Author: The Vault Wanderer PM
Jon makes up with Felicia for the last time. Right before their murdersRated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Tragedy - Chapters: 3 - Words: 6,097 - Reviews: 7 - Favs: 2 - Follows: 1 - Published: 05-27-12 - id: 8155522
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
The Compromise ( JON and FELICIA)
*Disclaimer* First off, I don't own the name Darkstalkers.
This story is not meant to generate cash, and it is only meant for viewing.
This story also takes reference from a fabfic "Animal Magnetism" by Boondock Jake (his story can be found in this website, awesome stuff).
I kinda needed a lift-off point for my story, and I felt maybe I could continue the story a little. This is just for fun, if Jake objects, I'll happily change the script.
This is probably my first attempt to write a fanfic, and would like feedback
No city was ever complete without some good watering holes, and no good watering holes would have nothing to compare to without any less-than-savory pubs thrown in the mix.
"The Drinking Bat" was such an example, a pub hidden away at the edges of the city. The sorriest excuse for an Irish pub, the lighting was dodgy, the interior paint was crumbling, the stools are falling apart and the drinks were watered down. Such a pub was doomed to a lifetime of empty seats and the occasional odd drunk…but it was a perfect place for a certain disconcerting werewolf to rest and plan his next move without attracting much attention.
This particular werewolf, a one Jon Talbain was, right now, in his more subtle form to blend in with the humans. Long, silvery hair hung in spikes on a lean chiseled face, with a touch of wolfish features along with a serious demeanor. He wore a dirty leather jacket with a white shirt, but oddly enough, chose to wear purple karate pants and a yellow belt to go with his leather shoes. His only possessions besides the clothes on his back were his nunchuks, which he hid in his pants. Jon largely ignored his drink, choosing instead to scrutinize a pamphlet he had, and make mental calculations to plot his trip to Las Vegas.
"You into 'dat crap?" the bartender asked, pointing to the advertisement in Jon's hand as he feigned cleaning dirty glasses.
"You could say that" Jon replied, flipping a page, revealing more scenes from Felicia's previous Vegas shows, as well as advertising the feline pop star's new perfume line;Cat Scratch Fever2.
The bartender grunted, "*snort*, you'd tink havin' some big'ol cat ears an paws would turn people off, but, I'd gotta admit, shes lookin' fine."
Jon ignored as the man laughed to himself, concentrating solely on the means to get to Vegas.
Since the next show starts in 2 days, I guess I can catch some busses to Vegas. But that means my budgets blown by then, so I'll have to stowaway on the trips back…maybe I could get some money from F…
Jon stopped himself…now that was ridiculous.
Grrrruaaammph! Jon stifled a wince, as his stomach reminded him that he barely had a full meal for a week now. Travelling to Vegas was always a drain on his wallet, but this time was a different. What little donations given to his dojo was reduced to almost nothing, as fewer children had come to train this year.
That meant he had to rely on walking mostly, transforming into his wolfish form at night or when he was sure nobody was looking to cover the distance quicker. Money for travel and lodging was out of the question, the downside of being a hermit who resided in the middle of the woods, but they were not really a concern when he started his journey a week ago, as he could still hunt for wildlife and could sleep almost anywhere. However, problems manifested once he reached America, since the only wildlife there were in zoos, and the police had a habit of chasing anybody off if they tried to sleep on park benches. Familiar with this situation in his previous travels, he searched restaurant dumpsters for edible scraps, and sought places to sleep on the rooftops of buildings. Any other human would be severely weakened at this point, but Jon was made of stronger stuff (of the werewolf variety).
Still though, what I wouldn't give for some real food…
At that moment, the pub's door bursts open, and 4 merry teenage boys spilled into the room. Stealing them a glance, Jon figured the youngest had to be 15, the oldest barely 18. Judging from their red faces, their shriveled clothing and the stench of vomit on the youngest guy's shirt, they had just been kicked out of another bar, and had came here to continue their road to "wasted land".
The pride of youths these days…
"Aren't they underage?" Jon remarked as the bartender, who immediately poured them drinks.
"The money isn't." the bartender replied, as the oldest boy tossed him a $50 note.
"That's right F****er!" the boy slurred, glaring at Jon as he tried to match his barely focusing eyes with Jon's steely glare. "Its nobodies bizznes, and it sure as F**K aint yurz!" He grinned as his friends yelled in agreement, crowding behind their friend.
Hardly worth the effort.
"Sure, its not." Jon replied, returning to his drink. The teenager, slightly confused, took a step back. "Yea…. tats wat I taught." He slurred, as he returned to his friends, raising his hands as they cheered for his show of brass. Still cheering, they sat in a circle behind the werewolf, calling for more drinks. Jon ignored them, knowing to provoke them would not only waste his time on such out-matched fighters, but he would also waste the energy to get to Vegas.
If she was here, Jon thought, I'm sure she still would had defended their behavior, that air-head, probably something about bumps in the road…
An hour passed, as the teenagers downed drinks after drinks, the bartender smugly pocketing his growing sum of bribes. As their alcohol content shot up, so did their speech volumes, as they cursed, swore and argued over "bitches" and "pussy". Jon tried to concentrate, but his advanced hearing kept picking up their stupid banter, amplifying their every word. As he felt a vein throb on his forehead, his inner beast just begging to rip the teens to shreds, Jon decided he should leave…
A familiar scent suddenly caught the werewolf's attention, a scent he was all too familiar with.
Cat Scratch Fever perfume…
He forced himself to ignore it. The brand had been the number one choice with women nowadays, and Jon was tired of getting his hopes dashed when he chased the scent to countless wrong women.
"Dat's odd," the bartender calmly remarked," never had a cat for a customer before."