It was supposed to be confidential. No one was ever supposed to find out, especially not them. As far as the IEU was concerned Marx was not a vampire. That’s how it was meant to be. “Dammitall to hell,” Marx whispered under his breath as he once again tried in vain to increase the speed of his R60-Quicksilver. He remembered when she was new. Back then, it seemed as if the stars flew by almost too quickly. That was nearly a decade ago. Now, they couldn’t pass quickly enough. If he didn’t catch that slimy, rat-bastard cheater before he beamed that information to Locus, everything he had worked for in his life would all disappear. His chance at becoming overseer of Lucillia IX would vanish in an instant. Though it only served to enhance his feeling of utter helplessness, Marx replayed the events in his mind for what was surely the thousandth time. 

Marx wasn’t one of those damn blood-hunters. He didn’t set out to become a vampire. In fact, he remembered gritting his teeth at the very prospect of paying a visit to Ipsus City with its 28% vampire demographic, but he needed their votes. Admittedly, Marx was far from the most popular candidate for the position of overseer, and he was growing more and more desperate with each passing day. However, once he met Emelia, none of that seemed to matter. Marx forced his mind to skip over that part. It was a rather unpleasant memory to say the very least and certainly not one that it would do him any good to relive. He too vividly recalled the panic which had shaken him to his very core when he received the news that vampirism was taking hold of his body and would soon creep into his mind. Associating so intimately with a vampire wasn’t exactly criminal; however, everyone (even the vampires themselves) knew that vampires were looked down upon by the rest of society. That’s why they were forced to subsist in shithole cities like Ipsus. Marx Venitus, vote for the vampire wasn’t exactly a compelling campaign slogan. Nobody would vote for a vampire candidate. Nobody. 

Marx had done his best to keep his affliction under wraps. Real vampires weren’t at all similar to those of fiction. They were just as alive as everyone else. They didn’t have protruding fangs nor were they exceptionally pale. The one thing they had in common, however, was an intense craving for blood. The cravings were a phenomenon that couldn’t be described to someone who had never experienced them. It was more than hunger. It was a primal urge, an impulse, a burning desire. The blood of animals did little to sate the cravings. Only human blood could hold them at bay. However, Marx wasn’t exactly keen to the idea of feeding off of another person. That would doubtless be the final blow to his ever-diminishing political career. Instead, Marx bought from the Mask Syndicate, a secretive group of blood-dealers known throughout the universe for their paranoid discretion. The Mask Marx frequented was known as Dragon. His name was derived from the fiery red likeness of the mythical creature which concealed his visage. Its gaudy frills and bright colors were uncharacteristically conspicuous for a Mask. Marx cursed himself, that should have been the first clue that the dealer was no good, yet Marx remembered the naive faith he had placed in the man. Each week for a month and a half, Marx had donned his own cheap green mask which he had hastily purchased from a convenience store and met with Dragon in some shady, low-profile locale to get his fix. During those few weeks, all had been as well for Marx as the situation would permit. No one, not even Dragon, knew his identity. He felt secure in this anonymity. He cursed himself again for being so confident that his secret was safe. 

Marx’s nostrils flared as he recalled Dragon’s betrayal only a few hours prior. Marx had ducked out of Lucillia IX’s perpetual sleet into the week’s designated meeting point, a condemned bar called the Dew Drop. He remembered having to press hard against the smudged glass door to get the thing to open. Inside, dust-covered chairs rested eternally on tables stained with inexpensive beer. Dragon sat almost perfectly still wrapped in a thick, gray cloak on an ugly bar stool the color of a dandelion. If Marx didn’t know any better, he may have made the mistake of believing the Mask to be dead. Dragon said nothing. Instead, he extended his hand to receive the agreed upon payment. All of his motions were practiced and deliberate. He moved as if he had all the time in the world yet each second was of critical importance. Marx began to reach into his coat pocket, and that’s when it happened. The hood of his celix-fur coat, still damp from the precipitation outside, brushed the cheaply made string from the back of Marx’s head, causing his mask to fall for just a moment. He quickly recovered it, catching it in the air and almost frantically returning it to its former position, but it was too late. Dragon had seen his face. He knew his identity. Marx swore he remembered Dragon even giving a slight, nearly imperceptible gasp followed by a sharp exhale that may have even been something akin to a giggle. That was the moment Marx’s fragile shield of secrecy was shattered. Dragon remained motionless for a moment. Then, in the blink of an eye, he rose, dashed to the door, and flung it open. He was gone before Marx even had the chance to stand up. 

There was no doubt in Marx’s mind about what Dragon was about to do. The Mask would surely flee to the nearest satellite beacon and beam news of Marx’s affliction through Locus and, from there, to the highest bidder, who would almost certainly be one of Marx’s competitors. As he launched from the dock, Marx had only prayed that his Quicksilver  would be fast enough to beat whatever ship Dragon would fly to the beacon. In his heart, Marx knew it wouldn’t be, but he had to try. 

“APPROACHING OBSTRUCTION,” the automated voice of the Quicksilver’s unintuitive AI cut into Marx’s thoughts like a knife. “REDUCING SPEED.” Marx rocked forward in his chair as the ship’s artificial gravity shifted slightly to compensate for the negative acceleration. Through the window, Marx saw the stars become fixed points in space rather than white lines in his peripheral vision as he slowed to a stop. However, it was what he saw before the stars that brought a smile to his face. A little late, the Quicksilver rendered a three dimensional holographic model of the obstruction atop the display module just above his left knee. Floating before him in the frigid void of space were the remnants of the ship belonging to the prey he sought. The dragon mask floated by a few meters away from Marx’s ship. A chunk of frozen flesh still clung to it like mold to rotting fruit. Marx chuckled a little. It carried on until it became a full fledged laugh; then, a hysterical howl. What had he been so worried about? He had hired the right people for this one.