumbles against the hand that rests near his mouth. His tone is calm so as not to cause any panic in the young boy.

Oliver scoffs, and then stands from his seat and waves an angry finger in the direction of the two.

"Ano, byla kousnuta!" [Yes, she has been bitten!] He snaps, both Cole and Noura's eyes going wide. The lack of accent would suggest that Oliver was not fluent in any language other than English, but Jameson himself would have suggested differently. The Doctor was learning fast not to underestimate people. "But look at her. She has not ingested any vampire blood, and if you make sure she doesn't f-cking die, then we'll be just fine, wont we!"

His boisterous words stun them all into silence. Jameson of course understood the concept in which he was speaking, but was curious as to Oliver's experience in the matter.

"Oliver, we aren't going to let her die." His voice is stern, calm and promising. "I am not going to let her die. Do you understand?"

Though his eyes are still narrowed and his brows are still knotted, Oliver nods.

"Alright. Now. Cole, Noura? If you wouldn't mind. Oliver, Lise and I need some time."
August 12, 2017 05:51 pm
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