Tiptoe, tiptoe… An intruder entered the manse. Clad in black from head to toe, tight to the flesh and matte to keep from catching the light, Esthrielle slithered her way into the building. She was a black mamba, a death adder, a sneaking, writhing coil of ebony whose every movement was as soft as fleece or new fallen snow. Her moves were almost completely silent, thin-soled leggings instead of boots allowing the utmost stealth - in theory.

In truth, Judas was woken from her sleep almost immediately - the synthetic scent of pseudoflesh and living breath was unmistakable, and roused her like a gunshot. It was danger on the wind, death in the air, the enemy known to her long before sight could reveal them. She sat up slowly so as to not startle last night’s meal - the little blonde secretary - but fast enough that by time Est reached the kitchen Judas was in a full sit.

The exec cast a somber look down at her lover, gently pushing aside some stray golden locks from that perfect pale face. EJ had certainly grown on her… Romantically and sexually. Judas couldn’t remember the last time she had enlisted such an eager to please personal assistant, and her performance (though amateurish) had been endearing and enthusiastic. What she lacked in ability, she made up for in ambition; for a woman like Judas, that was perfect. She could always spend more time whipping her into shape… a little after-hours training, perhaps.

She didn’t want EJ involved in this, whatever ‘this’ was going to evolve into. The vampiress had dealt with myriad assassination attempts in her lifetime, and obviously thwarted each and every one: silver bullets, firebombs, electroshock needles, and straight-up cremation. She wasn’t afraid of some petty sneak slinking about her home, looking to do away with one of the most powerful women in all of Vitus. When her mind turned to EJ, though… she grew wary. She didn’t want to need to replace her. She was too fond of this one.

Up and out of bed she went, lithe agility putting all of God's creatures to shame, her mind wide awake and eyes piercing the darkness. Judas's bare feet padded softly towards the door and out of the bedroom, heading to that great and ominous stairwell - no sound echoed in the house save for the ticking of a grandfather clock. The smell, however, lingered - overpowering chemical aroma that it was in comparison to the organic, comforting scent of her own flesh and blood, it was easy to place. She was in the master bathroom.

Down she went, flexing and flexing, arm slowly bending to her will as fingernails and bone began to fuse into lethal, hideous claws. A secret well-kept amongst the highest of the corporate hierarchy, the second-living were not as eternal in their form as the wider public have been led to believe: in truth, the process that allows them endless regeneration is also what provides them a distinctly amorphous quality which remains unequalled in the mortal world. With enough concentration and willpower, the stasis which was placed upon the body’s cells could be forcibly altered to provide a new, semi-permanent framework.

Judas had had many hours of practice with this particular discipline. After all, she was one of a select few who even knew it was possible.

-

Est crept up the smooth wooden stairwell like a shadow in the night, unseen and unheard, as easy to overlook as a far off deadline (not that the author would know anything about that…). Her eyes roved the decor within the pitch black mansion, taking in the gothic furnishings and golden filigree and all those little touches that truly made it ‘Judas’. Sure, it seemed to fit her name and reputation as a brutal task mistress, dramatic vampiress, and cruel sadist… but there was a passion for art there that couldn’t be denied. It wasn’t the soulless corporate husk she had been expecting; far from the minimalism which the digitized South enjoyed, and not so chrome and industrial as the blasphemous Far North. It was stylish.

Not that such things mattered - she had to kill this bitch regardless of if she was ‘stylish’ or not. In fact it was all the more reason to - one less wannabe art critic in the world to try and play interior decorator. The thought made her grin beneath her half-mask, only her eyes, nasal bridge, and fluffy white hair visible above the tight material. She thought it made her look like a ninja; ironic, then, that she was here to slay a member of Tsang’s capitalistic shogunate.

Finally, her target was in sight: the master bathroom, third floor of five, large and lavish and almost completely unnecessary. Esthrielle had heard the tales of how the undead’s guts were like a furnace, every bit of meat and water acting as fuel for an unholy fire within. Not like her; not like the New Way. They still retained some semblance of their humanity, unlike these zombified barbarians.

From her pocket came a small baggie, powdered blood cut with ground silver and garlic. This was just a backup; she clutched it close, the baggie taut and ready to be used like a glitter bomb should the situation arise. She hoped such dirty tricks wouldn’t be necessary, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t stoop to them if she needed to.

Stealth was only necessary to prevent police intervention, in the end - she knew Judas would catch her as soon as she headed in, and that a direct conflict was inevitable. Serious, expensive technology would be required to ever evade such powerful, innate senses; she was too expendable to warrant that kind of funding. She had barely scraped together enough to afford her current outfit, and that was with a loan from her family.

And then, a footstep - just one, outside the bathroom door, loud enough to hear but far from a stomp. It almost made her laugh aloud; a sign of respect from her opponent, being allowed to know that their playing field was as even as one could be. The time for silence and subtlety was long gone. The time for violence was now. She inhaled once, breathing deep of that repulsive dead-but-living aroma, and cleared her throat.

The door opened, and two pairs of scarlet eyes met one another.

-

EJ yawned, eyes bleary and body sore. She felt like she had been put through a fucking washing machine, industrial strength, with an extra hardy spin cycle. She had cuts on her arms and legs, scrapes all along her back, and lash welts striping every part of her one could imagine from the neck down. Her treatment the evening previous would turn even a hardened torturer squeamish, or so she thought; though in honesty she had been rewarded well for her suffering, and Judas was a stern but comforting mistress.

A fang toothed grin came upon her face as she imagined it all again, lovingly and gingerly tracing the lines which criss-crossed her thighs. It ached now, true, but in a way which she couldn’t deny she was partial to; she felt her toes curl of their own subconscious accord as she took herself in hand, a light bruise formed in the shape of a suspiciously well-fitting silicone ring. That was enough of that, though - it was still early morning, before the sun came up, and she was far from fully rested. What the hell had awoken her?

The answer came in the form of a crash from a few levels below, the uncanny sound of a body being propelled against a solid wall echoing through the building’s eerie, spacious hallways. The sound was followed soon after by the crack and rattle of gunfire; all hell seemed to be breaking loose only a flight or two away.

Hopping to her feet, EJ was quick to discover another unfortunate truth: she felt like shit. Oh, sure, any serious damage had been regenerated, but something about a few of Judas’s implements left marks that were quite slow to heal. It made her feel weak and sore and quite in need of a cuddling, which was likely the point - unfortunate, then, that she doubted such a thing was coming her way tonight.

As she staggered to the stairwell, weary and aching, an explosion of sound erupted from beneath. Something huge and fragile shattered with ear-pounding resonance, a din seemingly louder than cannon fire, and Judas screamed with fury. A fist of leaden anxiety had begun to truly ball and form within Esper James’s gut, spurring her weary adrenal glands to pump out one last impotent spurt of hormones to boost her on her way. She had to get down there and help, or call the cops, or do… something. Anything. Whatever she could to help Judas.

Down the stairs she hobbled now, wincing at every step, bones bruised and muscles fractured all throughout her body. Fuck, she’d been damn drunk to let Judas bust her ass up so thoroughly, and she barely even remembered it. What she could recall was, of course, oh so very worth it, but still; it’d be hard to set proper boundaries when Judas was already accustomed to abusing her like a chew toy.

Reaching the third level, she switched on the lights to try and see - only to have a bullet whiz right past her, nearly punching a hole right in her left ear. She froze in place, hackles raised and eyes open wide, a deer in headlights.

The two women were at a standstill, Judas’s body layered in cuts and gouges and bullet holes, Est’s riddled with long ribboning cuts and bite marks. The whole floor looked like an absolute mess, a fight club from Hell, with furnishings, decor, and fixtures reduced to shrapnel confetti. That loud crash had been the bathroom mirror, where a distinctly Esthrielle-shaped indent was notably positioned where the majority of the glass had once been.

EJ’s eyes roved over to Judas, noticing the bestial changes: her claws, vicious and primal; her teeth, each one more akin to a ghoul’s than a vampire’s; her muscles, lean and knotted and strong. Her beautiful black hair was a dismal silken mess, reminiscent more of a horror movie monster than the woman who had blown her mind and body out of the water only last night.

Esthrielle, too, was worse for wear: her left arm was mangled beyond recognition and leaking blue fake blood, the nutri-fluid which filled her veins making an indigo puddle on the ground. Her right eye had been visibly cracked, it’s LED flickering wildly, the aperture zooming in and out with haphazard abandon. Hell, even her chest was criss-crossed with slashes, her shinobi catsuit cut to shreds. The assassin's right hand held a sleek black handgun, a small line of smoke drifting from the barrel.

The three stood in silence for what felt like an eternity: Judas staring daggers at Est and displeasure at Esper James, Esthrielle glancing warily from side to side to try and hide her surprise and worry that EJ was there, and EJ trying not to scream or cry or have some kind of anxious breakdown. Finally, the bewildered blonde broke the silence, welling emotions released in an explosive swell.

”What the FUCK?!”

The three words lingered like Vitus’s midday smog in the tense air, nearly heavy enough to slip free of their immaterial nature and come crashing down. This was exactly the distraction Est needed: her handgun’s aim left Esper James and switched targets to Judas, hammer flying back and hitting her straight in the right kneecap. Bone chunks flew and gore ensued as the silvered bullet struck true, hobbling the eminent vampiress in an instant; she howled in pain as she was crippled, and Est leapt to her feet.

She was a flash as she raced for the window, leaping up like a hurdler before smashing through the glass and plummeting to the street below. In theory, she’d be fine - her body was made of tougher stuff than a mere three story fall could put out of commission.

EJ was in motion as soon as Est had left, rushing over to Judas and dropping to her knees in the pool of blood and silver powder. It burned to touch, that finely ground metal coating the vicinity of the vampire, but right now EJ didn’t care. She had much more pressing business: that is, checking in on her part-time lover. She knew Judas wouldn’t die, of course - Est had specifically shot her non-lethally, but in such a way that pursuit was impossible. She’d need a serious operation to fix this… Not that she couldn’t pay for it, but it would be a week in hospice at least.

Judas’s body started to revert to normal, gradually and painfully, bringing EJ’s attention back to the fact that her dominatrix had horrible claws and fangs and muscles. “Judas, are you…? What the fuck is going on?! You look terrifying, like some propaganda piece for the East, a-and how did you… What-“

She was cut short by Judas, who raised a long-clawed finger to silence her. EJ obediently shut her mouth and listened, concerned but attentive, as Judas mustered up the strength to speak. It took her a few minutes but finally, thankfully, she made out the words.

“…follow her. Go. She can’t go far, she’s… Bleeding like a fucking pig. Just, fuck, just find out where she’s off to… I’ll get the cops called…” She seemed, by all accounts, a wounded animal - indeed, she was just as feral and majestic and tragic as a dying wolf or elk, if one could look past her horrific musculature. EJ was bewildered by the request, though - follow her? Had Judas gone insane? Completely lost it? Maybe it was from the blood…

”Go! Now! Stop staring at me like a fucking i-idiot and get your ass out there! If you’re scared, I’ve got a gun in the closet by your clothes, just… Take it. She’s too fucked up to fight back, I’d guess; plus, you’re so innocent looking, that bitch would never suspect…”

Judas trailed off then, sucking wind through her teeth as they visibly degraded and reformed back into the perfect pearls that had once adorned her sanguine maw. EJ couldn’t help but be somewhere between revolted and awed by the bizarre display, like a bystander watching Mr. Hyde slowly morph back into Dr. Jeckyll.

Judas wasn’t nearly as amused. Her exhausted expression turned to a low burn as EJ still refused to move - and she was quick to act upon the exasperation she felt, winding back to strike at her subordinate with benefits. The subby little thing was snapped out of her haze by this sudden threat of physical violence, heart leaping into her throat as she staggered backwards and put her hands up in a cowering motion.

”Ok, ok! I’ll g-go, I-I’ll go! Sorry! Sorry sorry sorry, Judas! I’ll go, uhh, r-right away!” She was true to her word on this front, immediately dashing away from the damaged department head without a moment more to chat. Judas let her hand drop as the claws fully receded, her now-slender digits curling into a loose fist. Her gaze fell with it, eventually resting on EJ’s bloody footprints, following them to the doorway and then shutting. She breathed deep, taking in the gunpowder and the blood and the dust and the silver. It burned her lungs.

”…fuck…”

-

EJ dressed in a flash, stealing a slightly oversized fur coat and some fashionable leggings from Judas’s wardrobe; her own clothes stunk like alcohol and rust, and were damp from last night’s sweat. The gun was found quickly and unceremoniously: it was a heavy revolver with her own name engraved along the length of the square barrel, complete with a cross etched into the grip on either side. Dramatic, overbearing, powerful, expensive, a bit much… Just like the woman who owned it, really. It was already loaded, and looked pristine - if it came down to it, EJ wasn’t sure she had the guts to pull the trigger, but if she did it would sure as hell blow someone away.

Up into the pocket of the coat it went, and as for EJ herself, she slipped on Judas’s comfy shearling boots and rushed out the door. She knew vaguely what she was looking for, but with her nerves frazzled and her brain on red alert from how quickly things were moving, she wasn't sure she could truly carry out the orders she had been given. Plus, well, something else was bothering her; a nagging doubt in her mind that was growing in insistency as she surveyed the snowy streets.

Could she actually kill someone? Just like that? Someone whose name and face she knew, someone who had, in a brief and passing sense, become familiar with her?

Sure, Est was the enemy. From birth until undeath all Western-born are told that the East are their nemeses, that their words and weapons are evil, that their society is built upon cruelty and injustice. The South, the Far North, and those other smaller regions of the Earth where strange freedom is yet found are lesser competitors, bizarre opponents in the grand scheme of cultural dominance, but their ways are less prominent than the ERFS. Those pseudohumans, built of steel and silicone and spite, were the very devil which prevented true peace and prosperity from reigning supreme.

But was that enough? Was one woman - one pawn in the game, one soldier in an endless shadow-war - deserving of execution? She was already dying, or at least injured to the point of decommission. The blue trail of blood was already freezing from the night air, turned to foul-smelling slush from the falling snow. Did a mere secretary, who had never even known this sort of violence in her life, have what it took to look a cyborg in the eye and end her life?

Esper James hoped so.

Into the snow she went, the dim streetlights above her only companion. The moon did not shine nearly so brightly this night, a blanket of pollutant tucking Vitus away to its cold and lonely solitude. The pistol weighed heavily within EJ's jacket and the boots were too big; they kept the wind from whipping her flesh and the ice from chilling her soles, but otherwise they made her feel wrong.

In the distance she could already hear the sirens, flashes of red and blue piercing the night's haze.