Still burping up objectively delicious tea from his sprint through the endless wood-paneled corridors of the Cataclysm Squad department, Brock came to a halt in front of a door he thought he recognized. Wheezing, he tried to banish recent memories of KB (Medical) slithering after him like some horror movie villain whose studio actually invested in CGI. He hadn't wanted to subject himself to another 'emergency extraction,' but the hovering atavastic terror that kept pace just behind his shoulder even as he shifted from an uncomfortable walk into a screaming run was just as horrible as the morning acrobatics, albeit in a different manner.

Thankfully, Brock's efforts meant he reached their destination (he shuddered at a sudden flashback of a tentacleg directing him through various intersections then motioning for him to stop) via the means of his own locomotion instead of KB (Medical)'s tender clutches. However, even as he bent over his knees, gasping for breath, he could feel the aforementioned murdermachine hovering directly behind him, burning eyeslits casting Brock's red-tinged shadow against the portal like the dancing shade of a condemned soul. He gulped down one last lungful of air, then straightened up and tried to act natural.

"Is this, uhhh, the infirmary, KB (Medical)?"

"That is correct, Brock. We have one minute and twenty two seconds until your therapy session begins."

Brock yelped and shot forward, forcing his aching muscles into motion and slamming his hand against the biosig panel next to the door. It slid open with a barely audible hiss, revealing a familiar white-tiled reception area along with a vaguely familiar sunglasses-toting figure behind the elevated horseshoe desk. Silky platinum hair whispered back as the smooth gentleman looked up from his swimsuit magazine.

"Whoa there, my man. Where's the fire?"

"Therapy. Appointment. Brock," Brock gasped urgently, dashing towards the desk. He stared up into the mirror-black sunglasses with the desperate face of someone who had just spent five minutes sprinting for his life. "Manly. Please."

Pale eyebrows slowly rose above impenetrable shades.

"Well, ain't you the excitable one." He looked over Brock's head to where KB (Medical) had insinuated itself into the room. "What's up, hoss?"

"Good morning, Skeeter," KB (Medical) replied, swirling behind the desk in a torrent of limbs that sent Brock flinching back. "Brock has forty six seconds until his assignment at therapy. I am here to take over your shift as scheduled - anything out of the ordinary to report?"

"Nah," the pale-haired man said, tucking his magazine away and standing from the chair. "'nother quiet night." He tilted his head towards Brock. "So this is my eight o'clock?"

"That is correct, Skeeter. His vitals were unnaturally elevated nineteen minutes and thirty four seconds prior to now, when I woke him. You may wish to make a note."

"...yeah. You got it, KB." Skeeter tipped his sunglasses up and looked down at Brock, revealing crimson-haloed inky pupils that were strangely understanding. "I'll make all sorts of notes. So, you're Brock, huh?"

"...buh. You put me to sleep, uhhh, a couple nights ago. I think."

"Yeah, you got me. Grave-shift somnambulist and all day psych consultant, at your service. I'm assuming that's why you're here this early?"

"...therapy. KB (Medical) said. So."

"Say no more, friendo. Let's skeedaddle somewhere that's not killbot-adjacent."

Brock gratefully took the offered hand, not even caring that it felt like grabbing a dead fish. Skeeter's grip was clammily cold, but bands of iron flexed beneath the pallid flesh and dragged him inexorably towards the back rooms. As he flew through the reception area, KB (Medical) whistled a cheery tune from its new perch behind the desk.

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"Another assignment successfully completed. Have a pleasant day, Operative Brock, Operative Skeeter."

Brock wasn't afforded the chance to whimper due to the speed Skeeter hauled him through the infirmary doors. They didn't get a chance to close before the antiseptic white walls of the infirmary blurred past. After several twists and turns, Skeeter deposited him into a mellow lounge-looking area, replete with several burgundy sofas and overly-stuffed deep-green felt armchairs, a wall of books, and what looked like a plastic container filled with children's toys. Skeeter didn't quite throw him onto one of the sofas, then settled into an adjacent chair.

"So," the pallid man began, tucking his sunglasses away into some inside pocket on his seafoam nurse's scrubs, revealing those same unnatural crimson irises and glowing black cat's-eye pupils, "you feeling okay?"

"...buh."

Skeeter pulled out a small notepad and made a quick notation.

"Yeah, that's fair. Killbots really only have one speed. Aside from that, what else's prickling your saddle?"

"...why are you talking like a cowboy?"

Three-inch-long canines flashed in a predatory grin.

"I'm one of the original rednecks, friend."

"You," Brock gulped, eyes caught in an unbreakable lock, unable to shake the suspicion worming through his mind, "you look like a vampire."

"Like I said," Skeeter kept the same smile, his lips slowly closing to cover the unnaturally long fangs. "Accept no substitutes."

Brock stared at him for an indeterminate length of time, trying to corral his racing thoughts, then pulled his attention away. The ceiling overhead was a pleasing shade of taupe.

He's a vampire. Some sort of cowboy vampire. Has to be. No, wait, vampires don't exist. Pretty sure they have sparkles, and he doesn't sparkle... what if they exist here?

Eventually, Brock decided to take the easy way out, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

"...so, are you a vampire?"

"Ayup."

"..."

"..."

Brock twisted over to look at Skeeter again.

"...seriously?"

Skeeter sighed, leaning back in his armchair.

"Weren't my choice. My very first memory, if you can believe it, I'm waking up in this gloomy stone room and some cackling idiot in entirely too much black velvet and white foundation is commanding his 'children of the night' to go 'bring despair upon the human world for ten eternities.' Well, seeing as all five thousand of us in that room were literally newborns, there were some temper tantrums."

"...temper tantrums."

"Hoooo yeah. Flailing of limbs, gnashings of teeth, violent diarrhea - the usual baby body behavior, only the Sekkie who conjured us into existence gave us the equivalent of hand-to-hand tank cannons along with an entire psychic arsenal of mindfuckery."

Brock resumed his silent ceiling contemplation. Skeeter waved a palm as if to brush the words away.

"Anyways, after the blood and shit settled and a Cat Squad secured the scene, they brought me in for rehabilitation."

Brock couldn't help looking over again in disbelief.

"...they rehabilitated a vampire? One vampire? Just you?"

Skeeter gave him an inscrutable look.

"Wasn't anyone else left, Brock. I know what it feels like to be all alone in a strange land. I know what it feels like to survive when you don't think you should've."

"...you do?"

"I do."

Brock felt an eruption of emotion explode from his core. Anger, sadness, hilarity, despair, along with countless other feelings rushed through him in lightning filigrees. His legs quivered, and he found himself gently tapping his hand on his thigh, trying to channel the surge of energy outward.

It didn't help.

The burgeoning tidal wave continued swelling beneath his skin, an unstoppable force demanding an outlet. Burning pins and needles pricked his face and chest, drifting down into his arms and legs as if his body was a vessel too small to contain the fizzing lava within. Just before he thought he was going to explode, an unnaturally cool hand took his own.

"I understand, Brock," Skeeter said softly, inhuman eyes all too human. "You feel like you don't belong. Like this is all some bad dream that you'll wake from sooner or later."

"Don't tell me what I'm thinking!" Brock shouted, throwing Skeeter's hand away and rising from the couch in a sudden fit of rage. "You don't know me!"

"You're right, Brock," the vampire replied calmly, leaning back passively in his chair, seemingly unperturbed by the outburst. "I don't know you. No one here knows you."

"That's right," Brock half-yelled, half-sobbed. "No one here knows me!" He paced around the perimeter of the room, hands half-clutching at imperceptible ideas. "No one here knows me," he repeated, this time an audible catch entering his voice. His head slowly swiveled up, pinning Skeeter in alien scrutiny. "No one here... knows... me..."

Crimson and black, like distant hearthflames barely visible on a deathly-freezing night, absorbed his drowning gaze.

"...I'd like to get to know you, Brock. Why don't we talk about it?"