The Ministry formally advises that all contact with muggles and their world be kept to a minimum. Muggles are an admittedly useless creature, far inferior to our abilities and knowledge. The Ministry advises those who have made it clear they are blood traitors are not to be reckoned with or kept informed of the goings on within our world as they have made their choice.
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by: Eben Rook
3 July, 2:03 am

Look at them all. Idiots. Every single last one of them. Vapid cows that were content to moo along in their pastures, herded by the deep state government thinkers that would feast in society’s slaughtered corpse. Cows? No. Sheep. And there were sheepdogs that protected against the wolves. It was the same everywhere. There were those who thought and those that get consumed.

Why was he thinking that? He shook his head and panted slightly, trying to clear his mind. Ben sat at the back of the bus, huddled into the corner of his seat as he observed those around him. How long had he been riding this bus? Long enough that his rocking was drawing the driver’s occasional glances. He needed to go. Needed to move. This wasn’t safe. He was in the run from...what? Who? He couldn’t remember and his stomach hurt.

He’d been hit with a doozy of a curse. His skin still tingled and he felt ill. Crawling. Skin was crawling and he was hot and cold and going to puke. Oh, God this was hell-

He stumbled off the bus at the next stop, unaware of his surroundings in the drizzling fog of the evening. He had to make it home. Where was home? Pictures of a green three story house surrounded with maple trees in summer sunlight filled his head. That was...that wasn’t here. This wasn’t Brooklyn. This was England. Cold, damp, dangerous England. He’d come hunting vampires. Where was home? Brooklyn. No, that was over there. He was over here...ugh.

How had he gotten into an alley?

Eben steadied himself against a dumpster as his stomach finally let go of its contents. He retched a second time out of disgust at the slugs writhing in the resulting mess. So that was the curse he’d been hit with, eh? Or at least one of them. There had been two shots, he remembered. The green and the pink...

Once the curse had really taken ahold, it was hard to hold back. His stomach turned an additional three times as he lost himself in the spinning confusion of the disorienting curse. Confundus. That’s what it was. And who had hit him with it? He couldn’t remember their faces or where he was. Had he found the vampire nest? Maybe. And they had wizar-

“Urk!-aw fuck!”

A particularly slimy bastard of a slug squirmed off, olive green with a distinct pattern of spots and stripes down its back. Eben sat, avoiding his mess, and tried to breathe through the recovery stages of the confusion curse so he could get back to his apartment and look up the counter curse for the slug vomiting curse.

And dammit all, it was a full moon, wasn’t it? That explained the rambling about sheep and wolves earlier, Eben rationalized. He had his wand and spring blades, but not his sense of balance or any kind of semblance of stability. If anything thought him prey tonight, he’d have to make his stand here.
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