Dillon rises from the bathtub early. It's a long commute to Sacramento from the hotel he's staying at, and he needs to hunt badly. Honestly, due to time constraints, he may as well have been living in the Barrens. His face is unusually serious in the mirror, so he throws it a wink. Not because he's wearing nothing but a couple of silver crosses around his neck and hanging from his ear, but because he looks like he needs it.
He pulls on pants, freeballing, and grabs a shirt from the towel hook. One jacket and pair of boots later, he gives his hair a comb and takes a squirt of cologne. Keys and a wallet are then scooped from the nightstand, and Dillon exits.
His Savage mind is wandering in every direction, but the old soldier instincts manage to take stock in his surroundings despite the grumbling Man and inner Beast as he walks through the various hallways. It was quiet, as usual, until he passes 304. The woman in there is arguing with someone loud enough to be heard outside. Dillon had seen her infrequently over the past few weeks; both alone and with a man, but never the same one. He had his money on 'working girl', but wasn't about to report it to hotel staff. The management may actually be the type to care, but Dillon figures there's a chance that the girl is only doing what she has to for survival.
But speaking of survival, it's sounding bad. The words 'asshole' and 'bitch' are flying around like a cloud of flies, so Dillon cuts in with a sharp knock.
Silence.
Hand in the cookie jar silence. The Vampire knocks again.
There's a few stomps and then the door is angrily flung open by a rough, unshaven fellow with a lazy eye. "The fuck do you want?" He spits. The eyes look Dillon up and down, hovering on the dangling earring. He looks as though he's about to add a hateful title regarding Dillon's sexuality on the end of the sentence, but settles for a glare instead.
Dillon, unfazed, looks around the mean fool and to the woman on the large bed. Almost cliche, she appears to be naked, but with a sheet pulled up to cover it. There's a scared look in her eyes and a cut on her lip. That settled it.
"Everything alright here? It's getting loud, even out there." He's addressing the woman, partially because he knows it'll provoke the idiot even more. "I don't want ya'll to get in any trouble."
"I just want him to pay and leave." The girl says in a small voice.
"Hey, mind your own business." the brute cuts in, then turning to the prostitute, "and YOU keep your damn mouth shut."
"No!" She squeaks, a little braver now that she at least had Dillon as a witness. "Just go away, okay? I don't care anymore." But she shrinks back as the jerk starts to advance toward her again.
Lord, this is too easy. The Gangrel steps casually inside and shuts the door loud enough to turn their attention back to him. He smiles. Nothing new to anyone who's known Dillon Connery for more than thirty seconds, but this one isn't friendly or cute. It is a challenge that needs no verbal confirmation.
The bloke, who is a bit bigger than Dillon and on the chubby side, obliges with a nary more than a scoff and a lunging swing. But Dillon has dealt with more wild barroom haymakers than this moron will ever see on television. He slides one foot back, dropping his weight and bringing his forward fist up. The true beauty of this well-practiced maneuver is that it easily puts the back of Dillon's knuckles into the thick part of the attacker's forearm, causing a spasm of nerve and muscle.
While cowboy Bob is stunned for that fraction of a second, Dillon's rear foot comes forward in a reverse of it's previous slide, an inside circular motion that he carries all the way. It places him with his shoulder under the other's armpit. Seating his hip and clutching the stiff arm, Dillon merely bends and pulls, and the man goes ass over teapot, landing heavily like a sack of potatoes.
With no wind in his lungs, the blind kick the floored grunt slings up from the floor is admirable, but goes unnoticed. Dillon still has a hold on the guy's hand, applying enough backwards pressure on his wrist to keep him where he belongs. Two stiff punches to the chin later, he's already looking groggy. But then, punching downward, Dillon can drop his whole body into it.
Well, the lady in bed is loving it. She's standing up on her knees now, saying something to the effect of "Not so funny when someone does it to you, is it?"
When the fellow finally blacks out, Dillon stands up and makes a show of straightening his jacket collar. He throws the girl a friendly grin and asks, like he's in a movie or something, "Are you okay, Miss?"
"I am now." She replies with a gleam in her eye. Then, in just as much of a B-movie put-on, "How can I ever repay you?"
"I got a few ideas."
Blood for nothing and the chick for free.
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