A Captain Ochre
of Spectrum story.
By
It really all started when Captain Blue strained his back
in a freakish accident aboard Cloudbase, about which he was unusually reticent,
even for him.
Captain Ochre found it amusing to see Blue, who was
normally disgustingly fit and healthy, shuffling around Cloudbase with a walking
stick, looking very sorry for himself and he hadn’t been able to resist the
temptation for a little light tormenting; even though that earned him a
tongue-lashing from the absurdly over-protective Symphony Angel and a look that
promised retribution from the normally imperturbable Bostonian.
Then, this mission came up.
“It probably isn’t a Mysteron affair,” Colonel White said,
“but we’d better make sure.”
He looked around the Conference Room and his gaze came to
rest thoughtfully on Captain Ochre and then on Captain Scarlet. He said decisively, “You two can go and
check it out; keep me informed.”
It was easy to
see that he felt he’d killed two birds with one stone: he’d given the
ever-fidgety Scarlet something to do and provided Blue with respite from Ochre’s
barrage of imaginative suggestions about just what he’d been doing when he’d
hurt his back…
But even the colonel could see that neither officer was as
contented with the decision as he was.
Yeah, right, Ochre thought grimly, as he marched down to the hangar
deck with the equally disconcerted Captain Scarlet.
The pair of them made uneasy partners as Ochre was sure
that the rather priggish Englishman did not like him much – or at least – did
not like his sense of humour. He
consoled himself with the thought that Scarlet didn’t like anyone’s sense of humour much: he was as humourless as Blue was
tone-deaf, and maybe there was nothing either of them could do about it – but
Ochre couldn’t help feeling that Scarlet enjoyed acting like he’d lost every
humorous nerve in his body when he fell from the London Car-Vu.
Modern-day miracle or not, and Ochre was willing to accept
that Spectrum’s job would be much harder without the indestructible Scarlet at
the forefront of their defence of the Earth, Ochre imagined it was only Blue’s
vast reserve of patience that stopped him from throttling his partner.
~***~
Captain Scarlet flew the SPJ down to New Orleans.
The city, which had risen from the slime of its devastation
by a hurricane almost seventy years ago, lay sweltering in the humidity and heat
of a Louisiana summer.
Parts of the old city had survived, been repaired and ‘improved’, but the
pervasive atmosphere of claustrophobia and eldritch uncertainty that was the
popular impression of the city lingered on.
Captain Ochre had always thought that New Orleans attracted
oddballs like a magnet attracted iron filings; the dispossessed and the souls
who marched out of time with the drumbeat of ‘normal’ humanity gravitated to a
place where they fitted in better than in most places. It wasn’t a city he was at ease with, it
wasn’t somewhere he liked. His
prosaic northern soul was bewildered and, to some extent, threatened by what he
saw as the knowingly sly amusement of people who were at ease with the occult. He had a feeling they knew something he
didn’t and he’d never liked appearing less than in full possession of the
relevant facts – it was a legacy from his poor academic performance and
something he’d come to regret in his adult life.
The two Spectrum officers collected an SSC from the local
terrestrial base, gathered the information they needed to conduct their search
for Mysteron agents from the relevant authorities and then drove to the old part
of the city, where they parked up and went to sit at a café table on a street
corner.
They were drinking root beers and weighing up their
possible courses of action, when Scarlet said, “This place gives me the creeps.
It’s like Glastonbury on speed. I
guess it must be the heat and the general…
weirdness of the place.”
“Glastonbury?
You mean the rock music festival?”
Scarlet gave a disparaging roll of his blue eyes that made
Ochre’s hand clench into a fist and he had to fight the urge to punch his
companion’s teeth down his pompous throat.
“No…well, yes,” Scarlet replied. “But there’s more to Glastonbury than a
rock festival. It’s a centre for the
occult and mystical goings-on in England.
Links to King Arthur and Merlin and all that.
Its reputation goes back for centuries.”
Ochre drained his glass. “Yeah? Well, I think I’d rather deal with
Old Arthur and his merry men than a crowd of Zombies or Vampires – which is far
more New Orleans’s style.”
Scarlet’s dark eyebrow rose sceptically. “You don’t mean to say you believe in
that sort of thing, do you? I’d
never have imagined that of you, Ochre.”
“I’m not saying I do and I’m not saying I don’t,” Ochre
replied. “I mean, I’m sitting here
drinking root beer with an indestructible man; I earn my living by thwarting the
threats made against our home world by invisible aliens, and everyone I grew up
with imagines I’m already dead… what could be weirder than that?”
Scarlet gave a sniff of disapproval and decided to drop the
subject. They had a lot of work to
do and it wouldn’t be a smart move to let Ochre needle him this early in the
mission. He stood up.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this investigation underway,
shall we? The sooner we get out of
here the better, agreed?”
“Couldn’t say it better myself – we are in total agreement
…”
“For once.” Scarlet said the words in unison with Ochre and
they shared a rather surprised glance.
Neither of them was that much at ease, it seemed.
“We’ll split up and interview these potential witnesses the
local base has identified… meet back here at… oh, 22:00 hours?”
“S.I.G.,” Ochre agreed.
~***~
Several hours later, Ochre was almost wishing they’d stayed
together. He‘d spent far too long
trying to worm the truth out of the people he’d interviewed so far, and he was
getting tired. They’d all been
trying to make a fool out of him – his cop’s instinct told him that much – and,
what was even more galling, he’d managed to learn exactly nothing. He’d have loved to forget himself and
have punched the fact that he was no one’s fool into each of them.
He paused to swig from the bottled water he carried and the
thought came to him that he was feeling unusually angry today. It wasn’t like him to consider resorting
to violence at every provocation.
Must be this place, he thought and wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s
really setting my nerves on edge.
He consulted his list and the street map he had.
Right, the next
interview is close by and I can get to it by cutting down this alley and across
the next street. It’s much easier
when the streets follow a nice orderly grid plan – this is like Boston, another
city that was built along the tracks made by ambling cattle – and yet people
like the places!
As he crossed the street he saw several of the famous
period houses of New Orleans; their tall, shuttered windows and ornate iron-work
balconies cooled by the trees that clustered within their walled courtyards.
He glanced at the address on his list and headed purposefully towards one of
them. As he passed before a neighbouring house,
his head turned to glance into the secluded courtyard and the heady scent of
bougainvillea assaulted his senses.
He paused, breathing in the rare perfume.
Without making a conscious decision, his hand reached out
to the wrought-iron gate and pushed:
it opened smoothly at his touch.
Without pausing to think he crossed the cool courtyard where the sound of water
splashing into the stone fountain added to a feeling of other-worldliness, and
approached the entrance of the rather impressive villa.
The white-painted porch was partially hidden by trailing
moss from the trees and the steps creaked as he walked up the short flight of
stairs. He rang the bell and somewhere deep within the building he heard a
surprisingly deep clang that resonated through the house.
There was a long delay and he was getting ready to go, when
the door was partially opened by a young woman. She was small-boned, and dark-haired,
dressed in a long gown, with a wispy lace shawl over her head and shoulders that
shrouded her face.
She looked at him with expressionless features.
“Good afternoon,” he said, “Is this the residence of Mr
Philip Comines? I’m Captain Ochre of
Spectrum…”
“Come in, Richard Fraser, we’ve been expecting you,” she
said abruptly and opened the door.
Instinctively, Ochre hesitated. How
could she know my name? I don’t know
her and I’ve never heard of Philip Comines.
It’s not even on my list …I must’ve
noticed a name plate back there on the gateway, without realising it…
The woman waited patiently beside the half-open door. She said nothing and showed no sign of
impatience at his indecision, in fact from what he could see of her face, she
was uninterested in the whole business.
This place is
definitely getting to me - he thought
irritably, moving back towards the doorway. But I
can’t help feeling I’m on to something. Maybe
it’s one of those ‘hunches’ that Scarlet’s always saying he gets about Mysteron
plots… well, they seem to get him results, so I’m gonna play this one…
As he stepped
into the house, his senses were hyper-alert and his nerves strained almost to
breaking point.
He followed the woman across the dusty hall, watching her
with a policeman’s trained eye for detail.
She moved with a bewitching grace, gliding on silent feet – in fact, the
only noise he could hear was his own sharp footsteps pacing across the open
space.
She stepped aside as she opened an internal door and
lowered her eyes modestly as he had to brush past her. He thought he saw the tip of her pink
tongue flick over her lips.
The room he was shown into dark. The furniture was shrouded and everywhere
was dusty. The shutters at the
windows were closed, and motes of dust danced in the fragmented light from the
fierce sun beyond the courtyard that filtered through the narrow apertures. It was kind of spooky, but Ochre welcomed
the cool shade and respite from the glare.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw a hunched figure
sitting in an armchair across from the door, his back to the light.
“Mr Comines?” he
asked.
“Yes. I am
Philippe de Commynes. How may I be
of assistance, Richard Fraser?”
“Sir, I don’t know how you come to think that’s my name,
but I’m a Spectrum agent, and my code name is Captain Ochre.”
“You are Richard Fraser – the late Richard Fraser of Detroit.
You can have no secrets from us, Richard.” de Commynes’s voice sounded as
dry as the dusty room.
Ochre’s heart pounded nervously. Before he’d joined Spectrum he’d
been involved in an elaborate deception to make his criminal adversaries think
he was dead; thereby protecting his identity and allowing ‘Captain Ochre’ to
function efficiently for Spectrum.
If his cover was blown, he was in big trouble.
He was on the verge of activating his cap-mic and
contacting Scarlet to request back-up, when de Commynes said:
“It won’t work inside this house, Richard. You have entered a… twilight zone.” There
was a quiet amusement in his voice as he spread his hand in a sweeping gesture
encompassing the gloomy room. Ochre
could see from the silhouette he created against the fitful light from the
shuttered windows that his nails were long and curved.
De Commynes continued, “None of your modern equipment will
function here. In fact, almost every
rule that governs the ‘orderly’ world you prefer to inhabit, does not apply
here. You are entirely at our mercy.
That is, you would be, if we had any mercy…”
The laugh that terminated the chilling statement sent sharp
prickles of fear down Ochre’s spine and he realised he was sweating – his
polo-necked uniform top was sticking uncomfortably to his skin.
“What do you want from me?” he managed to gasp out.
“Oh, Richard, can’t you guess? We want your company – we want you
to stay with us. Forever, Richard.”
“I’m a Spectrum Officer in the lawful pursuance of my duty…
you have no right to try to keep me here.
I came to ask for your co-operation, sir,” Ochre said, wondering
fleetingly why he had come to the
house. “If you’re not prepared to
help me, I’ll take my leave…” and he attempted to turn and leave the room.
He was brought up sharp by the unexpected sight of three
women – including the small figure that had let him in – blocking the doorway. They were dressed the same, in long, dark,
flowing gowns, but here in the twilight of the room the petite woman was
bareheaded, her dark hair a mass of intricate, tumbling curls, whilst her
companions wore elaborate turban-style headdresses over equally fantastical
coiffures. Their glossy raven-hued
locks fell in entrancing tendrils around the beautiful, pale skin of their
exposed necks and the barely-restrained swell of their full bosoms. Normally
he’d have appreciated the sight, but right now, it sent another shudder through
him. He heard the women give a slight moan as
his heart thumped uncomfortably.
“We want your devotion, your allegiance, your love…” de Commynes continued, as if Ochre
had not spoken.
“Your body…” one of the women purred in conclusion, with a
lascivious smile. The meagre
sunlight glinted off her teeth.
Ochre almost whimpered as he noticed her incisors were unnaturally long.
He made another effort to move to the door, but his legs
refused to obey his commands and he remained rooted to the spot.
“Who are you?” he murmured through his dry throat.
From behind him de Commynes replied, “You know who we are,
that’s why your heart is racing, although we have yet to discover if it is fear
or excitement that drives it. We are
the undead, Richard. The very people
whose existence you doubt and who you mock by your continuing existence. You are as undead as we – you have chosen
to live an existence that is not yours… and so you dare to walk the earth in the
sunlight. You have not yet paid for
the privilege of your life with the tribute you owe us.”
“You’re crazy,” Ochre panted. “And I don’t believe a word
of it. You’d better let me go – I
can appreciate a good joke, but this is has gone far enough.” He didn’t hear de Commynes moving, but suddenly
the man was before him, but still shrouded in a twilight gloom that hid him from
plain view.
“No, this is no joke, Richard,” he said, all pretence at
friendliness gone from his voice.
“We are serious. This is, what you
might call…‘payback time’…and you must give us what your assumed life owes. And then, if you please us with
your oblation, we will initiate you into the never-ending world of the children
of the night…” de Commynes laughed at the contemptuous grimace on Ochre’s
handsome face. “You are ever the
sceptic, Richard, but I can see within your soul that you are yearning to
believe - and you
will
believe; you will beg me to take all you can give, Richard, believe me, you
will.”
One of the women
moved closer, murmuring indistinctly as she reached out and removed his radio
cap, sending it spinning away from him with a casual toss. She ran her hand through his thick,
short, hair, twining her arms around his neck so that he was unable to move
freely. She pressed herself against
him, nuzzling at his jaw line.
He jumped in surprise as her warm, moist tongue probed the intricate contours of
his ear.
He tried to move, but once more found himself trapped.
The second woman moved close and with gentle, caressing movements unfastened the
belt on his golden uniform tabard and unzipped the long fastener.
She slid the garment from his shoulders and he heard it thud on the bare floor.
She extended her hands; the long fingers ended in sharp, talon-like nails that
shredded through his black pullover as she raked them over his torso, scoring
his chest with narrow scratches that oozed tiny droplets of blood and stung with
his sweat, as, between them, the two women stripped the ragged garment from him.
Ochre’s struggles were ineffectual; he was already in their
power and a strange inertia began to seep into his limbs as they manhandled him
to a divan in the corner and pushed him down across it. A cloud of dust rose from the coverlet
and smelt musty and old beyond imagining.
He was finding it hard to concentrate. He knew he ought to leave…
One woman cradled his head against her soft breasts,
bending low as she continued kissing, licking and sucking at the flesh of his
chin and neck. The second
woman unzipped his boots, throwing them across the room. His trousers and underwear quickly
followed suit. Then the petite woman
who had answered the door, and who had taken no part in the undressing, moved
forwards, the others making way for her, as if, despite her apparent youth, she
was pre-eminent amongst them. She
straddled him, licking the sweat and the droplets of blood from his chest and
tracing the outline of his nipples with her moist tongue.
Naked and vulnerable he lay trapped beneath their bodies, as they
writhed and moaned around and across him, shedding their own dark clothes, and
dragging him down into a vortex of exquisite delight, such as he had never
experienced, or imagined could exist.
He had always loved danger and this was dangerous; it was
as if his body had a mind of its own and that mind was in no hurry to make them
stop. The women obliged, caressing, kissing and tormenting him, until he was
sobbing with the intensity of the sensations that engulfed him; but still that
final climax, that final release, was denied him. His body, which now totally
dominated both his intellect and his reason,
demanded
its satisfaction. He needed the
deliverance of the natural culmination of such irresistible foreplay; but they
were skilled in their art and prided themselves on stimulating every
nerve-ending until it burned with desire.
Millennia had taught them everything a man could wish for and how to
never quite give it and against such
proficiency, he was powerless.
After some time, when each moment felt like incalculable
aeons to the over-wrought man on the bed, Ochre sensed a movement across the
room and opened his dark eyes - their pupils widened by the lassitude that had
seeped into him - and stared up at the face of the man who was now towering over
him.
Philippe de Commynes was tall, almost emaciated in
appearance and his desiccated skin was as pale as that of a corpse. His hair, a dull, lifeless yellow was
streaked with grey and his eyes were cold and black. He smiled down at their prisoner and
Ochre could see the wicked, sharp points of his incisors.
“Now you are ready, Richard. Now you will discover the ultimate
sensation a human can experience and still remain human.
Now, you will believe…”
I believe, oh how
I believe, his mind whispered in
response, his eyes beseeching an end to this hedonistic torment. He trembled beneath that haughty
gaze.
With a tantalising slowness, de Commynes bent down and
kissed the other man’s parted lips.
Ochre felt his hot, dry breath, stale with the ashes of the centuries,
flow into his lungs; scorching a trail that spread around his body like a drug.
De Commynes’s lips moved down to Ochre’s exposed neck and then he raised his
head, his mouth open to reveal sabre-like incisors bared to strike.
Ochre groaned as he felt the blades pierce his skin and his
body exploded in an orgasmic rigour, his back arching. A warm rush of his blood gushed
into his captor’s mouth with every beat of his racing heart. Beside the divan the frustrated
women were gibbering. Angry at
losing their prize, their hands stroked first at de Commynes, importuning for
his notice and then at Ochre, prolonging his ecstasy that they too might feed on
him.
Ochre’s mind began to melt into unconsciousness, drifting
away like the stream of blood that pulsed from the sharp wounds on his neck.
Yet, when de Commynes stood, Ochre’s eyes opened to plead with him… he wanted
the sensation to continue. Even in
his docile state of mind, he felt astonishment at what he saw.
De Commynes was still tall and spare, but his hair was now shining gold
and his skin had the rosiness of health.
His eyes, still cold in expression, were now a bright blue – the colour
of the summer skies around Cloudbase.
“Feed, my daughters,” he said, and the women cooed with
delight. “He is strong, he is
healthy, and he is ours for as long as we want him…”
The feverish women swooped down on Ochre, and together they
lapped hungrily at the blood, licking the warm, salty rivulets that ran down his
neck and pooled in the hollow of his collar bone. Slowly, inexorably, Ochre felt his
strength failing him; the blood did not clot, the flow continued and with it
went all individuality, his will and his mind.
Finally, he was too weak even to move and he felt the women
roll him over and over until he fell to the floor with a heavy crash; the breath
forced from his body by the impact.
Tears welled into his eyes – but he didn’t know if he wept for himself or
for the cessation of such a profound and mystical experience.
He managed to turn his head to look for the women. They were lounging around the chair in
which de Commynes sat, laughing and fawning over him; deliberately spurning
their captive and revelling in his dejection. Ochre realised that the
consummation he had so wished for would never be his – such pleasures were
strictly reserved for de Commynes.
He felt used, dirty, cheap – he wanted to crawl away and die, ashamed of his own
body’s base physical needs - and,
yet, deep inside he felt the stirrings of a familiar and long-buried yearning –
to enjoy these feelings forever, and revel in the bitter pleasure of total
self-abasement.
He closed his eyes tightly to shut out the hateful sight of
his pitiless ravishers. He wanted to die – he wanted this feeling of loneliness
to leave him. He wanted peace.
From a great distance away he heard de Commynes’s arrogant
voice saying, “We could have taken your life, but, of our mercy, we have not.
You will live, but there will be no peace, Richard Fraser. For the rest of your days, you will crave
the kiss of the vampire and search for us to your life’s true end. Then, and only then, we may return to you and offer you the consummation you crave. But even that could turn to ashes in your
mouth, Richard; for eternity is a long time.
Be careful what you wish for when that day comes…”
Ochre opened his eyes and saw that the room was empty.
They had gone.
Richard Fraser wept.
Hours later he was dragged back to reality by the crash of
the front door being forced open and the sound of footsteps pounding over the
wooden hallway and into the gloomy room.
“My God, Rick, what’s happened to you?” Scarlet sounded worried. He knelt beside the abused body of his
colleague and examined him, wincing as he saw the deep wounds in his throat.
“Were you mugged?”
He glanced at the clothes scattered across the floor and
back at the grimy, sweaty and blood-caked torso of his friend. Ochre was weak,
he seemed to have lost a great deal of blood although there was no sign of it
around him, and he was almost unconscious. Scarlet recognised the need for swift and
decisive action.
“Cloudbase, we have a medical emergency. Captain Ochre has
been attacked; he’s wounded. Lock on
to my co-ordinates and get a medijet here, as soon as possible.” Scarlet rapped
out the orders and as soon as his radio-mic had swung back to the peak of his
cap, he turned to Ochre. “Hang in
there, Rick; we’ll soon have you back on Cloudbase.”
Scarlet found the discarded uniform trousers and the
un-torn tabard and eased his colleague back into them, making him as decent as
he could. He was loath to touch the
deep gashes on his neck as, from their raw, inflamed mouths the thinnest stream
of blood was still trickling, but he un-stoppered his water bottle and gave
Ochre a drink, gently dribbling the water through the bruised and blood-caked
lips.
Scarlet sat beside his colleague until the medijet arrived
and followed as Ochre was bundled up onto a gurney and wheeled into the belly of
the craft. As the powerful machine
rose into the rosy dawn of another hot Louisiana day, Ochre found the strength
to whisper:
“How did you find me?”
Scarlet gave a shrug.
“When you didn’t turn up for the rendezvous, I started working my way
through the list of suspects you’d taken.
I made a few mistakes, but finally I found the man we were looking for –
but there was still no sign of you. I was
walking back towards the rendezvous when I passed that house… something seemed
to draw me to it – I felt sure you’d gone there. I don’t know why – just a hunch, I guess
- but I decided to check it out.
Why did you go into such a derelict place?
It can’t have been occupied for decades and the suspect you should’ve been
interviewing lived a few doors away. He was the Mysteron agent by the way and
I’ve dealt with him – he won’t be posing a threat to anyone or anywhere again.”
Ochre gave a deep
sigh and Scarlet placed a hand on his arm, asking intently, “What happened to
you in there, Rick?”
Ochre shook his head and turned his gaze away from
Scarlet’s concerned face. Scarlet
didn’t press him for an answer, but he didn’t remove his hand from his
colleague’s arm either.
After a long silence, Ochre asked in a voice that was heavy
with desolation, “Scarlet, how does it feel to know you will live for eternity?”
Surprised, Scarlet frowned. It was not a topic he liked to consider,
let alone talk about, but there was something akin to hollow despair in Ochre’s
voice and he realised the question had been a genuine one.
“It aches,” he replied after a long silence. “It aches like hell.”
Tears seeped under Ochre’s closed eyelids. “So does the knowledge that you’ve been
denied the chance…” he murmured.
Scarlet’s hand
tightened his grip in wordless sympathy.
Silently, with a despair that seemed immeasurable, Richard
Fraser started the monumental task of burying this experience beneath the
cultivated layers of ‘self’ that made him who he was. His mind sought for
rational explanations of what had happened to him, reasons that’d be believed,
for he could never tell anyone the truth.
As the medijet touched down on the runways of Cloudbase and
the paramedics swept him towards sick bay, for an emergency blood-transfusion,
Ochre told himself he was lucky to be alive.
He caught a glimpse of the concerned faces of his
colleagues as they entered the emergency ward, Captain Magenta foremost amongst
them. They’re all worried about me – even Blue’s here, with Symphony at his
side, as ever.
As he waited for Doctor Fawn to arrive, he reached out a
shaky hand to Captain Scarlet. “I
owe you my life,” he whispered, his throat parched and sore. “Thank you.”
Scarlet gave a wry smile.
“I told you New Orleans gave me the creeps… there are some weird things
on this planet, Rick – I mean, ever weirder than me.”
Ochre smiled weakly, recalling their conversation at the
street-side café. “Nothing about
anyone is weird to their friends, Paul.
It’s just what makes them uniquely themselves,” he managed to croak.
“Yeah,” Scarlet agreed, “friendship’s an amazing thing; it
even allows guys to tolerate someone with the world’s most annoying sense of
humour…” Ochre glanced up at the
Englishman’s face in some distress, only to see those normally prim features
soften into an affable grin, “… just because he is a friend,” Scarlet concluded,
patting the American’s shoulder.
Ochre’s bruised lips broadened into a wan smile in
response, but then he gave a slight frown as he saw Magenta approaching the
gurney. His eyes met Scarlet’s
in a plea for help.
“I don’t really know what happened to me,” he said in as
strong a voice as he could summon, desperate to forestall Magenta’s questions.
“Do you have any idea, Scarlet?”
Captain Scarlet hesitated.
He’d seen enough at the house to formulate what appeared to be a possible
theory – however improbable.
“Not a clue,” he said finally.
After all, if even Richard Fraser couldn’t make a joke out of recent
events – then it really wasn’t funny.
He stood aside with another friendly nod at Ochre and a pat
on Magenta’s arm as the Irish-American came to check on his partner.
Captain Blue collared Scarlet as his friend moved towards
the exit.
“What did happen to him?” he asked, every resentment over
past teasing forgotten in his concern for a friend.
Scarlet paused and rubbed a hand over his rough, unshaven
chin. That wasn’t an easy question
to find an answer for – especially given his unspoken promise to Ochre not to
say anything - but he knew Blue would expect one, nevertheless.
Finally, as even Blue’s patience began to wane, he said, “I
think he got a taste of eternity.”
And, despite the incomprehension on Blue’s face, that was
the only comment Scarlet ever made on the subject.
Author’s notes:
As Captain Ochre is – at least
officially – dead, he seemed to be the most likely target for the vampires’
interest and New Orleans seemed an apt place for him to encounter them. The handsome captain is one of my
favourites, as he is for many fans of ‘Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons’, so I
was careful not to kill him off…
Some sources say that Selene, the
Moon Goddess, was the mother of the vampires, which would certainly account for
their nocturnal habits.
Thanks to S for allowing me to post
her story.
October 2013
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