The interior of the "Kind Street Blood Bank" was a brightly lit assault on the senses after the perpetual twilight of Media's streets. It smelled of antiseptic and a faint sweetness that made the back of Matt's throat tighten. A bored-looking receptionist pointed him toward a row of plastic chairs where he filled out a series of forms on a flickering datapad, his hand slightly unsteady. He felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him, the other donors a collection of gaunt faces and weary bodies, all waiting for their turn to trade a piece of themselves for a handful of pesos.
San slipped in behind a family of four, her movements so fluid and unassuming that she simply blended into the background. She stole a spare medical aide's tunic from a linen cart left unattended in a hallway, the fabric rough against her skin. With her hood down and her features carefully neutral, she became just another overworked, underpaid face in the city's crumbling healthcare system. From her new vantage point, she observed Matt, her eyes missing nothing.
"You're a first-timer, huh?"
The nurse assigned to him was a woman with unnaturally bright lipstick and eyes that held a predatory gleam. She tapped a long, painted fingernail on the datapad. Matt just nodded, his own eyes fixed on the gleaming, sterile needle she was unwrapping from its plastic casing. His fear was a discernable thing, a scent in the air that the nurse seemed to relish.
She pricked his finger for a preliminary test, a small, routine sting. As the results flashed on her handheld device, her professionally bored demeanor evaporated, replaced by a jolt of raw excitement. "AB negative!" she chirped, the words loud enough to make a few other donors glance over. "Well, aren't we the lucky ones today? We don't get your type very often."
Matt didn't understand the significance, but the way her eyes lit up with greed sent a fresh wave of unease through him. He was led to a reclining chair, the worn vinyl cool against his back. The nurse gave him a set of instructions, her voice a cheerful, meaningless buzz in his ears. He looked away as the needle went in, a sharp, cold pinch in the crook of his arm. He couldn't stop himself from watching the plastic bag as it slowly, steadily, began to fill with the dark, crimson liquid of his life. It was a horrifyingly intimate process, watching a part of himself drain away into a sack.
Throughout the entire ordeal, the nurse hovered, guarding him as if she feared he might bolt from the chair and flee into the night. Her chatter continued, a stream of false warmth. When the bag was full, she happily patched up his arm with a small bandage, her touch lingering a moment too long.
"You should come back as soon as you can, dear," she said, her smile wide and unsettling. "After a couple of months, of course. We'd be very happy to have you back." She held the bag of his blood as if it were a fragile, priceless artifact. Handing him a small paper slip, she directed him to a cashier's window at the far end of the room where he could collect his money.
As Matt shuffled away, feeling light-headed and hollowed out, San followed the nurse. She watched as the woman bypassed the main refrigeration units where the other blood bags were stored. The nurse disappeared for a moment into a small utility closet. San's senses, sharp and discerning, told her she couldn't just barge in. She waited, a statue of patience in her nondescript uniform.
When the nurse emerged, she headed toward a separate, more secure storage area in the back. She placed Matt's blood bag on a metal tray on top of a few others, a small, elite collection clearly separated from the day's main haul. A moment later, a side door opened, and a man with a greasy grin entered, pulling a wheeled cooler.
"We've got a lot of precious ones today, huh?" he grinned, his eyes scanning the tray.
The nurse nodded, her excitement palpable. "Looks like we'll have hefty bonuses by the end of this month."
The man took the tray from her and began loading the special batch into his insulated van parked just outside the delivery door. This was the moment San had been waiting for. In the brief instant the transporter turned his back to secure the lid of the cooler, she moved. A flicker of motion, too fast for a human eye to properly track. Her hand darted into the container, her irises flashing a brilliant, analytical gold, ensuring she had the right one. She secured the blood bag beneath her cloak, the plastic cool against her skin. Like a spider ascending its thread, she scaled the grimy brick wall of the alley, melting into the shadows of the rooftops above, a silent, unseen thief in the night.
Back inside, the nurse, whose name was Grace, felt a thrill of satisfaction. The transport was gone, the "precious" cargo on its way to its wealthy, unseen buyers. Her bonus was all but guaranteed. But Grace had her own ambitions, her own desperate needs that a simple bonus couldn't satisfy. At the employee lockers, she unlocked her personal compartment. From behind a stack of romance novels, she carefully brought out two small, insulated vials. Earlier, while handling Matt's donation and a couple of the other "precious" ones, she had skillfully siphoned off a small amount from each bag, a deft sleight of hand born of long practice.
It was a risky game, but her own private client paid far more per ounce than the clinic ever would. She tucked the vials deep into the pocket of her coat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a familiar mix of fear and exhilaration. Her usual client was waiting, and they did not like to be kept that way.
The pub was called "The Vein Garden," a name that was perhaps a little too on the nose. It was tucked away in one of the most derelict corners of the red-light district, its entrance marked only by a faded, rust-colored sign. Grace pulled her collar up, her human scent feeling like a raw wound in a den of predators. A hulking bouncer with eyes that were entirely too black gave her a curt nod and let her pass.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer, unwashed bodies, and the metallic tang of blood. The patrons were a mix of sullen, bottom-feeder vampires nursing glasses of dark liquid with their "crazies", that's what they are commonly called. Humans who sought the thrill of a vampire's bite, their faces flushed with a mixture of terror and ecstasy. Grace kept her eyes down, hurrying toward a secluded booth in the back, trying to ignore the predatory stares that followed her. No one bothered her; they were either too engrossed in their own bleak pleasures or knew she was here for business.
As she hurried past the bar, a humming refrigeration unit caught her eye. Through the glass, she saw racks of blood bags, a morbid pantry stocked with product she recognized from her own clinic.
As she passed a table, she caught snippets of a hushed, angry conversation.
"Why do we do all the grunt work for them?" one vampire was complaining, his voice a low growl. "Keeping the cattle in line. It's a dog's life."
"It's hard keeping humans in line, you know," another replied. "Especially the desperate ones."
"Keep your voices down," a third hissed, glancing around nervously. "You'll be dead if one of them hears you complaining."
"It's not our fault that we survived the wars!" the first one shot back, though his voice was noticeably quieter.
They're just like regular workers, Grace thought with a flicker of dark amusement. Complaining about the bosses. It was a glimpse into a hierarchy she didn't understand and didn't want to.
She reached the back booth. A woman with fiery red hair and skin as pale as bleached bone sat waiting. She didn't look at Grace, her gaze fixed on the swirling contents of her glass.
"Sarah," Grace said, her voice barely a whisper. She slid into the booth opposite the vampire and slipped the two vials across the sticky tabletop.
One second, Sarah was across from her. The next, she was a blur of motion, appearing at the bar to pay her tab, and then instantly she was back. The empty space on the table where the vials had been was the only proof of the transaction.
"Thank you," Sarah whispered, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "Always a pleasure." A faint, chilling smile touched her lips. She gave a subtle gesture, and the bouncer materialized at their table, ready to escort Grace out.
As she was ushered toward the door, Grace felt the reassuring bulge of a thick wad of cash being pressed into her coat pocket. She didn't dare count it here. She smiled, a tight, nervous expression, and walked as fast as she could without breaking into a run, away from The Vein Garden and back into the relative safety of the rain-slicked, uncaring streets.