Emerson’s vision slowly cleared as his eyes fluttered open.

The once hazy light came into focus, revealing the small crackling fire burning across from him. Dark skeletal trees edged in white rose into the night sky around him, their boughs weighed down with snow—a layer of frost crystals on their trunks reflecting the campfire light. The crisp winter air mingled with the grating odor of lingering wood smoke and undertones of ozone, singeing his nostrils.

He glanced across his body, the movement aggravating a crick in his neck and sending a jolt of pain into his head. He noticed an undisturbed layer of snowflakes covering him from the chest down, almost like a cozy blanket. Despite the snow accumulating beneath his ruined clothes, the freezing temperature had no effect on him. However, he couldn't ignore the fact that the snow was gradually enveloping him, slowly confining him within an icy tomb.

His ear twitched at the sounds of twigs snapping and nocturnal wildlife rustling through the snow and surrounding foliage. He closed his eyes again and deeply inhaled, the frigid air burning his lungs as it sat in his chest like ice.

The rise and fall of his chest agitated the peaceful coating of snow resting across him and alerted another to his wakefulness.

“Finally, took you long enough,” a familiar voice pierced through Emerson’s heavy fatigue.

He couldn’t raise his head, so he stretched his neck until the back of his head rested against the log and squinted across the campfire. It hurt his neck to move like this, but curiosity got the better of him.

"So..." the Old Man tilted his head and smiled, his eyes filled with amusement. "This means you won't be doing anything stupid again?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow as he leaned forward, placing his hands together with his elbows resting on his knees.

'So it was him.' Emerson silently observed the Old Man, his expression inscrutable. As the flickering orange flames danced, their reflection appeared dim in Emerson's weary eyes. His head drooped down, and his gaze settled on the ground between his legs. Exhaustion pulled at his eyelids, causing them to slowly close as if weighed down by hundreds of pounds.

The sounds of wildlife that once sounded so clear became distant and muffled, blending together with a soft ringing in Emerson's ears. His mind felt clouded, each thought taxing his psyche like an unbearable chore.

It was an exhaustion that went beyond anything he’d ever experienced. It penetrated every fiber of his being, draining him physically and mentally. All he wanted now was the sweet embrace of sleep. He gave in, letting his eyelids slowly close as he surrendered to the struggle.

The Old Man's expression hardened, his face taking on a stern and intense demeanor.

“Oh, is someone getting hungry?” he quipped, though his eyes betrayed a growing irritation as they narrowed slightly.

Emerson didn’t respond aside from an errant twitch of a finger.

The Old Man's face fell into a frown. In the blink of an eye, he disappeared from his previous spot and reappeared, now looming over Emerson with an imposing presence. "No..." the Old Man's voice drawled in a flat tone, his expression shifting to an indifferent, polite smile. He crouched down, stretching his neck to meet Emerson's closed eyes. Observing that the fledgling had unknowingly fallen into the initial stages of torpor, the Old Man sucked his teeth and wore a bitter smile. His eyes scanned the surroundings with a sense of disappointment, accompanied by a peculiar gleam.

Then, he sat back on his heels and ran a hand through his smooth, gray hair that seemed to always retain its charm, even when disheveled like now. He rubbed his neck and directed his gaze back at Emerson, his lips curling with distaste. In an instant, his fist gripped a handful of Emerson's hair and forcefully tilted the young man's head back against the log, baring his pale throat.

Emerson's eyes snapped open in panic, and a groan of pain escaped his lips. His red-rimmed eyes frantically darted around in confusion before focusing on the Old Man's face.

"I must be imagining things," the Old Man’s voice was a deathly quiet whisper. Emerson winced, his breaths becoming short and reflexive as he gritted his teeth. It felt as though his head was about to be torn off along with his hair. "It almost seemed like... you were ignoring me?" the Old Man asked.

Strong fingers gripped Emerson's throat in a vise-like hold, slowly applying pressure. "But that's not what happened... right?" the Old Man asked innocently, raising his eyebrows and blinking inquisitively. He tilted his head to the side, a smile forming on his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes.

The pain and pressure built in Emerson’s head to the point that he started seeing starbursts behind his eyes. Panic and dread flooded his senses as the weight of exhaustion lifted, making way for lightheadedness and excruciating pain in his throat. The emotional walls he'd built up crumbled under the intensity of his fear.

In a desperate attempt to free himself, Emerson clenched his teeth and grabbed the Old Man's forearm with both hands, pulling with all his strength.

The arm didn’t budge.

Emerson strained his body, attempting to arch his back and relieve the pressure on his neck and head. However, his efforts proved futile as the Old Man's grip only tightened, causing the bones in his neck to grind against each other. Emerson's neck and forehead became taut with bulging muscles and veins, and his legs kicked out in a desperate flurry, futilely churning and throwing snow as he struggled to move himself upward.

The Old Man held him firmly in place.

Emerson's nostrils flared in panic, and his eyes welled up with blood-streaked tears, causing the whites of his eyes to darken. Gasping and choking for air, he abandoned his futile attempts to pry away the hand around his throat and instead weakly beat at the forearm that constricted his airway. The edges of his vision started to blur and fade as if being swallowed by darkness.

Suddenly, a blinding point of silver light shone directly between him and the Old Man.

“Oh?” the Old Man’s posture stiffened as he rapidly blinked, doing a double-take and glancing down at his hand around the fledgling’s throat. Then, the manic gleam in his eyes lifted like a veil. He immediately released the struggling fledgling and stepped back, rising to his full height as he watched Emerson collapse against the log—wheezing and coughing. But he didn’t care about the fledgling’s well-being; his cold, narrowed eyes focused entirely on the intensely glowing silver ring.

Tsking, he grimaced and wiped away some snow clinging to his pants before straightening up and adjusting the collar and shoulders of his overcoat. Bringing his arm up, he shook the sleeve away until he could glimpse the time on his watch. His eyebrows wrinkled together, and his lips pressed into a line as a thoughtful expression of reluctance crossed his face. Then, dropping his hand, he crossed his arms and glared down at the fledgling, who had more or less recovered and was tenderly holding his neck and staring at the ground.

“How did you get it to recognize you?” the Old Man warily asked.

Emerson took slow, ragged breaths, his shoulders trembling with every exhalation. Gingerly touching his heavily bruised throat with his fingertips, he raised his smoldering, red-rimmed eyes to meet the Old Man’s gaze.

Emerson’s hand clenched and unclenched at his side, his neck corded, and his vision clouded over with simmering rage.

He wanted to hurt the Old Man, to lash out and see blood—uncaring of the consequences. He could feel a call in his chest, a desire to feel the release he knew was waiting for him if he just gave in and gave over. He wanted to dominate, to control. As soon as he had those thoughts, his eyes cleared and were replaced with a vacant look that stared off into space.

Those weren’t his emotions. He’d dealt with this before… or at least it felt like he had.

His set jaw slackened, and he dropped the Old Man’s gaze, shaking his head lightly as he looked back down at the ground. He didn’t want this—he wasn’t a killer. He just felt hollow and weak. But that didn’t mean he wanted to die.

The Old Man’s words finally registered as Emerson’s pain-addled thoughts cleared.

“I—” Emerson hoarsely croaked, startled at the sound of his own voice. Then, gently clearing his throat through the sharp pain, he focused on the words and deliberately spoke. “I… don’t… know.” He couldn’t help but wince at how ragged his voice still sounded. He would’ve been more surprised to realize that the dark purplish bruising was slowly receding and his trachea had realigned.

The Old Man silently stared at Emerson through squinted eyes for what seemed like a whole minute before closing his eyes with a sigh and tilting his head back. He uncrossed his arms and ran both hands down his face before vanishing and reappearing across the campfire, seated in his previous spot with one leg crossed over the other.

“Listen, kid, I—” he trailed off, then shook his head as though he couldn’t find the words.

Emerson glanced up; the pain in his throat had subsided enough that he lowered his hand and slouched back against the log with some modicum of usual self in the driver’s seat.

“How about this: Let’s start with a name, hm?” the Old Man’s eyebrows quirked up as he stared at the young man with an expectant gaze.

Emerson was profoundly disturbed despite his outwardly tired expression. Where was the demeanor of the sociopathic murderer he’d seen staring into his eyes not even a minute ago?

“…Emerson,” Emerson eventually muttered softly, rolling a sore shoulder.

“Emerson?” The Old Man blinked, then a grin slowly spread across his face until it became a full-fledged smile. It looked wrong on his face.

“Emerson, then. A pleasure to meet you, son,” he drawled in a sudden Texan lilt, miming the tipping of a cowboy hat in Emerson’s direction.

Emerson almost laughed out loud. It was such an incredible thing to witness in his situation that it couldn’t be anything but funny. But the humor died in his chest; he felt like it was something he would have enjoyed before everything that'd happened. Now, all that was left was a hollowness in his chest and a desire to sleep and get away from anyone and everything.

“The name’s Saga,” the Old Man proudly declared his name with head held high, his eyes expectantly watching Emerson and waiting for a response.

Emerson slowly blinked, then gave a curt nod of greeting before looking away again, this time out at the dark tree line. He figured it was time to try and figure out where he’d been taken.

But all he could see were trees and snow. Snow and trees.

The dark outline of a mountain vaguely visible under the moonlight seemingly crested above the tree line in the distance. But none of it helped him. There weren’t any discernible landmarks. He was well and truly lost in the woods with a stranger. The notion was decidedly unpleasant, but Emerson was surprised that he felt more… miffed than terrified. He didn’t know what to think of that.

“You don’t like it?” Saga pouted, brushing non-existent snow off his pants and bringing Emerson’s attention back to their conversation.

“…It’s unique.” The corner of Emerson’s mouth twitched as he couldn’t help but feel strangely amused with the man’s “name” and his child-like personality swap.

“It is, isn’t it?” Saga mused, grabbing his chin as though lost in thought and pursing his lips. “You know, I’ve always wanted to keep a diary.”

‘He… what?’ Emerson was finding it increasingly difficult to keep a straight face.

“Well, you know,” Saga waved a hand, “to document my travels and journey and what have you.” He stretched his neck to the side and grabbed his knee with both hands as he leaned back. “But I just never got around to it, you know?” he rhetorically spoke with distant wistfulness as he stared into the center of the campfire. “Always busy with one thing or another, waking up to new continents or ‘ground-breaking’ discoveries.” He lightly mocked and complained, heaving a deep sigh as he released his knee and dropped the leg to the ground. He patted his thighs while looking at Emerson. “Which brings us to tonight, Emerson.”

Emerson warily met Saga’s gaze when he heard his tone. He was inwardly concerned about how to deal with someone whose emotions could flip on a dime. He felt like he was treading on eggshells just breathing in the man’s vicinity.

“Now, before we talk about that,” Saga pointed to the ring on Emerson’s finger, his voice falling to a low, chilling baritone, “you little thief.”

A shiver involuntarily crawled up Emerson’s spine, and he felt as though he’d broken out into a cold sweat. His instincts flared up at once and told him to run. Yet, he suppressed the sensation because, despite everything that had happened to him, he could almost… feel, sense, and understand the older man’s intent. It was the strangest thing.

“You will explain your relationship with Lady Vantu,” Saga’s eyes narrowed as he said the name.

A pang of agitation spiked in Emerson’s mind. He couldn’t help it. His immediate reaction to being ordered was apprehension, contempt, and indignation, all bundled together in one knee-jerk reaction that almost made him snarl. In time, he managed to stop himself because everything about that decision screamed ‘bad idea’ in Saga’s presence. It was infuriating.

His body kept wanting to do one thing when his mind kept reinforcing why he shouldn’t; what the fuck was this?

He felt the beginnings of a tension headache pulsing at his temples and spreading to the back of his head. “…Who?” Emerson asked softly, a slight grimace crinkling his face as he touched his temple.

Saga humorlessly snorted, “Don’t play dumb and handsome with me, kid. You’ll lose.” He gave a lopsided grin that looked downright evil as opposed to goofy. “So, I’ll ask you again,” he growled, his voice plunging the area into a frigid abyss and reducing the campfire flames into a suffocating bed of trembling embers, “and only again.”

Emerson winced beneath the immense pressure weighing on his mind and body. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and his muscles went taut as he struggled to keep himself seated without shaking. The ache at his temples became a consistent pounding, and his teeth creaked against one another.

Yet, he still felt an unwillingness burning in his chest never to bow his head. He had no idea where it came from; he’d never been a stupid, arrogant dumbass before, right? Shoving away the growing anticipation of fighting back, he strung together what little coherent thoughts he could form and threw them out through gritted teeth. “…The woman in the red dress?"

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Red dr—“ Saga’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked genuinely baffled—the ominous pressure despotically suffusing the surroundings vanished.

Emerson breathed a sigh of relief and slumped back down, though now, he warily watched Saga for any sudden movements. He’d never felt more stifled in his entire life. ‘Just what the fuck was that?’ He couldn’t stop himself from speculating, but Saga’s following words brought his runaway thoughts to a screeching halt.

“How in the…? What the hell do I look like to you, boy? Some lousy peeping tom?” Saga’s incredulous voice slowly grew indignant as he pulled his head away, almost like the conversation was beneath him.

“But—” Emerson started, only to be cut off.

“I might be older than dirt, but I don’t got them weird fetishes!” Saga’s tone gradually adopted an angry, heavy Southern accent. “Now you best be tellin’ me what I want to know, or you ain’t seein’ the next sunri— the moon!” he strictly demanded.

Emerson blinked.

He didn’t know what to think anymore. But, having finally come around to the idea that this man was two tics short of a tac, he decided it was best to roll with the punches and see where it got him.

He felt... No, he knew that he wasn’t in a position to do much of anything else. It was like he couldn’t help but experience a profound sense of inferiority in the man’s presence despite his thoughts and feelings. He was scared, confused, and more than a little pissed off about everything, but something told him to stay put, stay silent, and cooperate. And every time he tried addressing where the sensation came from, something would distract him; it was like trying to catch a slippery, fleeting idea.

It was beyond irritating, and Emerson was too young and inexperienced in all matters of the supernatural to recognize the effects of an earlier generation vampire’s blood compulsion weighing heavily on his consciousness. There wasn’t anything to be done. Even if he weren’t ignorant of what was happening, there would have been fuck-all he could do about it besides lower his head and capitulate.

Emerson inclined his head and plunged deep into his thoughts before eventually tentatively replying with more of a question than a statement: “…Aurelia?” he looked up at Saga with eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“Ah?” Saga’s incredulous expression flipped on a dime into a knowing grin. His eyebrows wiggled. “A first name basis? You sly dog.” The smile dropped from his face the next second as he grew serious. “I didn’t take her for a cradle robber…” he mumbled, holding his chin. Then, suddenly, his head snapped up with glowing eyes. “I’ve got it!” he pointed an accusatory finger at Emerson, “you’re a disgraced Consort on the run!”

Emerson blinked, “…What?”

“Shush, boy. Don’t interrupt me!” Saga casually flipped Emerson off with the wrong finger and started pacing around the campfire. “This is fascinating! Could it be? To think I would’ve stumbled upon that old witch’s sloppy seconds…”

Emerson blankly watched Saga chaotically pacing in strange patterns.

“It would explain the seal and memory loss… yes, yes… wait, no… but not...” Saga frowned, pausing in his pacing with one foot in the air. He disappeared and reappeared in a squat beside Emerson, who started and flinched away before settling down and lowering his eyes.

‘So that just happened…’ Emerson numbly thought.

“No… No, there’s something else,” Saga muttered to himself, cocking his head as he examined Emerson as though contemplating the intrinsic meaning of a piece of art, “-something~ something~” he hummed in a sing-song voice. “It wouldn’t explain what woke me…” He mumbled absently.

Emerson could feel Saga’s eyes boring through him. A shudder ran through him as he had the profound sensation of all his secrets being laid bare beneath that gaze.

“Aha!”

Emerson started from Saga’s jubilant shout. He blinked and carefully looked up— Saga was sitting across the campfire again.

“That would make the most sense, but that also means…” Saga’s triumphant expression slowly faded, and his brows furrowed as he glanced at Emerson. “No… No way…” he gave a low chuckle devoid of mirth while sizing Emerson up with a glint of dark amusement in his eyes. “That would mean…” he suddenly appeared less than a foot from Emerson’s face, Saga’s icy blue eyes boring into Emerson’s lifeless gray.

Emerson remained calm this time, the burning in his chest urging him to stare Saga down. He managed to do it for a whole second before lowering his head.

“You don’t know anything. Do you?” Saga spoke slowly, asking each word as though he wasn’t sure of it himself. Emerson’s silence seemingly confirmed it because the next thing he knew, Saga’s eyes widened, and a smile split his face. Then, a booming belly laugh of pure joy shattered the cold, silent forest night.

Emerson inadvertently flinched away at the sheer volume that made even his ears ache. He watched Sage trying not to fall over with a complex look in his eyes—a simmering anger in his chest threatening to boil over as a frown tugged at his mouth.

“That… haha… that has to be… ohohoho- HAHAHA!” Saga doubled over at the waist as he held his stomach with both hands, laughing straight at the ground with shaking shoulders.

Emerson’s expression noticeably darkened.

“I can’t- I can’t even... haha!” Then, saga’s voice actually cracked, which caused him to devolve into an even harder giggling fit as he repeatedly slapped a knee. “This whole… this whole time! Oh- oh my god… your face! Look at your face!” He pointed a finger at Emerson. “Ah, ah, whew…” Saga wiped away a bloody tear with a grin and shook his head. “Wow… I mean… Just, wow,” he sighed, patting down his sleeves and straightening his overcoat with some lingering chuckles. He also checked his watch with a sniff.

“Oh man, kid,” he paused. “No. Emerson,” his smile grew friendly, “Emerson, I haven’t laughed like that in nearly eight centuries. In fact, the last time I heard a joke that good was in Mansoura,” he gazed off like he remembered a fond memory. “That Pelagius was one funny guy, too bad and all,” he shrugged and looked back at Emerson with a new look in his eyes. “Hm. How are old are you then?” he huffed like his feelings were hurt.

“…Twenty-five,” Emerson replied stiffly.

A set of knuckles roughly rapped against his forehead.

Emerson gave a 'manly' yelp; he hadn’t even seen Saga move!

“Not your biological age, sonny,” Saga shook his head, “I’m talking about when you were turned.”

Emerson’s already pale expression blanched as the Saga’s words seemingly hinted at thoughts he’d tried throwing to the back of his head like a bad dream.

“Actually, wait now, that’s a good point.” Saga suddenly stood and looked around like a meerkat with fists on his hips. “Where the hell is your Sire?”

Emerson blinked, then tentatively asked, “…Who?” Hoping against hope that he’d heard wrong. That he’d thought wrong.

Saga stiffened, then slowly turned to look at Emerson. He didn’t look happy anymore. Instead, he very seriously stared into Emerson’s eyes. “Emerson…” Saga spoke slowly, coming to squat down in front of Emerson without moving in the blink of an eye. He licked his lips. “I want us to be real clear now, you hear? No more jokes. No more laughing.”

Emerson’s eye twitched.

“When were you bitten?” Saga asked.

Emerson stiffened, some images playing out in his mind’s eye.

“What’s your Sire’s name?” Saga continued.

A face appeared in his thoughts.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Saga evenly asked.

Emerson sighed, “… A woman.”

“Where?” Saga didn’t crack wise this time and asked with deathly seriousness.

Emerson raised his ringed hand, only for Saga to wave it away.

“No, forget the ring; we’ll talk about that.”

“But-“

“Silence,” the command rang out like some deific writ.

Emerson’s mouth snapped shut of its own accord. His mind went blank as he stared straight ahead.

“I know how the ring works, kid. That’s not what I’m asking. Think back.” Saga demanded.

Emerson nodded and rotely answered as though he’d lost his soul.

“…Red hair… red eyes… claws… pain.” He listed everything he normally felt when thinking about his past.

“Good. Now, what else?”

“…That’s it.”

“All right,” Saga nodded to himself, “All right, then.” He stood and shoved his hands into the overcoat’s pockets. “You, uh… Hm,” he pursed his lips and squinted in thought as he looked into the dark wilderness. “You probably don’t know this… But, ah hell…” he rubbed the back of his head with a hand and awkwardly trailed off as he glanced at Emerson from the corner of his eyes before looking away. All traces of his former commanding posture were gone. “Caine’s prehistoric ball sack, but it’s been a while since I’ve done this…” he muttered, grabbing his chin in thought.

Emerson blinked.

“Ah fuck it,” Saga waved a hand and came around to sit on the log beside Emerson. He rubbed his hands together. “So… Emerson…”

“…Yes?” Emerson’s lips twitched as he stretched his neck to look at the old man beside him.

“You, uh.” Saga cleared his throat, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Almost squeamish. “So you… you know? Right?” He pointed two finger guns at Emerson with a nervous smile that looked more fragile than porcelain.

“…About?” Emerson couldn’t help the mild amusement running through him at Saga’s odd discomfort. He couldn’t understand how this was the same old man who’d tried strangling him to death, threatened him and made him feel worthless. But, now that he thought about it, why was he already past that?

Emerson momentarily focused inward, thought about what had transpired, and found he didn’t care about it. He was over it. Wholly and completely. That was odd… But then again, after what he’d been through, emotional repression was probably the healthiest thing for him. He looked forward to the worst nightmares imaginable if he lived to see a bed.

Saga sucked his teeth with a grimace and looked away, clapping his hands together a few times and rolling his shoulders like he was amping himself up to get rid of his anxiety. “Right then. No other way to say it,” he slapped his palms onto his thighs and twisted to more or less face himself toward Emerson and straightened up. “Emerson. You're a vampire,” Saga’s face scrunched up with eyes shut after speaking, almost looking like it took effort not to flinch away.

Silence…

“…So that was real, huh?”

Saga cracked open an eye, squinting down at Emerson, who hadn’t moved and continued to stare into the fire. Then, Emerson gave a dry, deprecating chuckle that carried an immense weight, his dead eyes unblinking. “…That’s two people now.”

Saga opened both eyes and cocked his head, “You’re taking this rather well, my boy,” he spoke curiously.

Emerson sighed, looking at his pale palms as he clenched and unclenched them, “…I guess you could say I already knew.”

“Ah?” Saga’s eyes narrowed, then widened. “Ah. The ring.”

“…The ring,” Emerson emotionlessly affirmed, then closed his eyes and took a cleansing breath of frigid winter air that felt nice as it cooled his scalding throat.

“You know you don’t have to breathe anymore?” Saga asked, his squinted eyes twinkling with the barest glimmers of mischief.

Emerson’s eyes slowly opened as he exhaled, and all the tension seemed to leave his body as his posture slouched back against the log. He silently stared into the center of the dancing campfire flames through half-lidded eyes. “Whatever… So that was really blood?” he sedately inquired.

“Hm? Oh, right, yeah- you want some more?”

“No! I, um-“ Saga was about to move when Emerson’s frantic shout made him pause and look over with a cocked eyebrow.

Emerson cleared his throat and reclined back against the log, having almost jumped to his feet. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace and shrunk in on himself. “Just… no,” he weakly finished.

“Uhuh,” Saga said, completely unconvinced. “You know I hate to break it to you, kid, but-“

“I know…” Emerson raised a hand, “I get it…” he lowered the hand in silence before changing the topic to more solid ground. “…How long?” He asked.

“Hm?” Saga’s lips pursed.

“Since I woke up,” Emerson clarified.

“Oh, oh right… yeah, I’ve got no idea. Didn’t feel too long. Well, actually, now that you mention it, it was pretty annoying,” Saga nodded to himself, then, suddenly, Emerson felt the cold weight of an endless killing dread crawling up his spine. “So don’t do it again, kid,” Saga’s voice fell to a low growl, sounding out from every direction.

A sliver of fear ran through Emerson as he trembled beneath the pressure, turning his head slowly to see that the old man was no longer beside him.

“I ain’t a patient monster,” his voice sounded from behind Emerson, causing the hairs on his neck to rise. He shut his eyes with a fearful grimace and slowly counted down from five in his head. He exhaled through his nose and slowly opened his eyes. The pressure was still there, and it hurt like hell, but he didn’t react on an emotional level anymore.

“…So there’ll be a next time?” Emerson asked, hating himself for letting his voice quaver.

The pressure suddenly lifted, and Saga reappeared, sitting beside him again with an amiable smile.

“Are you kidding? Of course!” He happily shouted, “You know how much fun you are?” he asked, raising a hand. “Anarch special teams hunting your ass,” he raised a finger with a thoughtful expression. “The Vantu Clan Mistress herself tracking your soul,” another finger, “you somehow managed to massacre an entire group of armed gendarme- sorry, police officers… oh! That’s right, you even bound my artifact,” he pointed the hand with three fingers extended at Emerson’s face with a hurt look, then retracted and started counting again. “And lastly-- I can’t prove it yet, but I’m pretty sure it was you who woke me up,” he narrowed his eyes, then gave up with a shrug. “Sixty-forty, who gives a shit. I’ll figure it out eventually. I always do, in time,” he nodded to himself, then suddenly jumped off the log with a shout of surprise. “Oh, fucking fuck!”

Startled, Emerson grabbed onto the log and ground, looking around with an alert eye, “What? What’s going on?”

“Time!” Saga shouted, bringing up the watch until it was almost touching his nose. “It’s almost time!”

“…For?” Emerson asked with a weird look.

“Never mind that! Come on; we have to go!”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, sorry, kid, I don’t have time to hold your hand, breastfeed you, and change your bloody diaper, but I know someone who can! She’s the best!”

Emerson blinked away those dubiously fun images and then processed the words.

“Who... her?...” he asked incredulously. Suddenly, Emerson found himself standing beside Saga. Instead of sitting, the old man supported him beneath an arm and sagely nodded.

“Mhm, she’s great; you’ll love her. Relatively young too, so she can relate to your feelings and all the other nonsense you fledglings get up to you in your youth.”

“…I’m twenty-“ A cold finger cut off Emerson’s protest on his lips.

“Shhh,” Emerson made confused eye contact as Saga slowly retracted his finger and wagged it back and forth in a ‘no-no’ motion. “Shut the fuck up, okay?” Saga patted Emerson’s cheek, ignoring the reaction he was receiving, and then stood beside him, their shoulders touching. “All right, listen up and listen well.” Saga sounded like a severe businessman now. “I’ve got places to be, and you-“ he shoulder-bumped Emerson, “-have a lot of learning and catching up to do. And since your Sire is nowhere to be found, I must ensure you learn the basics of survival. But!” Saga raised a finger into the air. “Emerson—are you listening? Because this is the most important thing. I’m going to teach you… how not to embarrass me.”

Emerson blinked.

Saga nodded, “You heard right, kid. But ah, I can see it now…” he lamented, shaking his head with an aggrieved expression. “Those uptight Camarilla pricks and prickettes are gonna rip me a new one for this, so you owe me, big time. Oh, you also technically stole my artifact, but we’ll figure that- shit! The ring! I forgot to tell you about the ring.” He scolded himself, then shrugged. “Ah, well, you’ll figure it out. I’m pretty sure. Anyway, time’s a tickin’! So fasten your seatbelt and hold on tight!” He shouted.

“Uh… to what?” Emerson incredulously asked, wondering what in the actual hell was happening.

“Hm? Oh, good call,” he grabbed Emerson’s wrist and gave an apologetic smirk, “That would have been gruesome.” Saga theatrically shivered, “And I do so love this coat. Okay, all set?”

“Um, but…uh, for?” Emerson stuttered, feeling wholly uneasy with what was happening.

“I’m ditch- dropping you off!” Saga innocently replied. “Then I’ll meet back up with you once you’re ready to pay me back for all my help.”

Emerson’s eye twitched, and he pursed his lips before asking: “Where?”

“Sin City, baby!” Saga cackled with delight.

Emerson’s expression turned weird, “…Vegas? How are-“

“Hold on tight!” Saga yelled, then added, “Oh, and do try not to vomit.”

“What-“

The world suddenly turned into a washing machine spin cycle onboard the world’s fastest roller coaster as it broke orbit.

And then, it was over.

Emerson's eyes bulged in terror and distress as he crumpled to his knees, his hands clutching his stomach. An intense wave of nausea surged through him, relentlessly crawling up his throat. In a desperate attempt to quell the rising bile, one hand instinctively pressed against his chest, while the other slapped against a smooth, hardwood surface. Through his blurred, darkness-tinged vision, Emerson could vaguely discern that they were indoors. The sight of scattered powdery snow on the floor confirmed his change in surroundings. The lighting had shifted drastically, casting an unfamiliar glow on the scene, and as his vision gradually adjusted, he could make out the shapes of furniture positioned in front of him.

With his dwindling vision and waning strength, Emerson's sole focus shifted to battling the rising nausea and maintaining control over his roiling stomach. The surroundings, the furniture, and even his own body became secondary concerns as he fought to keep the impending sickness at bay.

“Sweetie! Daddy’s home!” Saga’s booming shout almost knocked Emerson unconscious as his vision continued to fade in and out.

The floor spun around his hand— which there were two of.

"Hm?" Completely oblivious to Emerson’s suffering, Saga tilted his head to the side. His ear twitched as though he were contemplating something, and then a wicked, sadistic grin crept across his face. It was a smile that would’ve put the devil to shame.

Bending down next to Emerson, he placed a hand on his back, almost causing him to lose his balance. "If you make it through tonight, I'll personally teach you some Vitae techniques," he whispered with a shit-eating grin before abruptly standing up. "Good luck," he chuckled evilly and disappeared into thin air.

Emerson groaned as he struggled to control his queasy stomach, but he mustered the strength to stand up. Clumps of snow slid off his clothes, landing on the ornate carpet nearby. Gradually, the dizziness subsided, and his vision cleared enough for him to take in his surroundings. He found himself in what appeared to be a nicely furnished studio apartment, complete with a small kitchen, a living room area, and even a balcony with a glass sliding door.

The distant, vibrant lights of a city glowed past the balcony.

He placed a hand on his temple with a grimace.

Then, he heard a door open.

He looked up through squinted eyes, then nearly fell over from shock.

A woman with pale skin and long brunette hair around a heart-shaped face stood in the doorway across the living room.

Water dripped to the floor around her bare feet, and a fluffy white towel was cinched just above her breasts, revealing long, toned legs and creamy thighs. Her hair was wet and matted, and her neck and shoulders glistened with water under the dim lighting.

She looked like a fallen angel. A very pissed fallen angel whose well-defined arms raised a desert eagle straight at his head.

The hammer pulled back with a resounding click.

“Who the fuck are you, and how did you get inside my home?” she asked in a low, dangerous voice that was somehow sexier than her body.

Emerson slowly raised a hand in what he hoped was a placating gesture as he stepped back, lowering his shoulders to look harmless.

He opened his mouth to speak…

And vomited.