He disappears. There is no hope in scanning the minds of the world and finding him if Daniel were capable, if his allies were to try. Louis is likely to notice a neat splitting of shared finances and acknowledge the likelihood of additional funds squirreled away and now gone, but it isn't so disruptive a removal as it could be, given how deeply embedded Armand had become in their shared business. No, it's a neat surgery.
And he proves more than adept at hiding from Google.
Daniel publishes a book, appears on talk radio and local news, claims it's all real. Viral videos, hashtags, BookTok essays, a burgeoning online cult following. The Theatre des Vampires finds itself popular again despite no longer existing, a charming YouTube series of animations after someone dug up the scripts in a little private archive in Paris. Daniel becomes easy to follow, wherever he might be.
Characteristically, the human race has an excellent capacity for rationalisation, wrong conclusions. It's only relevant inasmuch as the way the thoughts and threats of vampirekind begin filling the sky in a way that Armand can not recall ever happening before in his lifetime. Perhaps, all of history. This, too, can be observed.
And just like any media circus that becomes ubiquitous enough to break containment, there come the articles, the thinkpieces, most of them finding clever thematics about vampirism and the unlife of Daniel Molloy's career in investigative journal, the state of news media as a whole in an increasingly chaotic world, and the most cutting coming out of The New Yorker, who hadn't bothered to ask for comment.
A nice hotel room. Very good security. Molloy will be used to the necessary practice of coffin-sized luggage being flown in ahead of him.
The sun goes down and his awareness will drift to the surface.
And immediately, there's the sound of a frantic heartbeat, ragged breathing, all pain. A man, a journalist of decent renown, ten years Daniel's junior, wearing nondescript clothing and a wedding ring, and lying at the bottom of the generously proportioned bathtub in the other room with a small, neat wound in the spine that has cut off from him the ability to use his legs.
There is no screaming, no crying for help. He was given one instruction, which was to be quiet, and his whole mind is occupied on this single task.
no subject
And he proves more than adept at hiding from Google.
Daniel publishes a book, appears on talk radio and local news, claims it's all real. Viral videos, hashtags, BookTok essays, a burgeoning online cult following. The Theatre des Vampires finds itself popular again despite no longer existing, a charming YouTube series of animations after someone dug up the scripts in a little private archive in Paris. Daniel becomes easy to follow, wherever he might be.
Characteristically, the human race has an excellent capacity for rationalisation, wrong conclusions. It's only relevant inasmuch as the way the thoughts and threats of vampirekind begin filling the sky in a way that Armand can not recall ever happening before in his lifetime. Perhaps, all of history. This, too, can be observed.
And just like any media circus that becomes ubiquitous enough to break containment, there come the articles, the thinkpieces, most of them finding clever thematics about vampirism and the unlife of Daniel Molloy's career in investigative journal, the state of news media as a whole in an increasingly chaotic world, and the most cutting coming out of The New Yorker, who hadn't bothered to ask for comment.
A nice hotel room. Very good security. Molloy will be used to the necessary practice of coffin-sized luggage being flown in ahead of him.
The sun goes down and his awareness will drift to the surface.
And immediately, there's the sound of a frantic heartbeat, ragged breathing, all pain. A man, a journalist of decent renown, ten years Daniel's junior, wearing nondescript clothing and a wedding ring, and lying at the bottom of the generously proportioned bathtub in the other room with a small, neat wound in the spine that has cut off from him the ability to use his legs.
There is no screaming, no crying for help. He was given one instruction, which was to be quiet, and his whole mind is occupied on this single task.