Owner	Pose
Sinister	The ironies of Sunnydale are many. Considering a hellmouth resides beneath the town, you would think that there was a nightclub here that had a considerably darker vibe than this place, but that may just be a vaneer. After all, nearly every corner of the place has seen bloodshed and copious violence enacted on it. It's a good gig night though, not one of the main players that happen on a weekend, but there's a local band doing a session, testing out new material and it isn't entirely terrible. It's not really all that busy though -- a few people playing pool, one or two parties of five or six students and the staff. Below has that freshly laundered preppy smell with the barest whiff of naievity and potentially bright futures. Up above on the gangway balcony, in one of the small rattan chairs with those impossibly useless coffee tables, sits Sinister, a'ka: Wessex. The Doctor appears to be studying the world down below with a drifting distanced dumbfoundedness.
Spike	"Enjoying the view?" Comes a voice from behind the coffee table. It was Spike. He moved quietly enough to sneak up on most people, and with the blaring music, it just made him that much harder to hear approaching. The vampire moved into sight, beer in hand, as he walked so that he could rest his arms against the railing, back to the view he had spoken of so recently, and looked to Dr. Wessex. "I figured you had moved into the Magic Box alongside the other bloke."
Sinister	"Actually, trying to work /out/ the view," Wessex replies but unlike certain librarian's doesn't startle. There was a short sharpish kind of glance, then recognition of the follically fried one. "Even for me, there's a point where you're all tea'd out." He lifts a flask to his lips to take a dram, wiping the neck of it and returning it to his pocket. "As near as I can tell, Sunnydale seems to be where the east coast middle america comes to pump out children, depreciate property values and forget how to have any kind of fun other than coffee shops and neck ruptures. There's literally nothing to do here and the one thing that they decided to cater to, is /highschoolers/? Its the disposable income, isn't it? Or herding them all into one place of their own accord."
Spike	"Tea's fine, nothing wrong with it. And Rupert does brew a good cup, but it does get a bit monotonous, after oh, the eight or nine hundredth cup." Tilting his beer for emphasis, "I much prefer a beer, or even better, a cup of blood with some wheetabix mixed in for texture." They were alone up there, so he could afford to be honest, and he was fairly certain that Rupert, or someone, had by now mentioned that Spike was a vampire. Everyone seemed to know well in advance. "Well, yeah," he agreeds with Wessex's assessment of Bludhaven, "but I thought that was covered by it being in 'New Jersey'. And, around these parts, S.N.R. is a major cause of affordability." S.N.R. was the public term for vampires. Spontaneous neck rupture. It happened more in Bludhaven than every other city in America, except Cleveland.
Sinister	You would be surprised. Wessex looks at the band with a wince as one of them butchers a chord, then stares. A blink, then another and he slides eyes over to Spike, looking at hair, gaunt aspect, bad boy of the dark look and the lack of general suntan. "Well, that explains that, I suppose. Uh..." he struggles for a moment to wrap his head around 'texture' and proffers, hesitantly "...don't you have to eat that rather quickly, else you're drinking bloody wallpaper paste with clots in it?" Curious minds want to know. But they also consider the locale with a glance about. "I suppose you do have to be on the shoreline for a better spread of entertainment, although from my observations of the Shore, it halves your IQ."
Spike	Sensing the surprise, even if it wasn't the kind of surprise most people would have. "Ah, I guess you didn't know." He paused, not really hiding anything, "You'd be surprised how well it keeps once refrigerated. Needn't worry, just pig's blood for our little Spike, or if I'm really lucky, or special occasions like my birthday, from a blood bank." Human blood tasted so much better, but pig's blood wasn't that bad. Just like drinking the supermarket brand of cola rather than Coca-Cola Classic. "Not sure I get your meaning. The shore's like a half hour drive that way, depending on traffic." And he pointed towards Fort Joseph and the Bludhaven docks.
Sinister	Wessex thinks about that for a long while. "I really would. I really -really- would," waving his hand about a little the doctor murmurs "...memories of medschool. Clotting factors. I believe you though," uncrossing his legs, he settles back in the rattan, slouching some and reaching for his flask again. "I meant... well, I suppose it's local BIA's and zoning at work. Must glue all the nightclubs and such water adjacent, we don't want that kind of malarky here. There'd be trash in the begonias." Shaking his head slightly, he swigs again, then hazards "...is there a reason you don't eat people?"
Spike	Spike was tempted to tell the truth to that question. He was so very tempted. He was equally tempted to lie his arse off. He ended up settling with something in between. "Used to, don't do it anymore. It was fun, but you can't do that forever, can you. Not allowed you see. I'm what you would call a noble vampire, working on the path of redemption, whether or not I want it. It's a long story. But, I'm one of the good guys, fighting the forces of darkness, and all that malarkey."
Sinister	Best lies are the half truths. "Huh. Not allowed? Lost me there, but I can tell a fox when I smell one. I won't pry," Sinister pats his pockets, finds his cigarettes, which are housed in an expensive looking engraved tin and proffers one after taking one to his lips. No smoking in a club with kids? He's ignoring that. "I can stand to listen to long stories though. They're usually the good ones. It's been a bit of an in-at-the-deepend for me, the last month, all things considered; Normal surgeries, to Gods, Magic, Vampires, the Devil himself and mythological creatures."
Spike	"Oh, is that all? Sounds like you got it easy. Just wait until you learn about demons, ghosts, mummies, metahumans, mutants, inhumans, aerians, atlanteans, and oh right, aliens too, since they're knocking about. I'll bet you miss the safety of the operating table." It was funny, a little while back, he probably would have jumped at the chance to get Dr. Wessex to remove his chip, and he still likes to joke, whine, or otherwise complain about the chip, but he's learned to accept it, plus, the chip isn't just surgery. It's got a mix of magic and technology in there too. Other surgeons had tried and failed to remove it.
Sinister	"It does sound like I've missed a few," Wessex murmurs. "Where would I fit in then? inhuman? Mutant? Metahuman? I'm rather sure I'm neither ghost nor demon. Oh, missed that. Demon. And hellhounds." He leaves the cigarettes within SPike's reach and lights one, sucking on it with hollowed cheeks, but nowhere near the hollowing that William can manage, for sure and certain. "I'll have to return to it eventually, but frankly, I'm quite enjoying the extended vacation time. It accrues quite quickly, when you bill high. That all regularly happen here?"
Spike	"Hey, you're the doctor, not me. But as near as I understand it, if you develop abilities at puberty, you're a mutant. If you get it from birth or through an accident or experiment, you're usually a metahuman. Demons are different. They're usually evil, and more magical like. They've all got their origin's. Mine, I got bit. Short and sweet. But what about yours?" The cigarette was left untouched. He wasn't in the mood.
Sinister	"From birth," Wessex replies. "So I'd be metahuman, I guess. Though it might have been an accident when very young, my parents always did say I was a peculiar child." He simply gazes at the cigarette case and it levitates, spins, opens itself and disgorges all the coffin nails to do a little circle dance, then they return to their housings, it clicks shut and settles back down. "I'm telekinetic."
Spike	"Neat parlour trick," Spike joked, belittling it, but he was impressed. Not just the ability, but the finite control. The only question was could Wessex do it during highly stressful situations. "And what was that like, growing up being a telekinetic? Can't have been easy on mum and dad."
Sinister	"They didn't talk about it all that often, but suffice it to say, I had meditation and medication for a while," Wessex replies, dragging on the cigarette. He blows a ring, shapes his jaw and blows a second ring through the first, tries for a third, but it's dissipated before he managed a target shape. He regards Spike slightly slantwise, perhaps sensing something, perhaps not. "Around ten years old, I stopped taking the mediction and practiced quietly. It was a bit of an advantage by the time I made it to medical school. I have a very low mortality rate from bleeding, shall we say. Helps in neurosurgery and I have a rather long list I'm due to be back-up on the lead for. Commands quite a healthy paycheck..." and that would answer the silent inquiry that was never voiced.
Spike	Spike was unimpressed. He never had much interest in wealth, or collecting things. He tried to live his life, every day, even if he was no longer alive, as if it were his last. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, for as long as he wanted. "Modern medicine, huh. Anti-telekinetic meds. Will wonders never cease."
Sinister	"Mostly just lithium, actually. THey were trying sedatives and anti-psychotics," there is a pause from Wessex. "I remember the situation that prompted a very difficult conversation with my pediatrician -- tantrums when five when you break nearly everything in the house that wasn't nailed down, are problematic. I don't really blame them, but who's emotionally stable at the age of five, I ask you? Plus english. We /invented/ emotional repression, didn't we?" Pausing for though, another drag is taken. "I'm rather glad I am what I am though, else I think I probably would have been dead. Mythical beast the size of a rhino, determined to eat myself and Giles. I was at least able to levitate it. There was a lot of stabbing it with swords after that."
Spike	"If it was that bad at five, I can only imagine the hell you unleashed on the parents during your terrible twos." Spike did smirk at the joke about the English inventing emotional repression. William Pratt had been repressed, but Spike was no long holding back. "So, you're baby Yoda?" Yep, Spike had seen the Mandalorian. How he saw it was anyone's guess, but he always seemed to be up to date on pop culture, surprising for a vampire of limited financial means.
Sinister	Five fingered discounts and dropping through skylights? Or just intimidating/persuading a cinema worker? The mind ponders! "The what?" Blinkblink. "Oh, no, wait, I know this one, I saw memes all over the place." And clearly Sinister /isn't/ up to date on pop culture, which should probably surprise precisely nobody. "But yes. Thusly why they didn't really talk about it. It was Nicholas' little problem and all that. "I suppose so though. Not as cute though, relatively speaking," he finishes his cigarette, then leaning forward a bit to sit up straight, he asks "What about you? I mean, I know what you are, now. But when did you get turned? Bitten? I imagine a bite alone doesn't do it, else we'd be swimming in the immortal undead."
Spike	Spike took a swig of his beer, enjoying the taste if the alcohol did little for him. He could get drunk, but it took a lot more alcohol than usual for him to get drunk. "I was bitten by a vampire," he explained, as if that would cover it, but it was clear that Wessex wanted more, so after another swing of his beer, "To create a new vampire, you need to exchange blood. The vampire drains its victim's blood, to the point they are near death, but not quite there, and then the victim has to drink the blood of the vampire. Drain too much and the victim dies. Don't feed the victim your own blood, and no new vampire. When they actually wake up is a bit of a mystery. Could be genetics, could be the amount of blood drained, but sometimes later that night, other times it can take days, but if you get it just right, you get you get an unhealthy, freshly made vampire."
Sinister	"That makes a good level of sense, that one would have to transmit it. Saliva isn't really a particularly good vector, I never bought that bite and it's all done, scenario." Sinister muses, pencilling in learning behind his ear, so to speak. "Was it long ago? You strike me as if you had a whale of a time in the nineteen seventies, but I wouldn't call my guestimate anything accurate."
Spike	"You're half right. It was the seventies, just not the nineteen seventies." Spike said with a bit or a smirk on his face. He was sired in 1877, when he was 27 years old. "The nineteen seventies were a lot of fun too. But what about you, Wessex, when were you born?" He asked, curious if the good doctor will share as well.
Sinister	"Oh, I'm a generation Z kid. Nineteen nineties. I put my," Wessex twirls a finger at his temple, like he's cuckoo "...down to TV dinners on the part of my parents in the 80's and the prevalence of plastics. Not really, it's probably a lot more complicated than that. Twenty ninth of April nineteen ninety. Teletubbies and spice girls. As far as eras go, not one to write home about. But I look good for my age, though frankly, you have me beat by several furlongs."
Spike	Spike regarded the man, a man who had no obvious tells when he was lying, none that Spike had picked up on yet, and through it all, hearing the story, Spike didn't believe a word of it. "Oh, right, gotcha," he said, taking another sip of his beer. "You ever watch Breaking Bad? You remind me a bit of Walter White."
Sinister	Sinister stares at this. Has he watched breaking bad? Is that a secret vice? He frowns oh-so-slightly. "I'm not sure I follow," he hedges.
Spike	Spike, moving closer to Wessex, puts a hand on the man's shoulder, and leans in to whisper, "if you want to lie convincingly, less is more." It was possibly the greatest advice that Spike had yet given to the man, and Spike had a habit of giving sage advice to all the Scoobies. Removing the hand and standing up, he finished his beer, then plopped the empty bottle on the table. "Well, sounds like it's time to dust some vampires."
Sinister	Sinister freezes in place. It's not stiffening, it's just sudden and abiding stillness. That sort of thing doesn't come easily to the young, even those sliding over the line of forty. "Good advice," is said after a short, thoughtful silence. "This is what you get when you let excitement get the better of you." That's enigmatic but also an admission of guilt. Irregardless, he does not seem upset to have been caught in it. Pause, beat. "Can I watch?"
Spike	Spike gave him a curious glance, a raised eyebrow at that last request. Spike considered it, then offered, "sure, why not." He knew there was more to the Doctor than met the eyes, and tonight, maybe he'd learn a bit more. "But, maybe you should take one of those mild sedatives first. Don't want you to get too excited."
Sinister	Sinister rolls to his feet, making to follow. "This is potcheen," he exposes the flask slightly, then drops it out of sight. "But I wouldn't worry overly, I rarely..." BZZZZZT BZZZT BZZZT "....oh for crying out loud, you have GOT to be kidding me. Now? Seriously?" Pulling out his pager, Doctor Wessex scowls at what is on the screen. "I am entirely going to stalk you and watch you anihilate the undead, or I could just watch in a regular fashion, but I am apparently required. On bloody vacation and still..." he turns the damn thing around, where a lot of medical shorthand scrolls. It essentially says 'the tumor ruptured', plus other complicating factors. "Raincheck. I suppose there are always more piles of dust waiting to happen." And more time to probe, providing interest remains in doing so. "William," he clicks his heels, an outdated habit, half bows, which is also anachronistic and hustles, which is the same in any era.