Branksylvia twitched. Holding still, like this, this long, was straining his muscles in ways he wasn't used to. He wanted to frown, but he would only get rebuked again.

"Alright, you're done." The painter too nimbly hopped off his stool. "I imagine you can't wait for that new film to come out, eh?"
Branksylvia nodded glumly, hearing his joints pop and crack as he stretched and relaxed them.
"Will you be paying me directly or--"
"My company will be in touch with yours." Branksylvia snatched his cloak  from the painter's bespotted hands.
"Alright, alright," he offered, backing away slowly. "Don't rip out my throat or anything."
He shook his head. They were still xenophobic after all these years--perhaps not so many to his kind, but nearly a lifetime to theirs.
Branksylvia pulled the low hood over his face, his arms and legs hidden in the voluptuous folds of his cloak, and left.

To Branksylvia--or Branks to his colleagues and close acquaintances--it almost wasn't worth all the trouble being of vampire-kid. If only humans weren't so blind and shortsighted, he would fervently wish he was one of them.
Yes! To have your picture taken, and not be forced to stand for long hours for a painted portrait; to walk in full daylight without hot, heavy robes and deeply tinted eyeglasses; to drink wine and eat vegetable for more than just please--what wondrous things they would be!

*~*~*~*~*

Toedivan muttered, severely annoyed. The bastard at the other end of the line hadn't even opened, the instructions, just tossed them away. What a waste! Such inconsiderate fools, him and all the others who called this line. And he'd call them that, ranting away freely--after they hung up the phone.
Toedivan--"Toady" to those who could get away with calling him that without fearing sever repercussions, and "T" to close friends who couldn't--worked for the helplines for a computer distributer. It paid him poor, poverty-level wages, but at least he could work from home. And so he worked, pulling long hours, catching snatches of sleep between calls, and eternally grateful for the hands-free, wireless headset he had invested good money in. It was the one luxury he'd allowed himself, and likely the only one he could afford.
"Yes sir, we can send you new instructions. I just need the serial number--no sir, the one on the CPU--yes, sir, the upright box thingy--just right on the front--no sir, that's your burner drive specs; it's all the way to the bottom. Yes that's the one, thanks you sir. Now, they should arrive in two to six days--no, sir, that's the best I can do, I'm terribly sorry--and it will have big letter on the envelope that say 'INSTRUCTIONS'--alright, thank you sir, you too. Have a good day--yes, sir, I will. Good-bye."
Toedivan groaned, climbing out of his cheap, uncomfortable desk chair. He limped sorely over to his loud, inefficient refrigerator, and pulled out what appeared to be a box juice. They were for a scientific trial he was participating in for a little extra cash and free food. He slurped at the tiny straw, drinking down the individually packaged, partially synthetic, chilled blood, with only a mild grimace. Those preservatives certainly didn't help the taste any, and probably weren't entirely good for him either. Nevertheless, he jotted down the obligatory notes on "his experience" quickly, before another call could interrupt his train of thought.
As he reread the notes, a chime disrupted him. Toedivan jerked his head up reflexively, but it was only the intercom. He pressed the call button.
"Coming up, B?"
"Let me in, T?"
"Sure thing." Toedivan pressed another button, remotely unlocking the front door and sending the air-lock-like lift down to the subbasement service corridor.

Apartment buildings had taken full advantage of the necesities of vampire-kind, with excess floorspacein the central column besides the utility closets and lifts. Now, they built windowless apartments into these spaces and limited access to the service elevators, so vampire-kind might be able to enter and leave without the possiblility of bumping into the more discriminant members of human society.

"So how was it?"
"Worse than sitting in that chair of yours."
Toedivan laughed. "I doubt that. At least it was only for a few hours."
"To true. For that, I am grateful." Branksylvia laid back on his bed, the only place to sit other than the desk chair and Toedivan's own bed.
Toedivan started to follow suit when his phone rang again. He jerked up with a few choice swears, and sat back down at his desk, back at work. Branksylvia sighed, grateful he worked outside the cramped apartment.
Branksylvia slept on his side most afternoons, not because it was comfortable, though for him it fortunately was, but because his bed was too small. The diminutive size was simply all they could afford and all that would fit in the bedroom. He dropped quickly asleep dispite the endless bipolarity of Toedivan's voice, from calm, educated sincerity to irate ranting and raving.
He worked nights and mornings, six to six, in a cubicle, under long rows of florescent lights that were never turned off. During eight of the other twelve hours of the day, eight to four, the cubicle was occupied by a working human, entering the same blind data. They were likely paid double his salary. Branksylvia occasionally felt like a scab on immigrant wages, minus the union dues. On weekends and morning he worked the stockrooms for a variety of different stores, a different one each day of the week.
He and Toedivan were saving up to buy a house. A few rooms, nothing too fancy, with room to spread out a bit, and maybe put up a renter or two. Anything to pull in a little extra cash, and if they helped another vampire along the way, then so much the better.