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[B][COLOR="DarkRed"][JUSTIFY][FONT="Book Antiqua"] Carter ducked and moved back, grabbing a pipe from the ground and throwing it at Vincent’s occupied hand. It batted the syringe out of Vincent’s grasp, skittering farther down the alley. Vincent gritted his teeth, reaching for one of the many shadows, but Carter ran forward and smashed into him, knocking his breath away. Bringing his knees up, Vincent shoved Carter away, gasping and struggling for his syringe. Carter shook his confusion away, leaping forward and grabbing Vincent’s arms, wrenching them behind his back. Vincent wriggled his right hand free and spun around, pushing Carter and grabbing his hair, tossing him to the ground as nothing more than a sack.

Vincent bent down and scooped his syringe up, turning back to his victim who he had left lying on the cobblestones. But Carter had gotten up and had pulled what appeared to be a cloth belt from his waist with a black stone tied to the end, which he threw at Vincent. The stone struck his hand again, whipping the syringe into a box not ten feet away, but Carter leapt in front of it. He threw down the belt and stood his ground, but the expression on his face was not that of anger or an intent to kill Vincent. It was apologetic. But he thought it could just be a cover. He had seen the man kill before. Jamming his hand, stinging from the strike of the stone from before, Vincent extracted his jade rosary.

Carter stared at it as though dumbfounded by its presence, as though he could hardly believe someone like Vincent could hold such a thing without burning. Taking the moment to his advantage, Vincent rammed forward with the rosary in both hands, knocking Carter to the ground and levering his knees onto his chest, pressing the jade onto Carter’s neck with a shuddering, sudden strength. Carter grabbed Vincent’s wrists and pulled them apart, his hand vanishing quickly and a sharp stick hit Vincent’s side. Almost immediately, his joints seemed to turn to water, and his thoughts were clouded with confusion. In that moment, the world had flipped, and Vincent found himself staring at the dark sky. A sharp stinging sensation emerged from the fog of painlessness pressing down, something wet coating the right side of his face. Reaching up, he felt it, thick, a coppery scent twanging in the still air. Blood, from a light cut running from below his eye to the corner of his mouth.

He heard footsteps scraping the loose stone ground, Carter’s shoes passing in front of his gaze. Fighting through the fog of weakness, he summoned the dark out of his soul and brought it to the surface. It leaked into his veins, strengthening his rubbery joints, staining his skin black. A stinging pain spread through his body, making his bones lengthen, popping out and back into place, stretching his skin tightly over his frame. His clothes seemed to meld to his skin, forming to him, his eyes turning gray, filling with a swirling black substance darker than his skin. He stood, legs popping into place, looming over Carter as the yellow-headed man stumbled back, blue eyes wide.

Vincent resembled a shadow come to life. His face was completely black, the only defining feature his dark, deep eyes. He towered over Carter, raising his long hands and grasping him by the shoulders, lifting him and smashing him into the nearest wall. Carter gasped, losing breath, fumbling in his jacket for something. Vincent growled at him, shaking his arms. “Stop! Stop looking for more weapons. It’s over now. Just take your fate.” His voice had deepened, becoming more beast-like, and when he opened his mouth, his teeth shined long and sharp.

“My fate isn’t to end here.” Carter panted. “I still have my life to live.”

“Whatever prophecy you have been listening to, you should have gotten another opinion.”

“It’s not a prophecy. It’s a feeling I have.”

Vincent laughed, a sound much like a landslide of heavy stone. Pushing Carter up with one hand in his stomach, Vincent used his other to reach into his chest. His fingers started to vanish, passing through Carter’s clothes in a screen of smoke that poured into the air. He gasped, fidgeting, grasping something from his pocket and thrusting it forward, hitting Vincent just below the ribs. With a hissing cry, Vincent shuddered backward, ripping his hand out of Carter’s chest and reaching to feel what had been stabbed into him.

His hands grasped the sharp edges of what felt like a large shard of glass, but it was opaque and gave off a white glow that seemed to sap the cloak of darkness around his body away. In a moment his bones compacted, returning him to his normal height as his clothes gained more substance, dripping free of the dark that had leaked into its cloth. His eyes brightened back to their silvery tone, the shadow draining from his skin as though being sucked back up by his soul. On shaking legs he went back, falling over a collection of boxes and grabbing the shard of glass, wrenching it out of him and tossing it at Carter. He gritted his teeth, biting back the pain that spread to the rest of his body and made it hard to breathe. He saw Carter move forward, toward him, but could not lift his arms to react. His vision swam, blurring the world, and a cover of dark and silence fell on him.[/FONT][/JUSTIFY][/COLOR][/B]

[B][COLOR="DarkRed"][JUSTIFY][FONT="Book Antiqua"]“Vincent! What brings you here?” Gertler asked, a voice high that held some hesitation. Dull brown eyes swept past him to glance at the ill surrounding them.

“I’m looking for someone.” Vincent replied simply, studying the people around. They were all dark-haired, dim-eyed, gray-skinned. Carter was nowhere in sight.
“I would be happy to help.” Gertler said. “Might you tell me what he looks like, perhaps a name?”

“His name… Carter Hall.”

Gertler considered for a moment. He had an astounding memory, and could recall anyone who lived at or visited the shelter. “Hm, no. I’ve never heard the name before.”

“Well, what about someone with pale yellow hair, and blue eyes?”

Gertler raised a hand, running it through his coarse brown-gray hair. “Yes. I’ve seen someone like that. A strange boy, he is. He never gave me a name; all he wanted was to talk to the people.”

“Where did he go?”

“Upstairs. I told him those with not long to live stayed there, where it’s quiet.”

Vincent felt his eyes go wide. “You allowed someone you don’t know to be alone with the dying?”

“Now, Vincent.” Gertler put a hand on his shoulder. “I would never do something like that if I didn’t trust him. Certainly I only just met the boy, but he radiated a very good energy, something I could trust. It makes me believe he would never harm those who could not defend themselves.”

“Is he still up there?”

“I never saw him come down, so I assume he is.”

Vincent looked at the ceiling, as though he could see right through the old wood and peeling paint to Carter. Gertler tilted his head, but said nothing, and left the room through the archway behind him. Vincent could feel the traces of positive energy that Carter left in his wake, and as he wandered around the room, considering what to do quickly as he observed the items at his disposal. The ones who lived on the first floor were rather sickly, but could still walk and hold a conversation without becoming breathless or fatigued. Shrugging out of his jacket, Vincent stowed it away under one of the sagging couches, stuffing his vest and tie underneath as well. Stepping close to the fireplace, he rubbed some of the soot off the wall and floor beside it while no one paid him any attention.

He dusted the soot on his beige shirt, wrinkling the fabric, sweeping his hands over his face and leaving traces of the ashen color on his skin and darker circles under his eyes. Pulling an old blanket from the back of a chair in the corner, he wrapped it around his shoulders like several of the others, who were shivering in front of the window or sitting in front of the fireplace with their eyes closed tightly. Taking a brown cap from the window sill beside him, he swept the back of his hair up and slid the hat over his head, sitting in the chair he was in front of. Turning his gaze toward the door that led to the stairwell, he lifted his feet, tucking them under him and moving the blanket to hide most of him.

Gertler came back in through the archway, glancing around the room. Vincent bowed his head, allowing his hair to fall limply out from under the hat and hide most of his face. Gertler stared around for a moment, obviously searching for Vincent. As he swept the room with his pale gaze, the door at the left of the fireplace opened and Carter entered. He stepped toward Gertler with a stony face.

“He hasn’t got long.” Carter said solemnly. “I would bring his daughter in for a final good-bye, if you can find her.”

Gertler nodded, but moved close to Carter, speaking very quietly, so that Vincent couldn’t hear. Carter’s brows lifted with what seemed like surprise, but it vanished when Gertler met his gaze. With a brief handshake, Carter stepped away and left the house. Gertler stood quietly for a moment, staring at the floor as though saddened, or lost in thought. Vincent could not tell which from his position. With a deep breath, Gertler ran his hand over his hair, and started across the room. In silence, he went upstairs.

Vincent unfolded his legs and retrieved his vest and jacket, and ripped the hat off his head. Tying his tie, Vincent made for the door Gertler had just gone through while buttoning his vest and pulling his jacket back on. Gertler had gone to the second floor, he could tell from his soft voice coming from the door that had been left ajar on the first landing above the stairs to his right. Stepping slowly, evening his weight to avoid letting the stairs creak any more than they would have, he looked around the door and found Gertler standing over the bed of an invalid.

Leaping up the rest of the stairs, Vincent pushed through the door and walked swiftly toward Gertler, whose gaze was wide and fearful. Grabbing the older man’s collar, Vincent yanked him away from the bed of the man who already seemed to be dead and shoved him back. “You know him, don’t you?” Vincent demanded. “You know Carter.”

“Vincent, I don’t want any part of this---”

Vincent shook him. “Damn you, Bailey, I don’t want to hurt you right now! All I want is to know where he went.”

“I… I can’t say.”

“You can. You can tell me. The life of that man is worth it, is it not?” He nodded to the motionless man not far away, whose chest was rising and falling with strained breath. “Tell me where Carter went, Bailey, and perhaps the man will live a little longer.”

Gertler gasped raggedly. “All right!” He backed away and straightened his wrinkled shirt. “He said he would be going to Tillman’s Inn for the night. He has a few issues to take care of, and he will be unable to come back here tonight for the final goodbye between this man and his daughter, should I find her.”

“The Inn? Then he is staying in the city for the night?”

“Yes, obviously. He said nothing about leaving, but I doubt he will stay much longer.”

Vincent’s gaze softened. “I see. How well do you know this man, Bailey?”

“Not well. He came here a few days ago, and asked if he could talk with the people here. They were so uplifted after his visits, I couldn’t make him stay away, and he came around as he pleased, with new words of hope for those with no hope at all.”

Vincent cringed. “I see. Thank you, Bailey, and keep your head low from now on.” With that, he turned and stormed out of the room, his feet clunking noisily on the stairs as he left.

Once more outside, Vincent looked around. Carter was nowhere to be seen; not a lock of pale yellow hair, not a flutter of his brown duster. His pressing gaze was lacking. Vincent leapt off the stairs and started right, pushing through the overcrowded streets and stumbling sometimes over crates or hay bales. Tillman’s Inn was rather small, just across the bridge that offered safe passage across a smaller branch of the river that was fed from the River of the Dead. The water itself seemed to have a mind of its own, but was not deadly if one were to stick their fingers into its flow. Vincent crossed the bridge, its boards creaking threateningly under his feet, a lonely moaning coming from below, gurgling their tuneless noise.

The street on the other side of the bridge was very narrow; two horses could only just get their carriages past one another, should they arrive at the same place at the same time. Vincent took to the sidewalk, tripping sometimes on uneven cobblestones, focusing a bit easier since the sun had started to go down behind the clouds. Glancing to the sky, he could see its pale gray shadow sinking just above the taller buildings of Portman Boulevard, where he was. The tiny shops had slowly become houses, whose windows were coming aglow with pale yellow light. The inn was at the end of the street, where the road split into two going opposite ways. Some lights were on in the windows, and the front door was open to let the outside air flow in.

Before Vincent could get to the door, Carter came out. His expression was blank, as though lost in another world, as he went down the five steps outside the door and turned right. Vincent took chase, following at a distance, using others as shields as he walked in step with them. Carter seemed slow, quickly passed up by others. Halfway down the road, he turned into an alley, vanishing before Vincent could catch up. Rushing past his human barricade, earning a disgruntled mutter from him, keeping pressed against the building and sparing a glance into the mouth of the tunnel. The darkness was strong, but not enough to black out the movement of Carter.

He had gone halfway down the alley already, but had paused. Slowly, as quietly as he could, Vincent stepped inside the alley and started toward him. Unclipping the syringe from the belt under his jacket, he sped up, holding the syringe much like a knife, bringing it back. He swung forward, over his head, aiming for Carter’s neck, almost feeling the impact before Carter swung around with a hand up, grabbing his wrist and spinning Vincent around, running him into the nearest wall. Shocked, but not completely thrown off guard, Vincent pushed himself forward and swung his empty hand for Carter’s hair.[/FONT][/JUSTIFY][/COLOR][/B]

[B][FONT="Book Antiqua"][COLOR="DarkRed"][JUSTIFY] “Vincent.” He said immediately, in a deep, harsh voice. “I thought I felt a dark energy. What brings you to the river?” He went to a tree, leaning heavily against its trunk.

“I’m getting away from a situation is all, Bernard.” Vincent replied, crouching at the shore again.

“Mmm, running from your problems, are you?”

“No. I’m running from the people who bring about these problems.”

Bernard laughed, a deep gurgling sound. “Running either way. What’s got you so worked up you’d come to this accursed place?”

“Something I’ve never seen before. Something… impossible.” Vincent stared across the water, at the other shore he could hardly see. “A pure soul.”

“Pure? Ah, impossible! No one’s got a pure soul. No human, anyways.”

“That was what I thought in the beginning. But I think it’s true. I’ve never felt an energy so powerfully good.”

“Everyone is bad, even if it’s just a little.”

“I don’t know about this one.”

“Why you need me to tell you what to do?”

“Well, seeing as your grammar could use an adjustment, I’m not entirely sure.” Vincent smiled a bit. “But really, Bernard, I don’t think I can get around Carter for more than a few minutes. He… radiates a pure energy that curdles my blood.”

“You got to deal with that. No human’s all-good, none.”

“No matter how many times you say it, it hardly makes it true. You don’t know.”

Bernard nodded. Even from where he stood, Vincent could hear his joints popping. “Right. I don’t know. Just because I’m a few decades older than you, but… What could I know?”

Vincent rolled his eyes. “Bernard. What do you know about soul extracting?”

“It’s easy, when you have… erm, one of those things you have.”

“No, not with an actual extractor. I mean by using your… energy. Condensed life energy completely based on your goodness.”

“Never did heard of that.” Bernard scratched his face, rearranging the loose skin. “Didn’t think it was possible. Don’t you have that bookie friend to ask?”

“I thought I would get a second opinion is all.”

“What, you saw it happen?”

“Yes. Carter did it.”

“How?”

“Well he…” Vincent raised his hand over the water, moving it as Carter had. “I don’t know, I only saw a bit. I had to get away because it affected me so… so much.”

Bernard chuckled. “I dunno what you’re talking about, Vince.” He admitted. “But if I was you, I’d go look for the guy.”

Vincent nodded, standing and turning to his companion. “Yes, I do suppose it would be best to actually talk to him. But I’m not sure if he would trust me.”

“If he’s really as pure as you say, he’ll trust you.”

“Hm.” Vincent went back to the fallen tree. “Thank you, Bernard.” He said. “You have helped quite a bit.”

“Not sure how I did that.” Bernard said. “But I’ll leave you to it.”

When he turned again, Vincent saw Bernard slither back into the water, rejoining those who had drowned long ago. Moving toward the city again, Vincent kept hesitating, drifting toward the trees to examine their heavy blossoms. They gave off a sickeningly-sweet scent, intoxicating, and by the time he made it back to the paved road, his head was swimming.

He went back to the café first, questioning the woman who had allowed Carter Hall into the back room a time before. He hardly listened to her, but caught the name Tamari. He recognized the name as a shelter for the sick who could not afford to go to the hospital. With a nod and muttered “Thank you”, he took off at a sprint, out the door and down the street, through the crowded city square and around the fountain, down a narrow street. Smaller shops and vendors lined the sidewalks, workers hauling animal skins or bales of hay and dried grasses, some scrounges and orphans who decided to fend for themselves rather than trust adults.

The shelter was a large one, three floors in all, tucked away between a gambling house and office building used for quieter activities. The door was always open for anyone to come in, and the entire operation was run by a former priest. Without a word, Vincent stepped up the stairs and into the house, shaking the faint cloudiness away from his thoughts. The first room was crowded with overstuffed, mismatched couches and chairs, tables filled with old newspapers read and reread so much they were crumbling away at the edges. Sometimes a cough or sneeze would break through the soft conversations. As Vincent worked through the humbly-dressed poor, he found the priest, Bailey Gertler.[/JUSTIFY][/COLOR][/FONT][/B]