This is a story I originally wrote years ago, and it's always be one I'm particularly proud of. The idea just leaped into my brain and I like to think that (unlike more than a few crossovers out there) it actually bridges the two worlds fairly neatly. Recently I came back to it and decided to give it a bit of a facelift. Nothing dramatic, just cleaned up the punctuation and polished the narrative a bit.
As ever, I disclaim any and all ownership of the respective intellectual properties. This story has been written for entertainment purposes only and no profit has been made by me. The specific properties have been noted at the bottom so as not to spoil the story.
Enjoy and thanks for reading!
Broken by Canadian Crow
On the rare occasions he found his thoughts drifting into the past, they often led him back to his college days. This wasn't surprising considering how many years he spent there, unwilling to venture into adulthood. But all the same, from time to time his traitorous mind liked going back. To flashes of parties and friends. To blonde hair and blue eyes full of mischief.
Those occasions were generally celebrated by locking himself in his room and drinking till he couldn't even remember his own name, let alone his past. The next morning when he'd throw out whatever he'd smashed in a rage the night before, they don't ask and they don't push. Folks here had demons they didn't want to think about. They weren't going to invite more to stay.
To look at him though, you wouldn't think there was anything amiss. He always seemed to be smirking or making jokes, a whirlwind of restless energy. But the furthest back any of his stories go is the night he was turned and even that was only described in passing.
In truth it hadn't really occurred to most of them that the irrepressible Hannibal King even had a life before the Nightstalkers.
It's important to know he wasn't born as Hannibal King. What parent would saddle their child with a name like that?
Up until his first run in with a vampire he had a completely different name altogether. A name given to him by his father and made famous over the years by those that knew him, not that any of that mattered now. He never spoke his name aloud anymore, and rarely even thought about it.
Fact was, that guy was long dead. He died right after College, actually.
He'd stayed in school a long time (probably longer than he should have, looking back)but at the time he hadn't wanted to go anywhere else (don't wanna grow up). After he finally graduated, he'd made so many great plans for the future.
None of them happened.
It was less than a year after graduation that he'd gotten the call from an old friend (and former employee) returning from his job in England for a visit. He'd immediately wiped his schedule clean and called his fiancée (of three weeks) to let her know. As soon as the flight from Heathrow was in, the three of them were partying it up like the old days.
His friend had been thrilled to hear the news of their engagement despite his own recent and somewhat messy break-up, and in an effort to ease his friend's mild case of heartbreak, they made it the goal of the evening to find him a girl.
In hindsight, things did not go as planned.
Like he'd asked Blade - You know the kind of woman that just screams trouble? You see her and every warning bell in your brain starts going off, but you still manage to ask for her number? At the time, he thought the dark beauty sitting at the bar would be perfect for his little buddy, just the thing to shake him out of his funk and get his confidence back up. His fiancée agreed, saying the woman had been eyeing their young companion all night.
After much cajoling (and not a few shots of Jäger) they got him to go talk to her. And although they both had plenty of confidence in him they were both were shocked to see the woman smile seductively, take their friend by the hand, and lead him out of the bar. They were so busy congratulating each other on their matchmaking skills they didn't notice the big guys follow the new couple outside.
Neither of them ever saw the young man alive again. When he drinks, in his more lucid moments, Hannibal prays that Taj died quick.
It was coming up on last call and Taj hadn't come back. Hammered and feeling quite impressed with themselves the two of them staggered out to get a cab and, finding none outside, they began to wander down an alleyway to a busier street. To this day he can't recall why they thought it was a good idea.
She saw before he did, and although it was her scream that grabbed his attention he likes to think he'd have seen on his own. In the darker corners of his mind, though, he's reasonably certain that if she hadn't been there he would've walked right past Taj's corpse without noticing a damn thing.
Sometimes that thought is the worst of all.
He opened his mouth to cry for help but he never got the chance to make a sound. An iron-like grip clamped over his mouth and throat. He gasped, tried to get a breath or escape. Behind him he could her his fiancé struggling valiantly, albeit pointlessly.
Then the woman from the bar, the dark beauty who'd walked out whispering in Taj's ear, stalked out of the shadows. She eyed him hungrily, running a finger down his cheek.
"Hi there," She whispered with a smile. "I'm Danica."
The hand around his throat released without warning, but as he desperately tried to fill his burning lungs she lunged forward and sank her fangs into his neck. He tried to get away but he couldn't even make a sound. Behind him all he could hear was his love thrashing against her attacker, her own cries muffled and weak.
And growing more and more faint.
Oh God, I'm sorry Gwen. He'd thought as his mind slowed and vision grew hazy. I love you and I'm so sorry.
His recollections of next couple of years are a little blurry, a fact he is always been particularly thankful for. What little he does remember is a blurred nightmare of his time as Danica's plaything. After he'd turned she'd locked him in a room and violated him again and again, committing acts that would've meant certain death if he'd still been human. After each visit he'd barely have time to heal up before she'd start releasing her bottomless rage and lust on his body once again.
As the weeks and month slipped by he felt his tenuous grip on sanity start to slip. He would lay on the floor of his "bedroom" for hours just staring at the wall, certain that the next sinful torture she thought up would be the one to finally break him. Just like that he'd finally (mercifully?) snap and lose his mind completely. The truth of this had taken root so deeply in his mind that it became dogma. A silent prayer born from both fear and hope that he repeated over and over.
I'm going to lose my mind.
I'm going to lose my mind.
I'm going to lose m...
Then on a not-particularly-unique day Danica asked him (while doing things with a vibrator and a scalpel that he still struggled to cope with) how he was feeling that day. Deep inside he felt something snap. Or maybe he felt something strengthen. Or perhaps he just stopped feeling things altogether. He tried not to dwell on having an unforgettable revelation that was so difficult to remember.
Regardless, emboldened by this newfound clarity he found himself answering.
"Actually, this pretty much sucks, you twisted bitch. Thanks so much for asking." He snapped, locking eyes with her for the first time since that first night. "Go work on your fucking tan."
And just like that he was reborn as Hannibal King. Cynical, vicious, irreverent, sarcastic...and utterly fucking untouchable.
Someone they wouldn't break. Ever.
As time passed, he became Hannibal more and more. He'd mouth off at his captors and they'd beat him to a pulp. He'd spit in their eye and they'd gouge his out. They'd visit whatever suffering they could imagine on him and he'd mock them the entire time. He won because he'd gotten to them. No matter what they did they couldn't break Hannibal King, because Hannibal King truly did not give a fuck.
He doesn't know how long he could have gone on (forever you fucks) drawing from an inner well of rage and defiance he never knew he possessed. But then one day, without fanfare or climactic battle, Abby came and saved him.
The Nightstalkers attacked while Danica and her cronies were away, cutting the power in the process. They tell him that he was found just outside his magnetically-locked room, screaming and repeatedly slamming a chair leg into the pulped remains of a vampire's face. His name was Gordon. Hannibal remembers what would happen when Gordon would visit and though he doesn't know if Gordon was still conscious when Caulder took the chair leg and drove it into Gordon's chest, Hannibal wishes(hopes, prays) that he was.
They must've seen something in him worth saving, though. Rather than offering him the business end of the same chair leg, they shackled him up (deliver me from evil) and dosed him with the antidote. It took him less than a month to go from prisoner to patient to gunslinger, and since then he's killed every goddamn leech he can find.
And that's pretty much turning a frown upside down (insideout?) because now Hannibal King was the only thing left. What was left of his old self remained closely guarded, shared with no one. Not even Abby, his best friend and personal saviour. (Hallelujah, amen.)
Behind every raid on a blood facility, however, and behind every strike on a sanctuary or nightclub he had purpose. He didn't kill them out of fear or rage or hate. Why would he? Hannibal King was untouchable.
He hunted them down to quiet the voice deep in the back of his mind, crying for it's lost love. The voice that was as familiar to him as his own (was his own) but long gone all the same.
Then when Danica and her boytoys bit the collective big one courtesy of the Daystar virus, the voice had quieted...for a little while. Soon enough though he was back on the road with the mighty Abigail Whistler, hunting things that other people would just as soon not imagine let alone acknowledge.
Maybe someday the voice will vanish. When all the evil things are gone (no more monsters under the bed) it'll just go away. Maybe he'll just fade away right along with it, like even the most vivid dream fades after you wake up.
For the time being however, he had work to do. And God fucking help anyone or anything that tries to stand in his way.
He was startled from his thoughts by Abby's voice beside him. Taking his eyes briefly off the road, he turned to look at her. "What's up?"
She was gazing out the window, watching the miles of road pass by. "Do you ever think about life before all this? Ever...I dunno...worry that you gave up too much to this fight?"
He turned back to the rain-slick highway, pausing briefly before answering. "Sometimes and no."
She turned to look at him. "What?"
"Sometimes I think about before." He explained. "No, I don't worry."
He turned once more to look at her. "Worrying is like a rocking chair, Abby."
She raised an eyebrow questioningly.
"It gives you something to do but it doesn't really get you anywhere." He finished calmly.
He looked back toward the long road ahead a small smile creeping onto his face.
"Write that down."
National Lampoon's Van Wilder and Blade: Trinity are the property of their respective owners. This fiction is written for entertainment only. No profit was made.