HIROSHIMA - BEFORE

Kobayashi looked to the skies and awaited the planes. For weeks, false alarms had chased the people from the city, and the constant returns had worn the populace down. Hiroshima was due. The Americans had bombed all the major cities in Japan, and only she and Kyoto had escaped unblemished.

Kobayashi loved war, and now it had come home. He didn't care who won or lost, only that extended engagements meant an endless supply of sustenance. Bodies piled on the battlefield meant that he could feed daily without notice. Any day, the town would be turned to rubble, and the maimed and bloodied would wander about like savory ghosts.

He headed towards the far end of the town to await the glorious roar of B-sans filling the air. He could go another week without a meal or hunger pang, as the one thing that his mother had always couched was patience, but excitement was awaking his bloodlust, knowing soon so many would be for the taking.

As he walked down Teramachi Street, he reached into his pockets for some sen as he contemplated a loaf of fragrant bread. The flavor was not as exquisite as –

The sky flamed yellow without sound. The sun must have exploded. A wave of rubble carried him on a blast of invisible fire sprouted from the depths of Hell itself. His body burned without cause, and he tumbled through the street with other debris and detritus. Kobayashi hardened his exterior instinctively, detaching himself from his nerve endings, but his skin still melted and reshaped.

As the blast wave subsided, he staggered up, finding himself impaled with various wood fragments, all fortunately missing his heart. He tore frying metal from his skin, loosened himself from mounds of rubble, and tried running away from the flames. A leg was twisted the wrong direction, but he couldn't care, needing to escape the heat. His flesh boiled and he didn't know why.

Human thoughts washed away. He reverted to a full predator, as the woman with a fresh amputation discovered. He leaped on her and sucked from her severed arm, hoping she would provide for him. She wasn't the right type, and though sickness came from incompatibility, there was something more. Her blood flowed like lava through him, and as his body processed her, he could feel it alight his veins. He expectorated the rest and fled for the river Ota, yards away.

He dove in, expecting cool waters to soothe him, but the water was warm as fresh entrails. He submerged and howled in its depths. An iota of relief came, enough for him to begin to recover his mind as he burrowed into the murky riverbed.

CHEYENNE - NOW

Turner and Caravaggio sat at their borrowed desks, filling out forms and double-checking them. The investigation may have been over, but as the government paid the bills, the slightest discrepancy in expense reports could lead to a full audit, something neither wanted.

Caravaggio dropped his pen and massaged his fingers, as if he didn't have the ability to avoid cramping or numb his nerves. "That's the worst part of being a modern vampire. All the goddamn paperwork."

Turner ignored him as Alicia approached his desk with a clear, plastic envelope. A series of lines on the front were partially filled with names and signatures. "This is the only one we have. Inventory says there should be a box around somewhere, but we can't find it yet. I feel that with a case like this, it'd be better if everything is new."

"It should be fine. Are you certified as an examiner?"

"Yes. All of us here, but Herb; he's new."

"If you don't mind..." he said. Alicia nodded her consent, "These are our receipts," he said, pointing to one small stack of strips of paper, "and these are photocopies of the receipts. I have initialed each one. If you will verify that what I photocopied is present here, and then place each receipt in the bag."

Alicia matched photocopies to receipts and signed everything. Turner withdrew his issued credit card from his wallet. After procedures to confirm it was the right one, Turner placed it and all the paperwork inside the envelope, which he then sealed shut. He signed his name over the back so his signature crossed over the adhered flap, and Alicia did the same. The envelope was dropped in the bag, the bag was sealed, and a variety of signatures and dates confirmed that everything inside was pertaining to their investigation. With a final confirmation, the bag was officially in Alicia's possession, and no longer Turner's concern.

He returned to the office, where Caravaggio regaled Ginger with tall tales. At Turner's approach, Car placed a hand on the file folder and slid it across the desk towards him without looking away from her. Turner would only skim the files to ensure certain elements were right. Car's sentences were vastly improved since the advent of autocorrect, though the grammar was still substandard. A typo or an incongruity in their timeline didn't matter, though. The government didn't care who they killed or how many; their only concern was for what they would have to reimburse.

Turner read through, listening as Car embellished his adventures while inventing new ones, all with himself as the hero. While Turner didn't care what he said, Caravaggio's lies did serve a purpose. The relationship with the government meant they could know some things, but not all. Slight misdirection into their background was good when talking with government employees. For them, telling the truth could be more consequential than his lies.

Turner had just finished his perusal when the text came. He stared at his phone long enough to draw Car's attention. "What is it?" he was asked. Turner didn't wish to say, but word would spread through the vampiric grapevine soon enough. He angled the screen so his brother could see and waited for the idiocy to commence.

"Congratulations," Car cheered as he stood up and applauded. "Hey, everybody. Listen up. I'm about to become an uncle," he said, pointing at Turner. "Let's hear it for the man,"

The others exchanged glances, hesitant in their next actions. Bob started to applaud, but a look from Alicia stopped that. To Turner, she said, "Congratulations, sir. It's quite an honor."

"I suppose," Turner managed to say. "Thank you."

"We were wrapping up here, but if you need to, you can use our systems to do background checks or research." Quieter, Alicia whispered, "I cannot promise anonymity, but the resources are at your disposal."

"Thank you, but we have our own procedures."

"Understood. I'll leave you to it, and again, congratulations." With that, she departed to talk to the others.

Turner didn't want congratulations. This was something that he never wanted. This meant the next seven months would be lost babysitting. Unlike the movies, conversion was not a one-time process. It would require daily interactions for weeks, and constant monitoring; otherwise, those chosen became something else. It was why, despite the centuries, their numbers were so low. The more sociopathic of their kind were unwilling to put forth the work and would abandon their charges within days. It was a huge responsibility that would consume the rest of the year. His ruminations were broken by the realization that Caravaggio was still making inane jokes at his expense.

"...And frankly, I've never seen you with a woman, so I didn't even know if your stuff still worked." Turner just nodded along, pondering his situation. He heard, "So, you got any candidates?"

A valid question. Everyone knew there was a chance one of them would be chosen to bring someone else in, and with the recent death, he should have had a few names ready. He had just hoped it would never be him. "No, I really never considered it."

"Really? After all these years, you can't think of anybody?" When Turner shook his head, Caravaggio continued. "Well, I can give you some names. I got a lot of names."

"I'm not taking the name of some stripper or call girl."

"Hey, we no longer have to pick based on intelligence anymore. We work for the government." He laughed at his own joke before saying, "Are you telling in all these years, you ain't never met a broad that meets your high standards?"

"Top of my head, no."

"What about Collie? She knows tons of chicks."

This prompted a snort from Turner. "She would never agree."

"I'll ask her. She likes me."

"No, Colleen hates you."

"Please. She was telling me things that she wanted to do to me when we were alone. Talking some real kinky shit."

Car's madness was a welcome respite from Turner's own problems. "You're kidding me, right?"

"No. Last time--"

"Stop." Turner raised a hand. "When she came to me after that last time, telling me that she was never working with you again, she reiterated your conversation verbatim. What did she say? Not what you think she said, but what she did say. Exactly."

Turner watched Caravaggio scowl as he thought back. Their memories were perfect, beyond eidetic, but it took some effort to return to a previous experience. When they did, they could re-experience every sensation as if they were back in the moment. "Okay," Caravaggio said. "Exact words: 'If you ever call me baby again, I'll rip your arm off, bitchslap you with it, and shove your fist up your ass.' "

"Right," Turner said, leaning towards his brother, trying to make sure his point went through. "That wasn't flirtation. That was an actual threat."

"Really?" Car stared into space to ponder the idea. Turner imagined unused gears in his brother's brain smoldering in an attempt to turn. The struggle seemed lost when Car laughed. "Nah, man. You just don't understand chicks."

Turner sighed. It was hopeless.

"C'mon," Car drawled. "She knew I could reattach it. And shit, I mean, the chicks she hangs out with have done kinkier stuff than that." Car's eyes stalked Alicia as she crossed his view. "Well, what about that one? She's perfect."

"Too perfect."

"I bet she has the most important qualifications."

"Hmm. And what do you think those are?"

"In order? Looks, type, sexual predilections."

"Looks?" Caravaggio was providing Turner with the fine distraction he needed. "Looks are more important than type?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely. Have you seen us?" Car tapped a finger with each name. "Martin is a Viking god. Henri is, I don't know, I guess cute in some baby-face way. I'm fucking gorgeous. Hell, I wouldn't even throw you out of bed."

"Well, thanks."

"Do you really think that Mother walks around thinking, 'Let me find someone O-negative and then look at them'? You really think she cares about brains or heart? No. Image. Seriously, be honest. Tell me what you thought when you first met MacLundy's balding potato-head girl."

Why the fuck did he choose her?

"It was 'Why the fuck did you choose that?' right?"

"No. I didn't think twice about it," Turner lied.

"Bullshit. You don't drag a wrinkled shitface with you through the centuries. We have reputations to uphold." He pointed at Alicia again. "Look at her. She's smoking hot, classy, speaks well, and she's into our lifestyle already. Let's take the things you care about. She's probably smart, probably knowledgeable, understands the paperwork, so she could do that for us in the future. What more do you want?"

"I'm not picking someone just because it is convenient."

The truth was, she probably was the ideal candidate. That was the problem. Caravaggio rolled his head back, groaned, and waved towards Alicia.

"Oi, girl. C'mere for a sec."

He stood as she strolled over, and when she neared their desks, Caravaggio took her by the shoulders and spun her around so she faced Turner. "Okay," he continued, "tell me what's wrong with her." From behind her, he reached around to grasp her chin. "How can you say no to such a pretty face?"

"There's nothing wrong with her." To Alicia, "There's nothing wrong with you."

"Why, thank you, sir," she said with a slight bow of her head. Despite Caravaggio's manhandling, she seemed to tolerate his groping with a combination of curiosity and amusement.

"You're straight, right?" Car inquired.

"More often than not. About eighty, twenty."

"That much variance?"

"I don't know exactly." Her dead eyes stared blankly ahead. "If you need exact numbers, I can check my tapes."

"Tapes? There are tapes?"

Caravaggio stammered a bit at a rare loss for words. Behind her implacable expression, Turner knew she was laughing. There were no tapes. She was playing with Caravaggio, and would have him eating out of her hands soon. Turner had to admit to himself that he liked her as well. And then he realized, by messing with Caravaggio, she was earning Turner's favor as well, all in one move.

She was playing them both.

She was too fucking dangerous.

"What's your type?" Car asked her, oblivious to the threat.

Turner watched her pupils dilate and heard her pulse quicken. Her answer was a husky whisper tinged with a slight tremor. "The right one."

The bait was dangling before them. Turner would not bite. "I'm sorry, but--."

"Of course." She held up a hand. "I'm sure whatever choice you make, it will be the right one, the one that's best for you."

"Thank you for understanding. Maybe someday when he has the opportunity..."

"What, five years from now? That's too late. She'll look five years older. Look." Car spun her around. "Do you want it? Yes, or no."

"Yes." Still quiet, "Very much so."

He glared at Turner. "Can you give me one good reason why it shouldn't be her?"

"Not immediately, but--"

"Well, then fuck it," and Caravaggio sank his teeth into Alicia's neck and ripped out her throat.