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WHO: Alucard and OPEN
WHERE: Anywhere in the City. You set the scene!
WHEN: 29 May, dusk/evening.
WARNINGS: Alucard.
SUMMARY: The Nosferatu goes out on a hunt.
FORMAT: Para to start, then whatever.

The Nosferatu is hunting. He takes to the streets; to the air; to brightly-lit boulevards; to shadowed alleyways and dank sewers. The City is a maze, and he its Minotaur. Its mongrel tide of darkness. At times, he pauses briefly. Sniffs at the air. The citizens of the maze are a variegated bunch -- there is a division, certainly, between the empowered and those native to this world, and Alucard can all but feel the aftermath of this afternoon's riot still threading on the breeze.

The city is a maze. He haunts its corridors; its meandering streets; its high-rises and motley shanty towns like a ghost, always searching. Always moving. Always hunting.

Perhaps you've crossed his path.

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The riot. He's still giddy from it. Not that he'd been there himself, of course, but his boys had been good and prompt at reporting back to him. Cause some trouble, he'd said. And they'd done just that. Fucking fantastic.

He'd taken them all out for drinks, afterward, to celebrate and to reward them. To ensure that they have every reason to stick by him. Now, though, late in the evening, they've all parted ways, and Floyd is headed home. Or maybe not home. He's still too awake for home. The streets of the City, then, wandering until he loses interest or energy. His boots click as he walks, and he hums, composing little tunes to go with the percussion.

The music is what attracts him. A tinny little nothing of a tone, half-whispered while Floyd walks past. He's standing in an alley when he hears it, and smiles to himself while the musician goes on his way without any notion of what he's brought upon himself.

Normally, the Nosferatu wouldn't bother. He's bigger fish to impale, he'd say, casually waving off whatever hypothetical person dared question his motives for being out so late. But tonight -- he feels it in the air, almost. A sort of hyperactivity. A giddiness. He shifts downwind of Floyd and follows at a distance, taking on the form of a large black hound, the broken manacles around the animal's wrists jingling sibilant with his every step.

Pink may be a fool and a drunkard, but he's not completely senseless. He isn't wearing headphones or anything, on this walk, and he's paying a little attention to his surroundings. When he hears that jangling metal, he turns to see who's joined him on the streets. And when he sees that the answer is 'a very large, black dog,' he giggles and whistles, softly.

"Hullo, boy."

...did we say 'not completely senseless?' Is there still time to take that back?

He smiles inwardly, forcing his tail to wag softly. There was no need for the diversion, however so small, but still. Curiosity satiates the Nosferatu during these long, trying times.

Alucard pads on over the Floyd without preamble, taking his sweet time. When he reaches him, he tilts his head ever so slightly, almost as if posing a question -- Hello?

He crouches down, putting himself on eye level with the hound. (There might be a certain fatalism to it -- if the dog's going to attack him, it won't make much difference how high up he is, will it? He won't be able to fight him off.) The closeness gives him the chance to see the broken fetters, though. And he hums softly to himself. Hmm.

"That's interesting, innit? Nice boy like you." Still so cheerful. "No collar, either."

He offers a hand, upturned.

Alucard nuzzles the hand, lapping at the sweat and grime accumulated there. Floyd tastes of chemicals and old, dried blood. Of madness barely contained; of nihilism and slow, drawn-out brain death. The Nosferatu abhors the taste and withdraws, muzzle pulling back to reveal long, dagger-like fangs.

He does not growl, however; merely stands, body slightly curved, as if expecting an attack.

The hound's bared teeth get a frown out of Floyd, lip twitching upward. Very nearly baring his own teeth back. "Oi, now. No need to be rude. I been nothing but kind."

A bit scolding, perhaps. Or just annoyed, offended. Still, though, he doesn't rise or back away. In fact, he tips back, shaky balance lost, and sits down hard on the dirty pavement.Oof. The impact, how he must look, the whole situation, shakes a smile back into him. The ridiculousness of it all. (He can feel, nipping at the edges, some fragmented cosmic insight -- he's on nothing stronger than alcohol at the moment, but after sixty-eight, he's never too far from an accidental trip -- and he drifts for a few seconds, but manages to come back to himself.)

"...or do I just taste that bad? I'd believe that one."

There's something -- off about the man. The chemicals tell Alucard that there may have been something off about him for quite some time, but the behavior: the swaying, the absentmindedness, the taste of his sweat all pointed toward something the Nosferatu had expected of Floyd all this time. It's only how his new form mimics Floyd by sitting back itself and tilting its head that Alucard shows his interest.

He's met the one-off addict in the past, but never one so...at tune with what ailed him. It made Floyd interesting, to say the least. And to not seem rude after discovering this -- because, really, Floyd had no idea what he was about to get into -- Alucard deigns it necessary to speak.

"Wash yourself before trying to pet a wild animal," he says, the words eking out of his open maw without the thing opening at all. "Your taste is abhorrent."

If he could hear himself being described as 'off,' Pink would fall to pieces, laughing at the understatement. He knows he's quite mad, in more than a couple ways. Usually, he still manages to make it work for him.

When Alucard speaks, his expression brightens, eyes glittering. Aha, not ahh! A suspicion confirmed and a question answered, to some pleasure.

"Weren't expecting an audience, were I? Was I...? Was I." Verbs are a little tricky right now. "I'll be all nice and squeaky-clean next time, I promise."

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