Igor couldn't help but roll his eyes at his human masters. To him, they were the perfect picture of selfishness, so wrapped up in their little bubbles that the world could be falling apart around them and they wouldn't bat an eye. The Lennox family? A prime example of that new-money arrogance that had taken over America. Everyone except Maisie, that is. Unlike the rest of them, she didn't come across as selfish. Maybe that was why Igor found himself watching her more than anyone else.
Since 2035, technology has exploded into everyday life even more so than before. Smartphones projected holograms, flying cars were no longer just sci-fi fantasies, hoverboards zipped through the streets, and voice-activated locks kept homes on lockdown. Genetic IDs were everywhere, and implanted chips stored everyone's money and data, because why not? And then, lurking beneath it all, were the Alucards.
Alucards had been around for over a century. It all started when humanity uncovered something buried deep in the Arctic: the frozen carcass of an ancient vampire. Scientists saw potential, extracted its DNA, and used it to create the first Alucard prototypes in biofoundries.
These engineered beings were designed to patch the holes of a fractured world, cleaning flooded coasts, rebuilding damaged power grids, and even dying in place of humans on the front lines. By the early 2040s, governments had quietly labeled them "non-human biological assets." The name stuck. So did the collars.
Society adjusted fast, maybe too fast. By the time hover grids crisscrossed city skies and babies were born with neural implants, Alucards were already invisible, obedient fixtures, living machines dulled by strict control protocols and behavioral inhibitors.
Igor had come across that phrase in some dusty archive once, "obedience protocols." It stuck with him, mostly because he wasn't sure which hurt worse: knowing he was made just to obey or seeing everyone around him act like he was nothing more than a tool.
The irony? Even though people were more connected than ever, plugged into endless networks and tech, they somehow ended up lonelier. All that flashy progress didn't fix the way the world kept drifting apart.
Real "true" friendships were getting rarer by the day. People got caught up in family drama and social status, and tech only made things worse. The middle class split in two, one side struggling just to get by, and the other, like the Lennox family, living the high life with money to burn.
Society was stuck somewhere between socialism and capitalism, and the gap kept widening. The less fortunate scavenged whatever scraps the market tossed their way, while the rich had their pick of all the fancy, off-limits stuff no one else could touch.
For the working poor, education was a pipe dream. Schools barely had enough cash to keep the lights on, and college? That was straight-up a luxury. Tuition kept shooting up, making it impossible for anyone without deep pockets to get through. Student loans? Either near impossible to score or drowning people in debt that took decades, or a lifetime, to pay off.
Alucards, tagged as sub-human and stuck at the very bottom of the food chain, saw things differently. Their world was shaped by struggle, and for them, wealth was simple: a warm meal and a safe place to crash. They ran on pure cynicism and a deep, burning resentment for humans. Igor thought humans were ridiculous, always whining about their problems when, from his perspective, they had no clue how rough things were.
From Igor's perspective, he was older than most Alucards; after all, both the poor and the rich were just full of themselves in different ways. What a terrible joke it was to be ruled by such a flawed species. Yet the truth was buried deeper: humans held all the power because they were the ones who made him and the others in the first place, gods playing with their creations. Still, to Igor, his human masters looked shockingly clueless and unworthy of the control they had.
──✦──
"Igor, fetch my mirror. I left it on the breakfast table again," Lady Lennox snapped, her voice cutting through the silence like glass on tile.
"Of course, Mrs. Lennox," he said, already moving.
But his mind stuck to the request like gum on a shoe. Why was she always looking at herself? Did humans need that much reassurance?
The last time Igor had glanced at a mirror, an old, cracked one above the wash basin, he hadn't recognized what stared back. Red eyes. Hair the color of fire. Fangs. That strange, too-long tongue that never felt quite right in his mouth. Skin-like porcelain, wings like obsidian blades folded tight behind him.
Was that him?
He hadn't watched himself grow up the way humans did. No baby pictures, no awkward in-between stages. Just fragments, whispers from others. "You look strong," "You're handsome for an Alucard," or the classic, "You clean up well." But none of it helped. That reflection wasn't something he identified with. He looked nothing like them.
Because he wasn't one of them.
Igor trudged down to the kitchen, his bare feet whispering across the cold tile. The mirror was right where she'd said, on the breakfast table, gleaming faintly under the ceiling light. It was a pocket-sized thing, delicate and absurdly fancy, with gold-leaf carvings curling around the edges like ivy. The metal had dulled over time, but the craftsmanship still held a kind of stubborn pride.
He flipped it over and read the worn inscription on the back: Mirror Mirror, Corp. Est. 1955.
Two hundred years old, at least. Probably older than most things in this house. A relic from another time. Was it a family heirloom? A collector's piece? Hard to say. People like Lady Lennox didn't explain things to people like him.
Not that he had many ways to find out. Alucards weren't allowed on the global net. Their chips, the ones buried under the skin of their necks or wrists, just didn't pass the security gates. They couldn't access the Library of America or even the local news. Unless someone spelled it out, they were left in the dark.
Well, almost in the dark.
Mistress Maisie's library was the exception. She let him borrow from it, but always with a warning: keep it quiet. No one could know. Most of her books were whimsical, with magic, dragons, and ancient myth, but tucked in the back were the real treasures. Political theory. Economics. History with the sugar burned off.
Those were the books Igor read over and over, stealing minutes between chores. It was the only window he had into the real world, one that wasn't filtered through propaganda or locked behind walls built by the privileged.
He took a detour, pausing by the library door. The scent of old paper and polished mahogany drifted toward him, mingling with the faint citrus oil the cleaners used on the banisters. Technically, his chip didn't grant him access. The scanners wouldn't light green if anyone bothered to check. But the library door had no scanner, and no one had stopped him in years.
No one enforced the little rules anymore. Not for him.
"Took a little detour, did you?"
The voice, syrupy, male, belonged to Marlow, the Lennox family's estate manager. A man whose skin never seemed to age, he aged well or got some kind of medical advancements, Igor couldn't tell, and his eyes were as cold as frostbite.
Igor turned slowly, expression unreadable. "I was told to retrieve Miss Lennox's reader from the study."
"Of course you were." Marrow's smile didn't touch his eyes. "You're always being told things, aren't you, Number Eight?" He stepped forward, the soles of his shoes whispering over the marble floor. "Most Alucards aren't allowed this far in without clearance. You know that."
"I have clearance," Igor said simply.
"From the girl," Marlow scoffed like the words tasted bitter. "She may play at rebellion, but that doesn't mean the rest of us are blind to what she's done. Do you think you're special because she reads to you? Because she gave you a name?"
Igor didn't answer. He never did when it came to Marlow. There was no point.
"Just don't forget who owns your blood," Marlow continued, stepping closer, voice low and cold. "That skin might pass for human, but we both know what's crawling underneath."
Igor exhaled through his nose quietly, controlled. "Underneath, we all bleed."
Marlow gave a dry, humorless laugh. "Careful. That poetic mouth might be the next thing someone tears out."
His shoes clicked away down the marble hall.
Igor stood still until the sound faded. Then, with the same calm precision he always used, he stepped into the library. The scent hit him first, dust, lemon oil, and the faintest trace of aging leather.
He let his fingers brush the bookshelf as he passed, eventually stopping at a familiar volume with a cracked blue spine: The Metamorphosis. Gently, like it might crumble in his hands, he pulled it free.
He climbed the stairs with the mirror in hand, each step slow, steady, and heavy with that familiar weight that never left his chest. At the top, he knocked, tap, tap, on the carved white wood door. It swung open without protest.
Mrs. Lennox sat before her vanity like a portrait sprung to life. Silk, the color of crushed forget-me-nots, clung to her body, the lingerie delicate and expensive, more suggestion than fabric. Her robe, sheer and cloudlike, had slipped down one shoulder, exposing the graceful dip of her collarbone and the faint shimmer of body oil along her skin. Her hair was pinned up loosely, strands escaping like smoke. The crystal glass in her hand held a dark plum wine, sweating rivulets down its stem.
"Well," she murmured, lips curved into a slow, mocking smile as she applied her lipstick in practiced strokes. "Look who finally decided to show up. Maisie only needed you an hour ago."
Her tone was syrupy, but the sarcasm cut clean beneath it.
"I came as soon as she summoned me," Igor replied, eyes lowered but unwavering, as if staring at a fixed point on the floor kept him from being pulled into the vortex of her presence.
She looked at him through the mirror, not directly, but at his outline, like one might examine a suit of armor or an antique clock.
"You Alucards," she said with a sigh, "so painfully literal. No imagination. No initiative."
He stood silent. It was safer that way. Despite that snide comment.
A long silence stretched between them, calm and measured. Her fingers hovered above the silver tray before gently picking up a hairpin, pausing as if lost in thought.
"I forget," she said softly, voice smooth and cool, "do your kind even feel shame?"
Igor's body stiffened slightly. "We are trained not to react to the bodies of our employers."
She let out a faint, almost amused hum. Sliding the pin into her golden blonde hair with careful precision, she lifted her chin and regarded him calmly. "Yes, that's what they always say."
Taking a slow sip of her plum wine, she finally turned to face him fully. The robe slipped down a little farther, revealing more of her pale, flawless skin, an elegance tinged with quiet sensuality. Her expression was distant, unreadable.
"You may go."
He bowed and started to leave, but her voice caught him one last time, soft, casual, with no urgency.
"You remind me of someone," she said. "That's all."