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Though admittedly less a ficlet and more a rough brain-splurge. Working around something I noticed about Nikola. He doesn't know how to fight. And that's ... interesting. Heh.
Title: No True Vampire
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Nikola Tesla, Afina, Helen
Summary: A true vampire was a warrior, she'd said. He had never been that
Wordcount: 1800
Warnings/Notes: Spoilers for 3x16, Awakening. Introspective, brain-splurgey -_-;
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: No True Vampire
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Nikola Tesla, Afina, Helen
Summary: A true vampire was a warrior, she'd said. He had never been that
Wordcount: 1800
Warnings/Notes: Spoilers for 3x16, Awakening. Introspective, brain-splurgey -_-;
Disclaimer: Not mine
No True Vampire
A real vampire was a warrior, Afina had said. Helen had told Nikola that much, with an odd sort of pride. In him, for not being what Afina wanted him to be, and not being what she thought he was, either. Nikola could see the thought, the almost vindictive pride that she should have known Nikola so much better than her rival. It was almost enough to make a man hope ...
But that was neither here nor there. Or rather, it was, but that was for later. Something to muse over on long nights, and grin about. It was the first that concerned him now. What the vampire queen had said.
A real vampire was a warrior. And he'd known that, hadn't he? All along, in ways he did his best not to think about too much. A real vampire was a warrior. A real vampire ruled over humans with an iron fist. A real vampire did not allow the many and varied indignities Nikola had suffered in his long, long life. A real vampire drank where he pleased, and made no promises to mere mortals to curb his natural appetites. A real vampire would crush the likes of John Druitt beneath his claws, would take Helen Magnus as his due whether she wanted it or not. A real vampire was a warrior.
The real vampires were also dead. The one had something to do with the other, he rather thought. Any line of logic that ended with trying to force Helen Magnus to do what she didn't want to do was self-evidently suicidal, and he had both the bullet-holes and the eviscerations to prove it.
But even still. Mongrel, Afina called him. Mongrel, she said, as she merrily beat him from one end of the room to the other. He hadn't stood a chance, really. He never had. And he'd known it. For decades, if he admitted it. He'd always known. He was no warrior. He'd never been a warrior. Never been a real vampire.
He'd chosen not to be. Never consciously, never all at once, but he had chosen it, hadn't he? In little pieces, one step at a time. Even at the height of his vampiric ambitions, in all the little ways, he'd chosen to be a mongrel.
He'd made that promise. To never drink a human's blood. So many years ago, over a century. To his friends, to people he loved who'd looked on the claws and the teeth and the animal in his eyes with wary fear, and stood by him regardless. Only humans, mere mortals, but friends. More than friends, in some ways. He'd made that promise, decades before he even understood what being a vampire meant, and never, in all the years since, never in all the wars and all the struggles and all his grand schemes, never, no matter how powerful and how driven he became ... never had he considered breaking it.
Never, even in the Serbian woods where he killed and killed again, strew blood across the land ... never had he lowered that last shred of control, never had he leaned against some trembling throat and sank inside. Never, even in Rome, even against the Cabal. Never. Killed, and killed again, oh yes. A murderer, never doubt it, or a killer at least. But never a traitor. Never standing on a broken promise. He had killed, but never drank. All from mongrel loyalty. No true vampire, to swear to a human, and never break the oath.
And, too, no warrior. No fighter. And that, too, in its way, had been deliberate. Never learning to fight, never learning the rhythms and means that made John so deadly, that had let Ashley throw him handily across a room, that let Afina smash him down with contemptuous ease. No training, no learning, nothing to make the claws on his hands more an old scientist's defense, nothing to make them weapons. He had never learned to fight, never become a warrior. Surviving instead on the innate durability of a vampire's form, on lies and wheedling and knowing when to run, on the judicious application of electricity, on the application of science. He had survived, and never learned what might have made him deadly, what might have made him unstoppable.
And it had been deliberate. Maybe never quite consciously, never a decision, as such, but he remembered, long years ago, the argument with Nigel. His friend berating him, frustrated past silence, asking him why he didn't at least learn to defend himself, why he didn't pick up the fisticuffs even James had tried his hand at. Why he just kept walking into bullets, and hitting people rather inelegantly with whatever was handy, and counting it good enough. What happens, you bloody idiot, when you meet someone as strong as you? What happens when one of Helen's beasties finally smashes you open, or enough bloody goons gang up on you and cut you to bloody ribbons? What happens then?
And it had been a fair point. As the last few years in particular had shown, it had been a damn fair point, and Nikola had known it, even then. He'd known it was foolish, complacent, to simply count on durability to see him through, and never learn to strike a blow of his own. He'd known it was asking for some stronger someone to strike him down, and more than a few had been happy to oblige.
But. But. He'd never had time, so many better things to do than fight. And he'd never liked violence. He'd never believed in violence. It had been, would always be, anathema to him. Even now, with so many dead beneath his claws, far too weak to stand against even a mongrel vampire, even one who didn't know how to fight. And that ... that was why. That was still why.
Because it had been easy. It had been so terribly easy. Because he could crush a skull as soon as blink, take three bullets to the chest and be only mildly put out, tear open a throat with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. He could do that, every time. As easy as breathing. And he had stood in a little room, in front of a fireplace and an angry Nigel, and looked at his friend, so fragile, so breakable, and thought: "I could kill him. That easily. I could do it." And he'd thought of John, dear Johnnie, who'd learned, and trained, and picked up a bright, bright knife. And he'd thought: "I wouldn't even need the knife", and something inside him had turned over, the same thing that kept a promise, that offered loyalty. Something had snapped, very quietly, very gently, and with a dismissive laugh, he'd told Nigel that he hadn't time for that sort of thing. That he had much better things to do.
And he had never afterwards learned. Not even to fight a war. Not even to take over the world. He had survived on science and durability and electricity, struck out with clumsy blows that didn't need accuracy to be fatal, took Johnnie's and Ashley's and Afina's brutality with a winded grin. Never learned to be deadly, never learned to fight. A self-imposed limit, a quiet promise within himself. Never to go that final step. Never to break that last shred of control. Never to learn to be a warrior. No true vampire.
No true vampire. He never had been. And Afina was the first to say it, perhaps the only one with the right to say it, but Nikola had always known. In his heart, he'd always known. He had read the histories, after all. He had read the stories. And he had, so carefully, never thought about them too hard. Never looked too closely at what the thrones of vampires were built on, never looked at what the Golden Age was bought with. A dream of science and civilisation, and he had never looked at the blood, and never thought about how he could never, ever, be what those vampires had been. How he could never do what those vampires had done. He had looked, and never let himself remember that he was a mongrel, and no true vampire.
But he had to now, didn't he? He had to now. She had said it to his face, the last vampire queen, let him know exactly what she thought of him, let him feel the claws of a real vampire, let him know how he could never, ever be one. Let him know he was no warrior. Let him know he was no vampire.
But Afina didn't know. She probably hadn't seen, had thought his defiance a product of shame, his pride a hollow thing. She had probably looked at him, and thought him ashamed.
He wasn't. Nikola Tesla had no shame. Helen could have told her that. And when he'd declared he'd rather be a mongrel, when he'd raised useless claws against her, knowing he could never win ... His pride had been real. His smile had been real.
Because he'd known. He'd always known, when he first opened his mouth to promise his friends safety, when he'd turned aside violence in the wake of Johnnie's fall, when he'd held back, always, that last shred of control. Every time he made that choice, every time he looked ahead, and thought the blood too far. Ever time, over and over, never consciously, never deliberately, but he'd known. No warrior. No true vampire.
But oh, Afina dearest. The true vampires were dead. Not least for being stupid enough to challenge Helen Magnus directly. The vampires were dead, and their legacy corrupted, and never would the world be made in their image again. Never again. The true vampires were dead, and only mongrels left, some half-human thing, that could make a promise to a mere mortal, and keep it. Something that remembered being human itself.
The world had changed. Time for a new kind of vampire. Time for a new kind of plan.
Time for a mongrel to be the truest kind of vampire the new world knew.
He could do it yet. He had all the time in the world. One day, one day, he'd have the world he'd dreamed of, the world with science and civilisation and free energy for all. A world without war, where the spidered webs of communication held people together, the way he'd dreamed all those years ago, with the invention of the radio. One day, he would build that. He would make it, in his own image, and if it had to be built on blood, at least it would not be blood drained, not blood sold. He'd find a way.
No true vampire. But for this world, Nikola Tesla was as true as they were going to get. And he could make it work.
A real vampire was a warrior, Afina had said. Helen had told Nikola that much, with an odd sort of pride. In him, for not being what Afina wanted him to be, and not being what she thought he was, either. Nikola could see the thought, the almost vindictive pride that she should have known Nikola so much better than her rival. It was almost enough to make a man hope ...
But that was neither here nor there. Or rather, it was, but that was for later. Something to muse over on long nights, and grin about. It was the first that concerned him now. What the vampire queen had said.
A real vampire was a warrior. And he'd known that, hadn't he? All along, in ways he did his best not to think about too much. A real vampire was a warrior. A real vampire ruled over humans with an iron fist. A real vampire did not allow the many and varied indignities Nikola had suffered in his long, long life. A real vampire drank where he pleased, and made no promises to mere mortals to curb his natural appetites. A real vampire would crush the likes of John Druitt beneath his claws, would take Helen Magnus as his due whether she wanted it or not. A real vampire was a warrior.
The real vampires were also dead. The one had something to do with the other, he rather thought. Any line of logic that ended with trying to force Helen Magnus to do what she didn't want to do was self-evidently suicidal, and he had both the bullet-holes and the eviscerations to prove it.
But even still. Mongrel, Afina called him. Mongrel, she said, as she merrily beat him from one end of the room to the other. He hadn't stood a chance, really. He never had. And he'd known it. For decades, if he admitted it. He'd always known. He was no warrior. He'd never been a warrior. Never been a real vampire.
He'd chosen not to be. Never consciously, never all at once, but he had chosen it, hadn't he? In little pieces, one step at a time. Even at the height of his vampiric ambitions, in all the little ways, he'd chosen to be a mongrel.
He'd made that promise. To never drink a human's blood. So many years ago, over a century. To his friends, to people he loved who'd looked on the claws and the teeth and the animal in his eyes with wary fear, and stood by him regardless. Only humans, mere mortals, but friends. More than friends, in some ways. He'd made that promise, decades before he even understood what being a vampire meant, and never, in all the years since, never in all the wars and all the struggles and all his grand schemes, never, no matter how powerful and how driven he became ... never had he considered breaking it.
Never, even in the Serbian woods where he killed and killed again, strew blood across the land ... never had he lowered that last shred of control, never had he leaned against some trembling throat and sank inside. Never, even in Rome, even against the Cabal. Never. Killed, and killed again, oh yes. A murderer, never doubt it, or a killer at least. But never a traitor. Never standing on a broken promise. He had killed, but never drank. All from mongrel loyalty. No true vampire, to swear to a human, and never break the oath.
And, too, no warrior. No fighter. And that, too, in its way, had been deliberate. Never learning to fight, never learning the rhythms and means that made John so deadly, that had let Ashley throw him handily across a room, that let Afina smash him down with contemptuous ease. No training, no learning, nothing to make the claws on his hands more an old scientist's defense, nothing to make them weapons. He had never learned to fight, never become a warrior. Surviving instead on the innate durability of a vampire's form, on lies and wheedling and knowing when to run, on the judicious application of electricity, on the application of science. He had survived, and never learned what might have made him deadly, what might have made him unstoppable.
And it had been deliberate. Maybe never quite consciously, never a decision, as such, but he remembered, long years ago, the argument with Nigel. His friend berating him, frustrated past silence, asking him why he didn't at least learn to defend himself, why he didn't pick up the fisticuffs even James had tried his hand at. Why he just kept walking into bullets, and hitting people rather inelegantly with whatever was handy, and counting it good enough. What happens, you bloody idiot, when you meet someone as strong as you? What happens when one of Helen's beasties finally smashes you open, or enough bloody goons gang up on you and cut you to bloody ribbons? What happens then?
And it had been a fair point. As the last few years in particular had shown, it had been a damn fair point, and Nikola had known it, even then. He'd known it was foolish, complacent, to simply count on durability to see him through, and never learn to strike a blow of his own. He'd known it was asking for some stronger someone to strike him down, and more than a few had been happy to oblige.
But. But. He'd never had time, so many better things to do than fight. And he'd never liked violence. He'd never believed in violence. It had been, would always be, anathema to him. Even now, with so many dead beneath his claws, far too weak to stand against even a mongrel vampire, even one who didn't know how to fight. And that ... that was why. That was still why.
Because it had been easy. It had been so terribly easy. Because he could crush a skull as soon as blink, take three bullets to the chest and be only mildly put out, tear open a throat with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. He could do that, every time. As easy as breathing. And he had stood in a little room, in front of a fireplace and an angry Nigel, and looked at his friend, so fragile, so breakable, and thought: "I could kill him. That easily. I could do it." And he'd thought of John, dear Johnnie, who'd learned, and trained, and picked up a bright, bright knife. And he'd thought: "I wouldn't even need the knife", and something inside him had turned over, the same thing that kept a promise, that offered loyalty. Something had snapped, very quietly, very gently, and with a dismissive laugh, he'd told Nigel that he hadn't time for that sort of thing. That he had much better things to do.
And he had never afterwards learned. Not even to fight a war. Not even to take over the world. He had survived on science and durability and electricity, struck out with clumsy blows that didn't need accuracy to be fatal, took Johnnie's and Ashley's and Afina's brutality with a winded grin. Never learned to be deadly, never learned to fight. A self-imposed limit, a quiet promise within himself. Never to go that final step. Never to break that last shred of control. Never to learn to be a warrior. No true vampire.
No true vampire. He never had been. And Afina was the first to say it, perhaps the only one with the right to say it, but Nikola had always known. In his heart, he'd always known. He had read the histories, after all. He had read the stories. And he had, so carefully, never thought about them too hard. Never looked too closely at what the thrones of vampires were built on, never looked at what the Golden Age was bought with. A dream of science and civilisation, and he had never looked at the blood, and never thought about how he could never, ever, be what those vampires had been. How he could never do what those vampires had done. He had looked, and never let himself remember that he was a mongrel, and no true vampire.
But he had to now, didn't he? He had to now. She had said it to his face, the last vampire queen, let him know exactly what she thought of him, let him feel the claws of a real vampire, let him know how he could never, ever be one. Let him know he was no warrior. Let him know he was no vampire.
But Afina didn't know. She probably hadn't seen, had thought his defiance a product of shame, his pride a hollow thing. She had probably looked at him, and thought him ashamed.
He wasn't. Nikola Tesla had no shame. Helen could have told her that. And when he'd declared he'd rather be a mongrel, when he'd raised useless claws against her, knowing he could never win ... His pride had been real. His smile had been real.
Because he'd known. He'd always known, when he first opened his mouth to promise his friends safety, when he'd turned aside violence in the wake of Johnnie's fall, when he'd held back, always, that last shred of control. Every time he made that choice, every time he looked ahead, and thought the blood too far. Ever time, over and over, never consciously, never deliberately, but he'd known. No warrior. No true vampire.
But oh, Afina dearest. The true vampires were dead. Not least for being stupid enough to challenge Helen Magnus directly. The vampires were dead, and their legacy corrupted, and never would the world be made in their image again. Never again. The true vampires were dead, and only mongrels left, some half-human thing, that could make a promise to a mere mortal, and keep it. Something that remembered being human itself.
The world had changed. Time for a new kind of vampire. Time for a new kind of plan.
Time for a mongrel to be the truest kind of vampire the new world knew.
He could do it yet. He had all the time in the world. One day, one day, he'd have the world he'd dreamed of, the world with science and civilisation and free energy for all. A world without war, where the spidered webs of communication held people together, the way he'd dreamed all those years ago, with the invention of the radio. One day, he would build that. He would make it, in his own image, and if it had to be built on blood, at least it would not be blood drained, not blood sold. He'd find a way.
No true vampire. But for this world, Nikola Tesla was as true as they were going to get. And he could make it work.
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