<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/ff/Dahliaburn.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Group of Punks<br/><strong>Location: The Faces nightclub by the pool table</strong><br/><strong>Tag: Scarlett, Open</strong><br/><hr/><br/>Dahlia Burn hated places like this. Generic college bars in generic college towns, all hints of individuality and character stripped away. You could hear it in the music, in the awful, indifferent, generic radio rock. You could see it in the dress sense, everyone trying too hard to look like an extra from one of those terrible coming of age shows. She idly flicked one of the strands of her hair away from her eyes, her tongue running over lip piercing. She hated places like this. Hated towns like this. Places like this were just cogs in the machine, a way for the obedient little drones to blow off a little steam before they returned to learning how to be better cogs for the machine, ready to go out into the world and keep the system going. Scum. Nothing but scum.<br/><br/>But tasty scum.<br/><br/>She'd been part of the machine once. A long time ago. Now she wrecked the machine. She tore it apart. Metaphorically and physically. People wanted their nice polite little simple lives. She changed that. She made people open their eyes, however briefly, and realise the truth. That there was more than just the machine. That the system needed to be smashed. Torn apart. Ripped up. Rended limb from limb. Sucked dry. And these drones, these little things that danced and sang and frolicked in a place like this? They were part of the system, whether they realised it or not. She lit a cigarette, drawing the cancer in before blowing the smoke out, disdainfully flicking away the "No Smoking" sign. She didn't follow<em>their</em>rules.<br/><br/>Her eyes were drawn to one of the drones, seemingly too brave her own good or too stupid to know better. A pretty morsel. There was more than one way to suck a vessel dry and Dahlia didn't mind which gender her dinner was. She sneered slightly. How little this pretty little thing knew. She likely thought life was so simple, so easy. She had no idea what went bump in the night. No idea of what existed in the margins of the world, what could haunt her dreams. Her dreams were probably haunted by the idea of not being hit on by a jock. Pathetic. She inhaled again. The time would be soon.<br/><br/>One of the punks Scarlett had addressed turned to her. He was a big man... if man was the correct term... dressed in a skinhead style (http://sangbleu.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/Skinhead-Leicester-Square-1981.png), his big soulless eyes latching on to Scarlett's. Someone willing to look at him in greater depth might think there was something slightly off about him. One aware of the supernatural would understand he was a vampire, even without his "vamp face" on. When he spoke his words were direct and powerful, no actions beyond a sneer and a snarl.<br/><br/><strong>"Fuck off."</strong>