Chameleon | ONC 2020

4: A Vampire

Chameleon's current victim was a risky one.

She loitered on the corner of a street in Soho, leaning against a wall so she didn't look quite so unsteady in her heels. She had left Lilac's clinic hours before, feeling thoroughly patronised. She had given nothing personal away, and yet she still got the strange sense that Lilac was picking up on signals she hadn't known she was giving off. Her questions had been strangely close to the mark, and though Chameleon evaded giving details and lied when she could think of something fast enough, the next question was always something else she wanted to dodge. She couldn't believe people paid to be cross-examined like that.

She'd left the leaflet on depression in a bin three streets back.

There was something else bothering her; it felt good to talk to someone, just talk, even if they were the only ones offering information. Lilac had discussed the ideas behind her paintings with a self-assurance Chameleon envied. She knew if she ever tried to discuss her artwork with Coran he'd zone out within a few minutes and inevitably turn the conversation onto work. Lilac spoke like she expected to be listened to. Against her instincts, Chameleon hadn't binned the directions to the art class.

She was distracted, and distraction led to mistakes. She refocused on her target, a young man in a business suit on the opposite side of the street. He had too much gel in his hair and carried his jacket over his arm, and for the last ten minutes had been complaining loudly about the girl he fancied in his office who'd rejected him. His sorrow cloud hung heavy and low, and though he put on a show for his work friends, Chameleon was able to see how disappointed he was.

That made him vulnerable to her plan, but also had the potential to turn it around on her.

She stopped just short of wishing she had Coran with her. She didn't wish she had Coran, but she did wish she had backup. It was always good to have someone in the wings to intervene when so many things could go wrong in her line of work.

The man's work friends left. The heartbroken one threw his jacket over one shoulder and sauntered off, his cloud following him and growing almost imperceptibly darker as he stewed over his problems. Chameleon followed at a safe distance. Fortunately Coran hadn't tampered with her stashes; the spare disguises and extra kit for impromptu jobs hidden all around London just in case. The studded red jacket she wore was a little dusty from spending months in a locked safe-box, but passable.

She followed him to a coffee bar on the next street. It was a trendy place that sold both alcohol and coffee, with distressed wood décor and fake plants. The sofas and retro stools were full of young professionals and uni students. It was the kind of place Chameleon avoided like the plague when she wasn't in disguise.

He headed straight to the bar, and she slipped onto a stool a few seats down from him. She had pickpocketed a tenner at the tube station earlier in preparation, and her first drink – selected randomly off the menu – spent almost all of it at once. She scowled.

While she sipped at the strange concoction of rum, fruit juice and some other unnamed substance that stung at her throat, she watched her mark and tried her best to listen in on him as he spoke to the bartender.

"Good day at work?"

"Nah, it was alright. Slow day, y'know?"

He was boring, but that was encouraging. She slid one seat closer as the stool became available and was about to speak when she spotted someone at the back of the room.

The place was a riot of movement and chatter, so she wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't been standing so still. The man hadn't noticed her, but his eyes were on her mark. His skin was smooth and faintly iridescent in the low-hanging lights, and his eyes had a peculiar gleam to them. The air above his head boiled purple-black with his sorrow cloud. He was hungry.