Born Free | EVENT, OPEN

Well... He had to hand it to them. Some of those pictures had actually made him throw up a little, in the back of his mouth. They'd kept drawing his gaze, again and again, the way horrible, sickening images often do. It was a little similar to how the edge of a tall building or a cliff held a terrifying sort of attraction. Again and again he'd twisted his mouth and slammed then down on the table, face downwards. The... detail, he'd noticed, was nightmarishly realistic. He knew for a fact that no-one could have possibly managed to obtain genuine photographs of him in such a compromising (yes compromising is a good word let's go with compromising please, please let's just go with compromising) position, but what did that matter in this day and age? All you needed was someone's headshot and sufficient skill with photomanipulation and hey presto, you had them firmly by the balls.

Logan could feel the weight of those pictures in the inside chest pocket of his jacket, all the way from Hoshizora to Kyoto. He stared grimly out of the window, the landscape beyond it little more than a grey and joyless blur as the bullet train ate up the miles. He was shit scared, there was no point lying to himself about it. Logan went to great lengths not to show it but he was, at heart, a deeply insecure person. It had been a snap judgement - with only thirty minutes left to get to where the letter had instructed him to be, and the imminent threat of those photographs dangling over his head, there was only one possible choice as far as Logan could see. If those horrible images got put about, his life would effectively be over. Who the hell would believe him if he tried to deny their authenticity? They were just that realistic. Who would doubt that it was really him in those photographs, doing those unspeakable things?

And yet fear was not quite managing to dominate Logan's psyche, not yet. To do that it had to beat down and overcome the simple, potent drive of curiosity. Yes, Logan was intrigued to the point of excitement. A mysterious letter pushed through the letterbox of his dorm at 7.00 PM on a rainy day, instructing him to show up at an abandoned warehouse in Kyoto within half an hour's time? How much more suspicious could you get? As horrified, as nauseous as he felt, he couldn't shake off the basic instincts of the journalist when presented with such a frankly juicy situation. Who knew what could be waiting in that warehouse? If nothing else, it was certain to be interesting.

Then again, what was that curse he'd read in a book at one point? May you live in interesting times.

It was with such thoughts buzzing persistently through his mind that Logan arrived at the warehouse, barely a few minutes ahead of the deadline. The envelope containing the letter and the photographs was clutched tightly in his fist. As he stepped up to the doors of the abandoned building, he began to unconsciously squeeze the envelope, crumpling it quite badly. Suddenly it seemed to him that the doors of the warehouse yawned open as hungrily as the gate of Hell in Dante's Inferno, waiting to swallow him whole. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Gritting his teeth, Logan tugged slightly at his headband, dragging it down just a little further down over his brow. Steeling himself for whatever awaited within, be it a trap, be it something else, he crossed the threshold.

The interior of the warehouse was dark, decrepit and empty, except for one other person. Logan squinted - it was a woman, by the looks of things. His eyes immediately narrowed further in suspicion. Could that be the person that had summoned him here? Or could they both be the victims of similar blackmail? Only one way to find out. "[Who's there?]" Logan called out in Japanese. Striding forward, he repeated the same phrase in English, just in case, his Scottish accent coming through loud and clear - with more than a hint of anger in his tone. "I hope, for your sake, you're not the fuck who sent me this letter."

Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen. It’s like the universe is watching a reality television show, and in order to keep its viewers the producers use everything within their power to influence as to what happens within the show. The stage was being set and one of the many ‘actors’ caught within its alluring ways was Naga himself. Yet why had this bird been caught by the metaphorical cage, wings clipped and forced to live a life looking up at everyone—as if he was but inferior to all. Yet these feelings were just the tip of the ice burg, everything was more complex than it seemed; in fact even if a bird would have its wings clipped, it could still dream for the skies—it could still dream for freedom.

Ever since he escaped from his father, Nagano had begun developing, like a flower blooming on a warm summer day, he started to flourish. Although the concepts of being social and open with people is still but something he is uncomfortable with, Naga has started to change from that wilted flower to a now beautiful one, yet as with everything time was still important and a change just wouldn’t happen overnight or instantaneous. Freedom, now there is but a noble concept, something the rich supposably have and the poor could only dream to hold, yet as with everything freedom does come with its cost, and the cost of freedom for, Naga was being alone.

He could remember what happened, as if it just happened. A letter, small in size, with beautiful hand writing had found its way into his daily mail. The sender was unnamed which would peek anyone’s interest and even the reserved young man was surprised—after all a little adventure was nothing to scorn at. Opening the contents he started to read out loud as to what the letter said, after all no one else would hear him talk, his apartment isolated from the rest as if it was untouched by society. It was a slow read, each word rolled off his tongue as if he could not believe what he was reading, his hands clenched as a tear ran down his face, but he wasn’t sad… “I can provide you true freedom.”

The words echoed around his mind, it was too good to be true, yet this letter that promised to give freedom to those who deserved it was too good to be true. Or was it? Nagano didn’t know what to believe, after all no one had ever written him a letter like this before, so was he to be tempted by the words of this puppeteer who wrote as if he was playing the dark haired boy as if he was a harp? The answer of course was simple…Yes.

Following the details of the letter, Naga was nearing his destination. Rain started to pelt down and it felt like acid against his little exposed skin that while not obviously showing the various scars and burns that covered his body were in fact partly in display. He wore a simple long sleave, button up blue shirt, with a scarf that wrapped around his neck which matched the same color as his black trousers. His crown of hair absorbing the moisture from the clouds was more than enough for him to start running; he was not late however he knew he had to be there before a certain time. Luckily he was fast, like the wind! His footsteps echoed with each step as he started to slow down approaching various figures…Who were they? Were they promised freedom too? The innocence of the boy made him smile at first, maybe this was the real deal after all however he wouldn’t say anything, and he didn’t know these people after all. The reserved male stood his distance listening to various voices, it would have seemed no one knew each other, yet Nagano wasn’t the first to make a move…Ever. He stood there, presence known but silence with an ire expression across his face, what would happen next?

Logan froze as his ears filled with the sound of footsteps, echoing back and forth throughout the open space. Slowly, he turned around, eyes widening as he saw that he was no longer alone with the helmeted person. More people were showing up, one after the other, one, two, three, four, five... Seven people in all were now assembled in the warehouse, and Logan couldn't have been more confused. Who were these people? Were they the ones who had dispatched the invitation? Suddenly the sense of danger felt extremely palpable. If it was going to be six against one, Logan's chances of getting out intact were slim, even if he kicked and bit for all he was worth.

"What... the hell...?" he breathed, but there were more surprise yet in store for him. The person he had first addressed upon entering the building removed her helmet, but even before that Logan couldn't have failed to recognize her voice, muffled as it was. When the helmet's removal unvailed a curtain of pink hair and a taught, pale, angry face, Logan's suspcisions were pretty much confirmed. "Miss Leanna?" he practically yelped. This situation was just getting weirder by the minute, and the fact that he was starting to recognize other faces wasn't helping. Logan stared, unblinkingly, at the man who had just walked up to Leanna. "And... you, you're that bartender guy!"

Casting another look around, Logan felt some of his apprehensions begin to evaporate. No, these people weren't enemies. Most of them looked as uncertain or as angry as he'd felt on the way here. But aside from himself, Leanna and the Romanian barman, none of them had said a word. Maybe they had actually been intimidated by Leanna promise to personally fuck up anyone who knew something about the situation they were in. When the silence became unbearable, Logan reluctantly took it upon himself to break it. "...I'm guessin' everyone else got more or less the same suspicious message, huh?" he said, turning on his heel slightly to glance over the assembled crowd. "With a hefty dose of blackmail?"

Logan realized his fingers were itching to reach for his pen and notepad. The plot's thickening and I haven't even taken any notes yet. What the hell's wrong with me?

But before he could so much as reach into his pocket, the nightmare began.

A crimson tendril lashed out of the shadows, slithering its way tightly around the arm of one of the other girls. The girl was bodily dragged into the open space before a massive stack of boxes, where everyone could see her - and then yet another person appeared at the end of the tendril, the person who was, impossibly, holding the pink-head hostage. It was a diminutive young girl, looking no older than ten years old or thereabouts, in a plain white dress and an aviator's cap. Logan's first, idiotic thought was that the girl was somehow manipulating a long red rope or a whip. But then the thin voice of reason in his head gasped in shock, and he was forced to really, really pay attention to what his eyes were telling him.

The rope was made of blood. It was sprouting from the girl's wrist.

Logan's stomach turned upside down. He felt nauseous, the world was swimming before his eyes. What was happening right now wasn't possible. It couldn't be. Little girls with demonic eyes did not appear from behind stacks of boxes and take hostage with blood ropes coming out of slits in their wrists. That sort of thing just didn't happen. If he tried to type up something like that for the Paranormal Report column they'd think he was either making it up or out-and-out certifiably insane. He nearly cried out when the tendril bound itself around the girl's arms - but, in obedience to her captor's warning, he forced himself to stand still.

No-one else had had much time to react to the blonde's appearance and declaration yet, apart from Leanna, whom the little girl had contemptuously labelled 'Druggie'. At that, Logan's fingers dug deep into his fists, the nail biting hard into the skin of his palm. Yet for all that he wanted to lash out, he forced himself to hold his peace. He couldn't pretend to understand what was happening at all - but that fact in itself meant he couldn't afford to take his usual rash approach. For all any of them knew, the little girl might really have the strength to cut her captive in half. Not that Leanna seemed too impressed - maybe it was just a feeble attempt to rationalize what she was seeing, but it sounded like she thought everything they'd seen was just computer-animated effects.

"I seriously don't think that's CGI..." Logan muttered, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot when they had been given permission to speak again. He stared at the blood tendril and the girl's red eyes, and a treacle of sweat ran down his forehead as he swallowed. "An' that's nae kid," he added, lapsing into heavier Scots dialect out of sheer nervousness. Yes, he had to hold onto that idea. He couldn't let himself be fooled into thinking that the creature standing before them had any of a child's innocence. It would be sure to take advantage of such soft-heartedness. Logan couldn't afford to assume that their host was anything other than a monster masquerading behind a little girl's face. As to the precise nature of that monster - it wasn't until she opened her mouth to reveal snake-sharp canines, which she then used to puncture the skin of her captive's arm and lap up the blood from the wounds, that Logan was able to put a name to her.

Vampire.

This was ridiculous.

When the supposed little girl coyly asked if they had any questions, Logan did his best to marshal his thoughts. Someone was going to have to use their brain if they had any hope to get out of this situation without any further harm coming to the hostage, or their host making good on her threats. Logan cast a quick glance over the rest of the people in the room - so some of them at least had been lured here under threat of their loved ones coming to harm? Did the girl really have that much influence? Shaking his head slightly and forcing himself to focus again, Logan raised a hand. "Aye. I got two." He hesitated for just a moment. "Exactly what... does this 'entertainment' involve?" Another pause as he worked his mouth, trying to find the best way to phrase the other issue on his mind. "An' how does it tie into you... showin' us how to shed our 'humanity'?"

He ought to be panicking and going crazy right now, he knew. Suddenly he was in a nightmare world where bloodsucking creatures were real, a world where monsters in the shadows could casually threaten to harm your loved ones half a world away, or destroy your reputation forever, or tear a girl in half right before your eyes. And yet he wasn't. A part of his mind, the part of his mind that was currently at the forefront of his operations, had been swept clear of the clutter of doubt, disbelief, common sense. It was like being in a dream - if you tried to apply waking logic to it, it didn't work. You had to play by the rules and language of the dream.