Bridget’s fist collided with the side of the cleavers helmet, the jagged edges of her rings adding weight to her blow. His helmet cracked under the blow, and she hooked her fingers, worming her sharpened nails into the helmet, getting a grip and ripping the reinforced helmet apart like it was paper. The cleaver’s face was surprised, and that interested her. She didn’t know cleavers were capable of emotion. She drew back her right fist and punched again, the cleaver’s head snapping back with the force of the blow. Her rings bit deep into the cleaver’s flesh, drawing blood. The blood called to her, its sirens wail so powerful it actually pulled her head down against her will. She was able to ignore it though, like a prisoner on hunger strike. It had gotten easier to ignore the call of blood after the first month of starving herself. She was well into her third now, and the results were… interesting. She weighed less than 80 pounds, and her skin was pale and papery, like a corpses’. Her nails and teeth were long and sharp, even the in the day, which was her vampire side telling her it was time to feed. She was still a strong as ever though, hunger sharping every sense. On a clear day she could see for miles, and she could find a person four city blocks away just by their smell. It had been laughable that the sanctuary had sent just two cleavers to sneak up on her. She had heard them coming a mile away. Literally.
She was still supporting the cleavers limp form with a hand fisted in the front of his uniform, and for a minute she debated killing him. But that would cause complications she neither wanted nor needed. She spun, throwing the cleaver’s ragdoll form at the second cleaver behind her, who had been readying a blow. “Too slow!” She sang in her mind, crouching, then springing straight upwards, catching the streetlight 20 feet above her head. She pulled herself up onto the narrow bar that supported the light above the pavement, using her toes to grip it like some kind of monkey. She had stopped wearing shoes a while ago, they made her feel slow. Balanced as she was on the streetlight, she dug into the pockets of the leather jacket. She carried her life in that jacket now, everything she could possibly need squirreled away into the zippered pockets. She found what she was looking for, and produced a battered cigarette tin and an equally battered zippo. She stuck a cigarette between her pale lips, lighting it, then stashing the tin and zippo back in her pocket. Taking a long drag, she stared up at the sky. The city lights polluted her sharpened eyes to the point where she couldn’t see the stars anymore, and that saddened her. She had always liked stars, liked how they were constant, moving in their beaten tracks across the sky. She was there when Galileo and Da Vinci first started looking skywards, tracing the tracks her own eyes now struggled to see. She was old, so very old, and this would be her last glimpse of sky for a long, long time. Bridget tore her eyes away from the skies, looking down at the cleaver that was looking up at her. It was time to go.
She stood on the streetlight, raising her arms high above her head like an Olympic diver going for gold. She jumped, summersaulting twice in the air before hitting the ground like a pile driver. The pavement cracked under her feet as she slowly straightened, looming over the sanctuary pawn. The cleaver did not seem impressed by her dramatics.
“Take me to your leader.” She held out both hands in front of her, allowing herself to be cuffed. They left the body of the other cleaver laying there in the street, to be gathered up later. Bridget was prodded along with a scythe handle to the back as she and her captor made their way through the narrow backstreets of Roarhaven. She could see the cleavers van up ahead, and from there it would just be a quick ride, an even quicker trial, and then a very long time in jail.
They reached the van, and the cleaver stepped in front of her to unlock the doors. Bridget looked up at the sky again, tilting her head back as far as it would go. Still no stars. She sighed, slipping the noose made of her cuffed hands around the cleavers neck. She yanked hard, snapping the cleaver’s neck. As his limp body clattered to the ground, she caught his scythe with her toes, bracing it against the van and using it to snap the chain of the handcuffs. She left the wrist pieces, they looked kinda cool.
She had changed her mind; she wasn’t leaving yet. Not when there were still stars in the sky.