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Leo is not new to being a vampire of the Red Court. He's not a noble or anything, but he's been around for a very long time. He's reached the ripe old age of 600, outliving his noble father and the vast majority of his bloodthirsty sisters, almost entirely by being a filthy coward. He has no pretensions to the blood of milk-pale virgins; he's perfectly fine getting his dinner for the week under a bridge. He occasionally keeps slaves, but only rarely. Most of the time, he occupies himself with reading, and painting, and delicious, delicious blood. On occasion he indulges in a good alleyway lurking.
This is one of those occasions. Chicago's alleyways are not particularly well maintained, but they're better than the slums of Toledo in 1632. Leo likes them. They're meditative, and often contain convenient homeless populations.
"Non-talking cats. How would you feel if you stepped into a world where vampires weren't people?"
"Sounds interesting, honestly. There's certainly kinds of humans that aren't people, though I don't believe they're naturally occurring."
"Yep. Called thralls, or 'Renfields' if you're puckish. They're humans who've been psychically mauled by some vampire- different kind of vampire, Black Court- until there's nothing left in them but rage. They're about as intelligent as the average dog, far as anyone can tell. Nasty stuff."
"I don't think I like this world very much," says Milo. "No offense. You personally have been perfectly nice and helpful."
"Oh, thanks. It's not a nice place for mortals, no. Unless you're a wizard or something, that's a nice gig. Or was, 'til the war started and my people started murdering the shit out of them all. Less nice nowadays, I think. High mortality rate."
Cath declares herself sufficiently soothed and climbs back up to perch on his other shoulder.
"I'm not a fan of war. I like not being dead. Antagonizing wizards... not a great policy for that."
This elicits a withering look. "Oh, don't get on me about my eating habits. What are you, a one-man Society for the Ethical Treatment of Filthy Vagrants?"
"That one actually wasn't a dig at your eating habits. But now that you've gone and brought it up, is eating people really necessary?"
"They've got all the essential vitamins and minerals a growing vampire needs. Plus, they're fucking delicious. Why wouldn't I?"
"Well, the reason that springs to my mind is 'because they're people, of course', but I sense that you don't find that persuasive. Why not?"
"Oh? In what way? I assume you wouldn't find it irrelevant in the reverse, if someone came along who habitually ate vampires."
At least, he usually does. He thinks he does. He feels weird about the question. This is usually easier.
"That sounds... lonely," Milo says thoughtfully. "If it extends as far as you're implying. Not caring about anyone but yourself? Really?"
"I- care about people. But only when they matter. I care about my mother. I cared about... a few of my sisters. I... I cared about a human, once, but it didn't last. They don't live very long even without my interfering, you know."
"That's a separate problem," says Milo. "But still, it sounds like you'd find it difficult to make friends. I don't know, maybe that doesn't bother you. I've been told I'm an unusually friendly person." His cat meows affirmatively.
Friends are what? Why would he want them? Why does he want them, when he's thought of the idea maybe a dozen times in his six hundred years and dismissed it every time? What's different?
"Are you... doing something to me? I feel- I feel strange." Leo breathes heavily, staring at the stained concrete. Something churns inside him. He has a vague memory, from his two decades of humanity, of being on a ship and feeling nauseous. It's wrong. "You're... you're doing something to my head."
"I am honestly not doing anything except talk to you," says Milo. "I'm now very alarmed that I might have done something by accident, but I didn't mean to. Are you all right?"
"You- you're- doing something. I feel- wrong. I'm not supposed to feel- I'm not supposed to want to feel this way. I'm not supposed to be able to feel this way, I don't have a soul, there's- I feel like I'm-" He lets out a wordless snarl of frustration and falls to the ground. His fist crashes down on the concrete, crushing a dent into it. "What did you do?"
"I don't know!" yelps Milo. "I didn't think I was doing anything except having a friendly argument about the wider implications of your eating habits! I've been told I can be a pain to argue with but most people don't actually fall over and start punching the ground!"
"I'm- sorry! FUCK, why did I just say that, I haven't apologized to a human in four hundred goddamned years! It's like you're forcing a fucking soul into me!"