In the old days, First Blood wasn’t a stipulation, and it wasn’t ever a finish… It's how things used to start.

Hell, for some folks, it’s just how they start the day.

Like here at the Oakland Blood Clinic.

Deadbeats. Drunkards. Dopeheads. Laborers. Parents. People just trying to get through the week. All lined up to sell a little blood for a little cash. Because as it turns out, blood, it’s not as big a deal to some as it is to others.

Ya know, you don’t really gotta’ do this anymore, Frankie.

...

Frances Marigold just grumbles toward his long-time chauffeur who doesn’t have a license or a car, Jon from Brooklyn. A balding and middle-aged heavy set man wearing a dirty suit and mustache.

With that wrestling contract you signed, you don’t gotta’ hawk your blood for money.

Frances side-eyes his little comrade as the two of them stand in line.

Didn’t say I needed the money. he pulls the cigarette from his lips.

A nurse walks by. Pale. Wearing fangs. Clipboard in hand.

She’s nothing remarkable. No one notices her.

“NEXT”

Frances and Jon from Brooklyn approach.

“You feelin’ okay?” She asks Frances with an emotionally detached tone, “You're not gonna’ pass out are you?”

Frances just lets out a wet grumble,

“Oh, you’re a regular huh?”

Frances doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares at her.

Then he nods.

She sighs and shrugs like she doesn’t really care either way, and gestures him to the chair

“Right this way sir.”

The needle slides in.

Frances doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even notice. Just leans back, cigarette still in hand.

Jon from Brooklyn watches the bag start to fill

You really doin’ this for nothin’, huh? Since when did you become the pious type?

Frances squints at the ceiling,

Ain’t nothin.

After a beat, he finally looks down. He watches the red line creep through the tube. Slow. Measured. Clean.

He tilts his head

...you ever notice these bloodsuckers?

They stop it before it gets messy.

Jon blinks, What?

Frances nods toward the bag

They measure it. They take just enough to help themselves, just enough to feel like they’ve done a good job… then they stop.

Everybody stays nice and safe.

Frances' eyes drift. He’s not really looking at anything anymore.

That’s your kinda’ fight, ain’t it… Vamp?

He exhales smoke.

Controlled.

Measured.

He looks down at his arm again. Blood still flowing.

It means somethin’ to ya.

…it ain’t never meant much to me.

It means so much to you…

You had to die to feel it.

Come back talkin’ about darkness. Void. All that… nothin.

I aint never had to die to find that.

Frances chuckles.

You talk about death like it makes you dangerous… All it did was send you runnin’ back here… for the flesh and blood.

See, funny thing about “first blood”...

He taps the tube with one finger, not even looking at it.

You think it’s something special. Like that’s the finish. Got your fix. Raise your fist. Show your fangs

He shakes his head and takes another drag from his cigarette. Nah. Smoke leaking from the side of his mouth In my world, that's just how we get the fight started.

His eyes drift back to the nurse.

To the fangs. To the bag. To the line.

Blood’s when you finally notice it.

Frankie? Looking around befuddled, Who the hell ya talking to?

“Gentlmen, could you please hush? You’re disrupting the process” the nurse chimes in,

Frances doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop smoking.

You spill blood to feed yourself.

Like it’s gonna’ fix somethin’

Like its gonna make all of that darkness mean somethin’

Three hundred years… for nothin’

Silence.

Jon from Brooklyn shifts a little. Uncomfortable now.

Frankie… you’re losin’ a lot there…

Frances shrugs.

They’ll tell me when to stop.

The words hang for a moment

I don't.

The nurse steps closer. Not annoyed. Just nonchalant and procedural.

“Sir” she says flatly “We’ve taken enough”

See?

Frances doesn’t move, doesn’t look at her.

She reaches for the line, professional and precise. Like she’s done this thousands of times. Her fingers pinch the tube, ready to clamp it.

Frances finally moves. His hand catches her wrist. Not tight. Not threatening. Not violent.

But the nurse stops.

Frances looks at her.

Really *looks* this time

At the fangs. At the pale skin. At the way she keeps everything neat. Measured. Controlled.

...you always stop it right before it gets’ interesting’”
She doesn’t answer. That’s not her job.

Frances lets go. But instead of waiting, he reaches down and grabs the needle.

And pulls it out himself.

Blood wells instantly and runs down his arm.

Not clean.

Not measured.

Not controlled.

Jon recoils

Christ, Frankie-

The nurse stiffens. That’s not protocol. That’s not procedure.

“Sir, you need to apply pressure”

Frances ignores her and just watches the blood. Lets run. Lets it drip onto the tile.

One drop

Then another.

And another.

see… this is where you get it twisted.

He lifts his arm slightly, blood trailing down to his wrist.

You think blood is the point.

It ain’t

It’s just the part where people start payin’ attention.

The nurse is frozen now.

Jon doesn’t know where to look.

Frances finally turns and finds the camera again.

You wait for it, Vamp.

You measure it.

In liters…. In losses…. In years.

You build your whole stupid little world around it…

Me?

He puts on a mean smirk,

I’ve been bleedin’ the whole time.

He wipes his hand across his shirt, like it doesn’t matter… because it doesn’t.

First blood? That’s just the first time you realize you’re already losin’

He starts to walk off, leaving everything and everyone behind him.

And by the time you see it…

He glances back once,

Not at the scene.

At the camera

...it’s already too late.

Around here, they pay you to stop bleeding.

Thursday night?

I won’t.