Origins of the Anti-Hero

[Evangeline Carter]

This story started as a thread in the role play forums, but it went unnoticed. I decided to take it on my own. It investigates the past behind my main character, David Harlem; how he became a slayer, and what details turned him into the man he is now.

This will be a story of multiple installments.




It was the right day for coffee. David hunched over in the old leather chair, shivering from the dampness in his clothes. Outside the coffee shop was the steady fall of rain, as there had been for the last two days. David's gray-blue eyes flickered to the wide store-front windows, watching the progress of the bodies still walking by in the downpour. It was a sea of umbrellas, tented newspapers and brief-cases held overhead. Inside, he was beginning to feel the appreciated warmth that came from the radiator.

He'd been served by a wiry woman in her late thirties, her skin darkened by many summers in a sunnier place and her eyes a warm green. She'd flicked a braid of brown hair over her shoulder when he'd entered the establishment, dripping, and she'd given him a steaming mug and a sympathetic smile. The coffee was strong and dark and it filled his chest with relief on the way down to his belly. The caffein would distract him from hunger for a while. It was too early in the afternoon to be looking for food.

“So do you actually play that thing or do you just use it to pick up pretty girls?” The green-eyed waitress was looking at him from behind the espresso machine, indicating the guitar case that sat upright against his chair. David regarded her with a small smile, judging whether the flirtatious tone in her voice was the of the obligatory nature that came with most waitresses, or if she was really interested. She was probably fifteen or sixteen years older than him, but there was always something nice about being wanted. Even if it was only for a tip.

“If pretty girls serve me coffee,” he said. The woman gave him a look, smirking, and turned around to handle a new customer. David smirked into his drink.

He was there for another hour on his own, sipping coffee that his new friend continued to replenish and watching the bodies outside the shop move by. The rain continued to patter on. The bodies that passed outside varied in many details, but all were connected by the universal quality of being wet.

The bell over the door jingled as a new pair of huddled wanderers passed into the heated interior. They were men -- or at least one of them was. The shorter of the two bore more youthful looks. They were both red-heads, both freckled, both confident in their stride. David grinned into his coffee when he recognized the article of clothing that the younger one wore; a kilt. He swallowed down a Lucky Charms joke he could have made as the two swaggered past. The man looked like he was built to brawl, and David was alone. They ordered coffees and grabbed a table.

There was something about their actions and the way they moved that intrigued David. He watched them through his peripheral vision. They had a purpose. They watched their backs. Hunters, he was willing to guess. The thought made his stomach rebel against the coffee. Time to go.

He stood up and put his pay on the counter, keeping his head down as he grabbed his guitar and his pack. It had been nice to be dry, but he preferred miserable cold to keeping company with a living giant like the bruiser at the table and his kilted companion. They put him in mind of a different age, when his hands hadn't been so callused and his guitar hadn't been so dinged up.

The two red-heads were seated at a table that stood between him and the door. He kept his ocean-eyes on the floor and kept slouching onwards, making himself small and not at all worthwhile. If only he'd been wiser when he'd last changed his clothes. He could have kept the ones that smelled of fishing bait and and salt and nets. They always gave him more of a chance at being overlooked; not everyone was comfortable with talking to a stinky fisherman.

He was almost to the door when he felt a tug on his shirt, firm enough to stop him in his course for freedom. “'Scuse me, sir.” The voice was smooth and deep, like something stony and mountainous. David turned, jerking his shirt away from the big red-head. The man looked up to him. “You David Harlem?”

David nodded, his blue-eyes gone hostile as the natural 'fight or flight' desire took to his bones. “Not that it's your business.”

“Gideon Harlem's little brother?”

The name cut into his stomach like a sharp rock. The first time he'd felt that pain, David had been sure he'd taste his own blood in his mouth, but now he swallowed, willing the ache down the floor and crushing it beneath his heal. Fingers curling into a fist, David coldly said,“Depends on who's asking.”

The man gave a slow, genial smile, as if he weren't picking at David's old wounds. “My name's Jeremiah. This is my little brother, Danny.” The kilted boy nodded, giving a smile that was only magnified by his freckles. David wanted to punch the teeth out of his face. Jeremiah continued. “We need to talk. About your brother.” The pain that David had almost extinguished flared again in David, rising into his chest and choking at his heart. He'd learned long ago to hide any evidence of such agony from his face, but it was as if this Jeremiah-Giant had anticipated it. The big man pulled a chair out, his expression sympathetic. "Why don't you sit? Let us buy you another cup of coffee."

"I don't want anything from you." Except to be left alone.

"Just sit, David," Jeremiah persisted. "We've traveled a long way to find you." He was several years older than David, and he spoke with such a tone that David felt compelled to do as he said. He resisted though, edging closer to the exit. He hadn't been spoken to with such a mix of familiarity and authority for years.

"Look," David took another step for the door. "I don't know who you are, but I buried my brother three years ago, and that part of my life is over. If you'll excuse me--"

"You and I both know what kind of burial your brother got," Jeremiah said. "I'm not here to talk about his death, David. I'm here to talk to you about his life. Now sit down and let me buy you a coffee."

"Hey F--k you." David shouldered his bag and turned for the door. Who was this red-haired idiot and his kilt-wearing side-kick to bring up his brother? "I'm out of here." Out into the rain. He heard the door rattle shut behind him and the muffled jingle of the bell, bidding him farewell. The rain was at him in a blink, soaking into his clothes and pounding on the hard case of his guitar. The sidewalk was packed with the rest of the huddled masses. He took up a pace with a current of bodies heading in one direction, hoping to glean some warmth off of them until he stopped off somewhere else. It was time to hunt for his meal; he could tell by the itching in his veins. There was a jingling behind him; the sound of the bell over the cafe's door. David moved faster disappearing into the crowd.