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[hobviously]

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[logicalities]

[ It is a dark and stormy night, only notable because Spock is in Riverside, Iowa at the height of one of the driest summers on record. His contact had promised both a quick hunt and beautiful summer weather. So far, Spock has received neither. The vampires he was sent for have gone to ground as though warned of his coming. The weather has remained a uniform, cloudy grey as tedious as Spock's search for his quarry. Even the local network of hunters, gruff and disinterested locals, is a frustrating exercises in futility, offering only placating nothings and dead ends that, he suspects, are designed to lead him on fruitless and wandering chases.

By the time a week has passed, Spock has seen far more of Riverside than he would ever care to.

It is a dark and stormy night, and Spock is beginning to consider elevating his mild distaste for the weather to outright dislike. Water drips into his eyes and soaks through his clothing, leaving even the innermost layers an unpleasant, chafing damp. The rain covers any useful scents, nothing but fallow earth and the faint rot-smell of decomposing vegetation mixing with the pleasant petrichor around him.

With a notable lack of enthusiasm, Spock swings open the bar door and steps inside the latest in the unoccupied string of possible dens.

This one he cannot call unoccupied.

The solid beats of booming noise nearly drive him a step back. Bodies cling together in one swaying mass of sweating, raucous humanity. Over the stink of the heavily recycled air, Spock catches an iron-sharp tinge. He steps inside, lets the door fall shut behind him. His mixed heritage means the dim lighting and flash of strobes presents no obstacle.

Tucked away in a corner booth, five men — vampires, their yellowed fangs glinting under the flickers of light — lean over a sixth. A human, stretched across the table, already bloody at the neck.

Spock shoves his way through the crowd — halfway there, he's met with another four vampires and their sallow grins.

There is no telling how many in the bar are human or part of the nest. It does not matter. Spock braces himself and swings into a blow, sending the first of his prey flying — right into the group intent on their meal. That the man lands on the sluggishly struggling human is immaterial; better bruises and cracked ribs than drained dry.

The fight is surprisingly short. These vampires are newmade and unpracticed, for all that they seem surprisingly organized. Most of the nest opt to flee with the screaming humans. Those who do fight find themselves quickly overwhelmed. By the time the bar is empty, Spock stands surrounded by a messy pile of bodies, blood running thick and tarry.

With a faint grimace, he flicks blood from his hand — and turns at the scrape of a chair.

Not so empty, then. The dark-haired man, leaning back, two legs of his seat tipped off the floor, has his fingers curled around the neck of a sweating bottle. Spock quells the irritated twitch of his mouth; he did not intend to put on a show.

He stalks over but does not attack, not yet. The vampire's lazy smile does not indicate hostility but it prickles irritatingly over Spock's skin nonetheless. ]

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