There is no romance in death.

This statement, among many others, I have repeated year after year, whispered in to the ears of the young, the foolish, and the stupid. Sung in the back allies of my time, in the beds I have lain, in the crowded streets where I hunt--

No, there is no romance in death.

This I know, for I am a Bringer of Death, a Deliverer of Sorrow, the Bearer of Bad News:

I am a vampire.

Our story begins in a place known as Battcave, a common haunt for the young angst-ridden souls of those aged sixteen moons or more.

During the day, the place was quiet, a couple regular drifters huddled at tables nursing a cup of questionable liquid, the band quiet and never good, paid on good will and empty promises.

Once dusk fell the Cave went under a seemingly miraculous transformation. The lurid lights were dragged from the dust, a high school band shipped out and plugged in, and the entire teenage populace of the Port Town of Cadave emerged from their parent's basements to flood the tiny space with their sweat and their tragedy.

The popularity of the place was often questioned, as there was nothing appealing or enticing about the way the lights flickered nauseatingly, colored films taped over strobe lights, casting the entire space in to an inconsistent red hell.

No excitement or sophistication in the underpaid, overworked bar-girl, sporting her tight silver tank top and her cellophane black jeans.

And certainly no secrets given, no answers found amidst the constant undefined roar of the noise classed for music, the kids only slightly older than their fans banging and strumming and howling in to cheap equipment for the entertainment of the masses, who threw themselves to and fro in a frenzy of emotion and drugs. It was not an uncommon sight to see a cop car roll past, or even an ambulance parked across the street in grim anticipation.

Given all these things, David could only wonder how he had wound up there.

The bouncer was of a mind with the boy that night, it seemed, raising one eyebrow as he slashed a dollar-store Sharpie across Davids' wrist to initiate him. He forced a tight grin and waded further in to the haze of smoke and noise, blinking rapidly against the mind-numbing lights.

He found a vacant stool at the bar. The bargirl leaned her elbows on the sticky plastic top, most of her threatening to emerge unceremoniously from the top of her tank. David looked uncertainly away, the Car-Crash effect pulling his eyes viciously back again and again. The girl scratched at the corner of her eye which smeared the thick blue makeup caked there.

“Getcha sumin, hun?” she hollered. David blinked at her. She chewed obnoxiously on a thick wad of gum. “Whatcha wan'?” Scarlet lips pursed, a pale bubble bloomed, and then deflated, as if this weak attempt at beauty had exhausted it. David blinked again. Raising a heavily pencilled eyebrow the bargirl took his awkward silence as a refusal of service and jiggled away, her conversational skills exhausted. The stool squealed beneath him as he turned, not that anyone heard it amidst the din, and he sighed deeply, a choice which he immediately regretted as his lungs then responded by making a desparate leap for freedom from his chest cavity.

He didn't see the shadowed figure in the corner of the joint. He didn't see a slender, pale hand push back midnight locks, nor did he see the light catch and flare in limpid amber eyes. Bright eyes fixed on the bent figure of the coughing boy.

A/N:

H'okay so, this chapter is really really short, I'm sorry, but I'm still not entirely sure where I'm going with this. I just wanted to post it and get it up for review and whatnot.

THANK YOU MARSHA for making me do this, you're the best beta a girl could ever ask for. wipes tear away

Aaaaanyways. Th-th-th-that's all, folks!