Glittering Lights and Sharpened Knives
((Collab between Ruby and Myself))

The ceaseless chorus of distant sirens over the endless bass rumble of traffic suffused its way across the regimented streets of Downtown LA. Hidden away in a little corner of this Earthly realm of shattered lives and dreams, sat the Sunset Lounge, or simply Sunset, for those acquainted enough to know.

"Meet at Sunset." It was an old pun, used to mislead those not yet established enough to make an easy guess, something the regulars liked to throw at any new game in town until they worked out how the damn to use Google Maps. The Supernatural, it was a lot more high tech and mundane than most gave it credit for. It was a phrase that now meant something more. To meet at Sunset was to meet at the one place in all LA you could assure that you'd be walking out of. What happened on the street outside was your own business, but within these walls, you didn't so much as throw a punch. Well, maybe a few, if it was a slow day.

The overriding reason as to why Sunset had retained its place as the last true neutral ground in a city torn apart by the shadow war of the Kindred, was its owner, and principle bartender; Henry Locke. It was a name that stirred familiarity in elders and new bloods alike. Never one to dabble much in the power plays and politics of the night, many doubted he was even a kindred at all, but he was something, he'd been there long enough. Henry Locke, old as sin, the man who watched Caine fall. Nonsense stories all, but LA had never seen a night without the man. His presence wasn't stamped on it, like the Kid, or Jack, he just drifted through the tapestry of the new born city on the edge of the world.

The Lounge itself had several floors, each catering to a different mood, whim or clientele. For now, only the Sunset Room was open, the main 'bar' so to speak. Polished LA chic, with a full wall of glass doors leading out onto the patio, overlooking a grand view of the city meeting the Sea below. The room was so named for the way the Sun turned the whole place a burnt orange as it made its final home in the Pacific Ocean, not that its predominant patrons would ever learn the truth of that view or not. For now, the man himself, Locke, stood behind the bar, polishing glasses. A few guests mingled about, predominantly ghouls, come to exchange messages between masters too self-important to do it themselves. It mattered not to Locke. For the first time, the Sunset Lounge was truly indispensable to the Kindred elite of the city he called home, and for now, he had the ear of every single one.

A lot a man can do with a gift like that.

But the, Locke wasn't really the kind to seek out change, he let it come to him. Upon that note, his eyes eventually settled upon one of the more interesting occupants of the Room. The most interesting, not that she had a lot of competition at this current time, an undeserving unknowing crowd. Hispanic, with a look taken right from the Anarch cookbook.

"My Chemical Romance finish their set early love?" Locke piped up as he set a glass down, his hands flat on his own bar, cloth still draped over one. Despite his literal centuries in the New World, Locke still spoke with something of a London accent, and if not that, then at least a few mannerisms. At least, he did now, who can tell if the dialect of an immortal is genuine or not.

"What brings Little Miss Monroe here tonight?"

"I came for the bad guesses at what constitutes punk rock, and the casual sexism. Duh."

A melodic voice gone dry could cut deeper than steel, but this dagger was blunted with hints of a smirk at the corner of dark red painted lips, and sarcasm. Not that it was entirely unfair; she wore a black tank top with skinny shoulder straps, and a single strap down the upper back, revealing sun kissed shoulder blades and the neon pink straps of her bra. The neon pink was the only flare of color, though, the jeans were skin tight and ripped at the knees, her feet covered in heavy black boots, black eyeliner, a few skinny black braclets on one wrist, a black leather band on the other wrist. In her hands was a newspaper she had all but torn to pieces upon the counter of the bar; one section here, another there, yet another pushed to the side, the Metro in her hands.

Brown eyes glittered amber-gold in the lighting of the bar as they peeked over the paper to the bartender and properitier, handsome as he was in the way a London bloke might be. Soon enough those eyes were back on the paper for a beat or two longer, until it was folded and set down casually. "Chillin', mate," the word was over emphasised, yet another bit of dry sass. Whether that was truly her purpose for being at the Sunset Lounge or not was up to his internal debate.

"Not many places a youngin' can get a proper chill at these days, except for your place. Not that you mind, with the boon in business and all."

Sure, Catlin Monroe smiled at him, but that wasn't to say there wasn't the tiniest bit of unspoken accusation of war profiteering in there.

"You'll forgive an old codger his flaws." Locke responded noting her own little smirk with a grin of his own. The barkeep paused before conversing further, pouring a half-glass of whiskey into the newly polished glass he had set down. Usually he preffered Scottish, but Jack would do fine. A taste in mortal desires, something that perplexed the other ancients of the city. A sip was all he took, before he continued.

"No, I suppose there's not, mummy turn you out into the cold dark night, a safe haven till she calms down?" The glass slid from one hand to the other atop the bar, before another sip was taken, the man taking a long look at the view across the city nightscape, before filtering back to kindred of current note. "Not my fault all your mighty clans decided to up and stick it to one another, sure as hell not going to apologise for staying out of that mess. Old as me, and I reckon I was right up there on Jack's list without even sticking my head in." Locke mused further, in response to her barely unspoken half-accusation. It wasn't that he was particularly put off by people thinking that, more that it was simply a conversation worth having.

She scoffed. "Your clans?" A few quick tsks, tsks followed. "I don't know about all that--the only clan I've ever known is the Anarchs of Los Angeles." The lie came to her as easy as art. In truth, she was as Toreador as any other, if not more so. Her mentors were fond of calling themselves the most genuine of all Toreador. Their unlives weren't Camarilla or Sabbat politics. In fact, they were so consumed by their art that they left the actual politics of the Anarch Free State to others. Like Smiling Jack. A claim precious few other Elder Toreador in the Masquerade could claim, and not be talking out both sides of their mouths.

The old as me tag caught her attention, her eyes flashing over the barkeep carefully, before rising to meet his gaze, curiosity still illuminating those big brown eyes. "Why would Jack want you dead? I've met the guy a few times, seems like a friendly enough sort. What'd you do to get on his bad side?...and how old is 'old' for a 'codger' such as you? What are you..."

Her eyes narrowed, her focus sharpening, her mind working to drum up a good guesstimation of his Generation. "...mm, 9th Generation, maybe? Is that old enough to get capped right now in the current chaos?"

"That's what every Anarch says, but it's still the Brujah who come in here starting the fights." Henry replied, leaning back against the shelves on the reverse side of the bar, mostly containing a variety of liquors. Mostly glass and well lit, it was very 'hip' LA, not his favourite floor of the place, but the most popular among those willing to drop the most cash, or even better, something actually useful. He prompted a glass in her direction, some Kindred still partook, and it would be rude not to offer.

"You didn't notice the elder Anarchs dropping dead on Jack's Night of Long Knives? There's not a soul who knows what it takes to get on the less-smiley side of Smiling Jack but the man himself, and that's not something you just chance up." Locke continued, regardless, taking his eyes away from the pretty Kindred for a moment, once again looking out over night time Los Angeles, cloaked in darkness, but lit up in a billion blazing lights.

When it finally came to the question of his age, the man could only smirk for a minute, turning his focus back on her; "Something like that, darling." It was said with exactly the sort of tone that might suggest absolutely nothing at all.

"They don't come in here to start fights. They come in here to find what they're looking for. If they found it, you'd be out of business. Enjoy the fights."

Her eyes focused on the glass, not the concrete and lights of the city beyond it; for a moment yearning for a reflection like a sailor yearned for a homeshore. The moment passed quickly, the thought passing before her smile, eclipsing her lips in the shadow of thought, before it too passed and returned the small, easy, casual smile on the "young" latinas red lips. For a beat of her unbeating heart she worried. Worried that the old codger would hear wisdom coming from a soul infinitely older than the 12th Generation before him had any right to. That he'd see the ease of her stature, the way it came to her as easy as natural light.

A beat that passed quicker than the moment before, returning her focus past the glass. To cars stirring upon the street of smooth light gray pavement lined with palm trees standing like sentinels of the sunset city. Her mind refocused, returning to the scene of the crime that hadn't yet happened quite yet. Darkness and the faint filter of L.A. smog, twinkles of lights shining upon the latest billboard of the latest production with the latest star. The faces and the lights changed, but never the pattern.

Her voice was absent of it's prior mirth, her tone detached, her eyes standing tall on the horizon before they were guided back to the barkeep. They're here, she thought, not sure whether to smile or frown. By chance her lips happened back upon the small smile.

"I noticed. I'm not sure I cared." Her long lashes flickered, breaking from him to the door, determination where once before was simply light in brown eyes. "Looks like it's time for me to go. Good luck, codger." Her body slipped from the bar stole, the remains of the paper left like a blooddoll left to bleed after use, the girl stopping at the door just in time to open it, allowing Elders too concerned with their security to make much of a young Anarch holding a door open because she just happened to get to the door in time for them to enter.

Just in time for her to get a good look at each arriving face. Her last smile came not with her red lips, but the spark of knowing mischief in her eyes with the look she shot to the barkeep in the form of a final farewell.

Locke smiled, tipping an imaginary hat at the passing kindred as she made her way into another warm Hollywood night, before his eyes settled back on the parade of city elders entering his domain. The rest of the crowd knew better than to stay, clearing the room for the night's true aristocracy. Locke himself did the same, although not from any particular sense of respect of self preservation, but for someone living in Los Angeles, he had a low tolerance for posturing. Back through a door behind the bar, he soon found himself in the far more traditional room of his private study, dusty, with low light, it was in sharp contrast to the modernist feel of what lay beyond.

It was only after he sat down at his desk, and turned, that he recognised the figures waiting for him, hidden in the shadow lining every corner of the room.

"So, what is it this time, Jack?"

Los Angeles traffic was a strange beast. The usual roads at the usual times were congested to the point of being parking lots, but there was also the random unpredictable traffic jams that could arise at any hour or any road. In this case the cause was fiery crash on the small road Grace took to the hills where the city sprawl grew thinner. At first there wasn’t much to look at except the glowing red brakelights of other cars, but as her slow journey went on and the road climbed in altitude, the rest of the city came into view. The urban tapestry was lit up with thousands of lights, and even at this hour Los Angeles was restless. Views like this reminded Grace of what she worked for, what the organization had achieved so far, all the millions living with greater safety and prosperity than humanity had ever know before. While the successes were visible, apparent when looking at the vast grid of streetlights or any other piece of modern civilization, the obstacles that stood in the way of further progress preferred to remain hidden.

The other reminder of the importance of her work was currently blaring over her car’s speakers. Traffic jams provided ample time for conference calls, and nothing important could ever happen in her line of work without them. On quiet night drives she preferred to listen to something stimulating yet contemplative, like chamber music by Babbitt or Carter, but there was business to be done. This was one of the most hair-pulling types of meetings, one where they had both the local Syndicate officials and some NWO higher ups from far away, each expecting the world and threatening to blame her for all the mistakes.

At the moment a voice with a thick German accent was droning on “Given that we are all available at the present time, I believe it would be prudent to review some of the regional gamma-level scenario containment plans. I trust that you will all update them with the latest intelligence and developments so that we may further refine them and incorporate all of the latest points of data in our future plans. Now, firstly we will start with 11B, Reality Deviant in clear view of public and covered by one or more live forms of media with significant geographic reach.”

Another voice chimed in, this one sounded quite nasally “Um, given the recent discussions of the present situation regarding Hemophages, I think it would be prudent to spend our time going over a related scenario. May I suggest 47E, Major media figure infected by Hemophage carrier, it’s one we haven’t revisited in quite some time.” Luckily, by the time they started Grace’s car was near her destination. She interrupted, because she wanted to let them know she would be absent for the next section of the call and because she couldn’t stand the fact that she worked with people who managed to call the bloodsuckers a term that sounded even more pretentious than their chosen moniker of Kindred.

“Excuse me, but I will be absent on a brief intelligence gathering and communication mission at the location previously discussed. Current events have caused me to believe that we are in grave need of updated intelligence.” One of the people had a question for her “You’re doing this yourself? Isn’t this the kind of thing we’ve got all the databases for?” She said “These are the kind of people who have done a very good job of avoiding what is covered in our databases and traditional intelligence gathering activities. As you all are aware, I have limited resources at my disposal and few of them are directed towards the Kindred, as they are rarely create problems for us or the public at large. Given the time pressure, I am investigating one spot myself”.

Grace parked the car and shut off the engine before a reply came. She stepped out her nondescript black luxury sedan and donned her wide brimmed hat and NWO-issued sunglasses. Her attire was formal, it would be more at home at business luncheon than a place like Sunrise, but it helped give her a sort of anonymity. Just standing outside she could see the place was crawling with kindred and other reality deviants were probably present too. Even the most novice tradition mages could sense vampires in a crowd, all you had to do was know enough about lifeforce to pick out who wasn’t truly alive. Enlightened science was no less effective, but what simple tricks couldn’t tell you was what really mattered, facts like who they were, who they knew, what they wanted, what they were capable of. That was something that took work to find out.

She wanted to take a careful approach, observing before actually trying to communicate with anyone. Grace found a spot just inside the doorway, watching silently as people came and went. The place was quite large, big enough to accommodate several different distinct clienteles. It was also a situated on some prime land, though who knows what the owner originally paid for the spot. For now she just took in the details, trying to get some general context and waiting to see who it might be productive to discuss current events with.

_{P E T E R L A P I N}

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^{Z a i c h i k & S o l n i c h k o ; T h e S u n s e t L o u n g e}

Sunless, avid eyes danced around the bustling streets of Los Angeles, California. Pale, kindred ears rang with vibrations from various places, causing their owner’s concentration to become warily enamored by the brilliance and industrious mechanics mouthing loudly into the nightlife. As long as Peter had taken up some sort of residency in the unholy city, he had still, yet, to regain some sort of coherency over the strangeness elongating into his future of occupancy. A contemplative thought of using some sort of earbuds to asphyxiate the perpetual buzzing spurred every once in a while, but the recent establishments of drama had escalated quite tremendously. Even with the illogically delicate senses that the Malkavian had unfortunately procured upon his embrace, he had no desire to snuff them. Although, for several moments he had felt some sense of relief that the Prince was a fallen. Peter’s presence had been wearing dry around the Prince’s patience, but the Elder’s death held a notable close truth — it was more dangerous than usual.

That’s what the voices said, anyways.

The Malkavian found it also to be true, while tightly holding the soft, gloved hand of his Retainer, Melissa, that he kind of enjoyed what was left of his humanity as much as his gluttonous desire to submit himself fully over to that perpetually growling beast who itched at the back of his brain like an unquenchable parasitic worm wanted to be set free. Intuitively, he knew a well-lived survival was unlikely for a constantly frenzying vampire, or maybe it was something the fallen Prince had repeatedly reminded him. Either way, with responsiveness, Melissa’s dimwitted companionship offered a decent condolence for Peter’s concentration that clenched and grinded his teeth together silently.

Melissa was wearing a nice black dress. It clung to her subtly curvy body, which stood relatively close in height to Peter’s barely adult physique. He enjoyed her modestly dressed frame almost too much; it reminded him of someone comforting he knew before he was Embraced. Occasionally, he would come across the memory in the dreary, bat-ridden labyrinth of his mind. He did not have any time to unbalance his already shaken mood by contemplating his attraction to her, for tonight his mind was racing ceaselessly from one web of thought to the next as each musing sparkled like small pieces of gold with every passing streetlight. He needed to be somewhere; he needed to see through the silk, threads entangling his rapid mind. He needed the splendor more than the hazy drunkenness that always cooed and lulled him time-after-time into the Madness Network.

There was finally a thought that Melissa’s company was not enough as his muscles stiffened with anxious anticipation, and in a quick vain panic, his eyes automatically darted upwards and over the city lights where the sky was foreign, black, and misty — kind of like the eyes of Melissa’s daughter, Annie, when the dark circles, symmetrically implanted on her young, doll face would expand great lengths against the dusky amber gems containing those two black, interesting, mortal orbs of an existence. They would open wide when she wanted Peter to take something from her, and he was hardly opposed to nipping his teeth like large needles through her smooth skin and tasting her precious Vitae while her throat vibrated soft mewls of humanly pleasure.

At some irrational point, he wanted to take Annie instead of Melissa, if only because she was more compliant to his unorthodox whims. Unfortunately, it was true that she was just a child, and a Kiss would only serve so much during a botched time in the city if things became inconveniently rough. Peter also thought of taking Melissa’s husband, Frank, but he did not offer such nurturing movements with his masculine body. His eyes were needier than the passive gaze of Melissa’s desirable look. In fact, just the differing sounds of Melissa’s kitten heals clicking against the concrete was more comforting than the brutish clomps of Frank’s shoes.

Peter’s eyes shrank lower and rested longingly at the black wires webbed around the city. Ravenish birds were perched along the electrical threads like Gothic ornaments, which was about to remind Peter of something important — or maybe it was not important at all. All of his thoughts seemed important all of the time, and it often caused him to blindly retreat further into the unending maze of his insanity. It did not matter this time, anyhow, because the clicking of Melissa’s patent leather heels stopped making sounds. Peter’s left arm extended backwards until his muscle and shoulder pulled into an annoying sensation that caused Peter to stop walking and carefully crept his head around to study Melissa’s paused motions. A slight twitch to his upper lip curled gingerly into a timid half-smile, “Why do you stand — swaying — oh slender birch tree?” His head slowly titled to the side as the vampire’s undead eyes met the Retainer’s mortal stare.

Their eyes drifted from each other’s as Peter’s attention drifted toward’s the thin lines of his Retainer’s gloves. Melissa made such a better front, escort, companion. She attracted more attention than he did, which was a comforting thought when the understanding did pass his way. His smile began to complete itself, but the scene on his face quickly dissipated with the concerned sound of Melissa’s genteel voice, “We’re here, Scott,” there was a tad of lipstick on her front tooth that had smudged from such a heavy application of the rose cosmetic. It caught the Malkavian’s attention more than the words, but still, Peter’s engrossment flickered between the painted, perched lips and his surroundings until finally planting his eyes hungrily over The Sunset Lounge.

Peter was not dressed as nicely as Melissa was, but he did not see any logistically sound reasoning to assume such an aesthetic identity for himself despite the oddity of his plain, colorless t-shirt and dark jeans, “A clumsy little bear was walking through the forest, hmm, my little solnichko?” He stepped his body closer to Melissa and looked towards the sky cautiously, as if he expected something to fall from it. He finally settled his agitated muscles as the realization that nothing would attack him convinced him thoroughly. His grip tightened and lead Melissa beyond the opened door and into the bar.

They both stood quietly upon entering as the vampire’s perception hopped around the glass backdrop and change of pace from the outside world, before eventually, gradually twisting his head to face his Retainer to quietly muse the words, “You don’t look your age, solnichko.” Peter’s eyes lingered on Melissa’s face until her rosy lips produced less seriousness to mouth some sort of Thank you to him. And, with a gentle flex of his muscle, he continued to pull her deeper into The Lounge. Alas, the silk threads were becoming lucid, again, and his concentration was crawling back into the light.

It happened slowly, like a drip. One man walked up casual, cool, and propped his back against the brick and mortar of which gave the Sunset Lounge is tangibility. A Hispanic wearing black, tattoos, and attitude so obvious no words were necessary. He greeted the next man with no more than a side glance and faint upward nod of his head; this one wearing black with a stiff billed cap that read 'COMPTON' in script, black tattoos on black skin, and attitude that matched the first, walking up like the sidewalk was his personal V.I.P., his throne a lazy sit on the curb. Two became six in a few minutes; by ten minutes it was ten. Five minutes later there was twenty, barks of laughter errupting after crude jokes and high volumed chatter.

Eyes from within Sunset were starting to dart to the windows, to the crowd covering the view, nervous words from the paranoid and the unsure spoken quietly. The street bounced with the thunder of a beat, the bass of a thousands of dollers sound system growing like a distant storm grown closer, and closer; rattling the Sunset's windows, walls, and doors. More laughter from the curb, from the crowd, hoopin', hollerin'--

--and then nothing. Silence.

The first figure through the door was anything but gangsta; looking like a good little Ivy league girl turned runaway Calvin Klein model, soft brown eyes and pale skin scanned the main room with quickness, a tiny smile creasing her glossed lips even quicker as she stepped in. The door moved again, a man of medium height, broad shoulders, sun baked Mexican skin, and long straight black hair came after. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the man, clothes well worn in; jeans loose fit, old work boots, a simple gray tee under an old work coat, the presence of a construction worker wandering in the wrong place looking for an after work beer. There was no look to the room, only eyes on the girl that came in before, stopping near the door just behind and to the right of her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat.

The two whispered words, before she moved for the bar, the man at her heels. Perfume hit the room even as the door began to swing open, before pausing mid-swing, held up, paused, a woman's loud, happy, laughter ringing between the street and the room beyond the half-open door. Blonde, busty, California sun tanned skin flip flopping in, a loud pop echoing through the Sunset Lounge as bright pink bubblegum was bubbled, popped, and chewed again through a wide grin. Big bright green eyes hidden behind mirrored Aviators immediately on the bar, a neon pink short sleeved croptop, sun bleached denim shorts short enough to show off her long, toned, legs as she moved to the first two, whispering in the girl's ear before her grin went wicked, slipping off to the touch screen jukebox, head tilted as she quick fire flipped through a few screens to arrive a song. "Imagine," by Snoop Dogg, featuring Dr. Dre.

The first note coincided with the door opening once more, a large black man with rocks in either ear, black-on-black leather AJ1's under black baggy jeans with a crease in either leg, the black and silver of the old L.A. Raiders hanging from immense shoulders, thickly muscled arms holding the door open behind him, a blank stare turning focused on the tall blonde, lips refusing to smile even as the blonde's grin dared him. The next figure moved in quickly, walking with purpose, heels clicking against the Sunset Lounge floor, tight fit blue jeans, pale gray metallic blouse under a white linen blazer, simple gold chain hanging from the neck, red glossed lips under saucer brown eyes under long layered salon styled auburn hair that shadowed in the indirect light of the lounge until she neared the bar, slowing her purposeful steps to a stop. It wasn't perfume that filled the air around her, it was presence; the presence of an Elder, the undeniable electricity in the air that came with such power.

At the bartender, she stared, until the black shadow behind her said something softly to her, stealing a quick glance from her, before he moved off to booth in the back that the blonde had loudly proclaimed her own, his eyes cold as they stuck to the other set of "Elders" collected off to the side. Threats with no words, no heated violence, only cold blooded killing. A Brujah, unlike the working class Lasombra, preppy small Ventrue, and the two Toreadors; the blonde, and the dark featured beauty of an Elder that strolled in after them all.

The crowd outside grew back to a chatter, but it was dim, only the occasional burst of laughter now, the tension of a guard dog holding over them.

"Eva," the small Ventrue called the Elder in designer clothes, pulling out a smartphone and turning to the woman, a few whispers and the phone was at the girl's ear as she, too, moved away from the bar to the booth staked out by the blonde. That left only the quiet dark skinned man with the impossibly straight, jet black, hair that stopped just above his ass. He turned his head just to the left, eyeing Eva, as she stepped up to the bar and slipped onto a stool, pushing aside the remains of a newspaper to the far corner of the main bar of the Sunset Lounge, amusement and the direct lights from above the bar illuminating her eyes now.

"Hello Henry; a round of Dos Equis Dark, bottled, to the back booth please? Thanks." She slipped from the stool as quickly, as easily, as she'd slipped onto it, the long haired man stepping after her, curiously, shy, as he looked around the room to see the faces.

“What is it, Mr. Jarvous, that you truly desire above all else?”

The thin, light brown skinned young man furrowed his brow, adjusting his glasses as he was clearly a little unnerved in the low lit and very private interior. “What kind of question is that?”

“A perfectly legitimate question I assure you.” The other grinned, his bright cobalt eyes a stark contrast to skin tone void of much color, if any.

The Ventrue “Nicolaus” sat comfortably against the soft, tanned leather seats at the rear of the limousine as it cruised through the brightly lit city streets, an arm outstretched along the top of the backrest and the other holding a glass of red wine. His dark blue slacks and blazer tailored to accentuate a lean, muscular frame, hiding the massive amount of upper body tattoos that covered his chest and arms, save for the interesting Nordic design around his neck that peeked up just above his opened collar. At either side, sitting cross-legged, were two exquisitely beautiful women dressed to the nines in what could only be considered evening wear for a night out on the town. To his right, a twenty-something platinum blonde with wide hazel eyes, hair elaborately done up like a movie star, and wearing an emerald green and black lace cocktail dress. To his left, an older exotic beauty with olive-skin, long jet black hair draped over one shoulder, and dressed in a deep purple evening gown with a low v-neck cut. Her deadpan expression seemed rather less inviting to the man sitting across from the trio, feeling the chill of uneasiness on his first meet with a man he’d only spoken with over the phone for the last couple of months. A man so hauntingly beautiful in presence as well as appearance that he both feared and respected even more so in person.

“I-eh, suppose I want what every person in my position would want: power and respect” The young man finally said, responding to the initial question and taking another long sip of his favourite bourbon, a small and not-so-coincidental token from his acquaintance. “The power to make real change in California's most influential city, that's frankly gone to hell in a hand basket.”

“As is most of the world I'm afraid, Mr. Jarvous.” Nicolaus interjected without missing a beat. “On the surface, Los Angeles can be a wondrous city of glitz, glamour, and the typical bullshit that turns even the most stand-up individual into a raving lunatic. Yet, I believe the ‘power and respect’ you crave-” Nicolaus paused for a moment, setting down his wineglass and placing his free hand on the knee of the platinum blonde, running it up along her smooth leg and exposed thigh -causing her to fidget slightly while she kept her hazel eyes on the young man across from her- until he stopped just short of the warmth and excitement of that which resided between her thighs. “...Lies just below the superficial layers, to the true core of desire and control.”

Nico paused for a moment, smiling and watching the twenty-nine year old L.A. City Manager’s nervous and unsure expression with much intrigue as he nodded in agreement to the vampire’s words, drinking down the last of the amber liquid sitting at the bottom of his glass, and placing it on the small center table in anticipation of another. Steven Jarvous, the young California-bred golden child who had been fighting tooth and nail in the political arena since his days in high school debate, putting the “people first” as he tended to quote himself often and striving to make a name in a world full of his kind. Of course, which “people” he was referring to was anyone’s guess as his tactics and focus shifted with the coastal breezes, one day helping the poor and needy, and the next lining the pockets of the wealthy with more of what they already had. Nicolaus couldn’t quite tell if the kid was corruptible or simply of the mindset that you must “go along to get along”, but one thing was for certain, Jarvous was persistent enough not to stop until he got what he wanted.

Through renewed courage by way of an overly stimulated thirty minute limo ride, vampiric persuasion, and a tall glass of sixty year old Old Forester bourbon, he locked eyes with the dark haired woman, as deep seated fantasies surfaced of just what he'd love to do with her and a craving for what lay underneath her gown. The kid leaned forward, ready to open his mouth to say something he'd most likely regret later, but to his surprise the woman cut him off at the pass by answering the unasked question.

“No.” She said flatly, her plum shaded lips forming a slight smirk. “And before you protest, just realize that I have no issues throwing you from this car while it's still in motion.”

The kid’s sudden flustered appearance said more than enough, and doing his best to hold back any laughter, Nicolaus casually intervened, knowing that Elizabeth’s short temper and low tolerance for the sleazy political types wore thin very quickly. “Mr Jarvous.” He said, leaning forward to pour him another glass. “You’d fare much better with Lucy here.” He motioned to the blonde with the cherry colored lips and fair skin, who smiled as she moved to sit next to the young man, proceeding to run her well manicured matching nails through his thick hair, causing a brief yet wonderful chill to run up his spine and a smile across his face.

“There is an old saying in my tongue.” Nicolaus continued, sitting back once again, and placing an arm around the dark haired woman who appeared more at ease now. “Man kann nicht mit den Adlern fliegen, wenn man mit den Tauben arbeiten muss!”. The vampire’s German surprised the kid momentarily, further impressing his young mind as he had no idea of his new friend’s ethnic ties. “In other words, Mr Jarvous, ‘You can’t fly with the eagles if you work with pigeons’, and this city is full of pigeons.”

“W-what are you proposing Mr. Strøm?” The City Manager’s voice cracked a bit, clearly enjoying the attention of the young and willing lady sitting close and snug at his side, playing with hair that had once been perfectly combed and set with hair care products as he did every morning, but now disheveled and less professional looking.

Nicolaus gazed out through the tinted side window as he noticed the limo turning onto the main drag where the Sunset Lounge was located, allowing his mind to wander as they passed the many businesses along the way, some stand alone, others part of a strip of stores lining the beautifully paved sidewalk. Los Angeles wouldn’t have been his first choice of cities to reside in had it not been for the hospitable and equally substantial offers that his kinsman and associated coterie essentially handed him on a silver platter. He knew they needed the numbers, strength, and knowledge of old, as Elders lost control of the city long ago to the “Anarch Movements” and progressive uprisings that allowed the younger generations to thrive virtually unchecked. Sure, they owned this city, but Nico knew as well as any Elder that the patient bide their time well until the day of conspiring and hiding in the shadows was over, and swift, brutal action was finally taken.

“Perhaps another time, Mr Jarvous...” The vampire returned his attention to the young man, just as the vehicle pulled curbside to the front of the lounge. “As I’m afraid this is where we part ways, but I will reach out to you in the next few days to continue our discussion, as I feel it will benefit us both.” He bowed his head slightly, as the driver came around to open the door for the couple. “Jorge here will take you wherever you want, and in the meantime, enjoy what Lucy has to offer you tonight…”

The tall, sharp dressed Ventrue reached for the dark wooden “walking stick” as he stepped from the vehicle, extending a hand to help his lovely companion out, as they both strolled toward the grand entrance, noticing the infamous Caitlyn Monroe exiting the lounge ase a few dozen of the city’s Elders began to file in per their normal evening business.

“Damn it, Nico.” Elizabeth scolded under her breath as she interlocked a delicate elbow with his rigid and muscular one. “Why do you insist on playing childish games with these young upstarts, knowing this kid is nothing but a lowly tool of the State Senators -a nobody as far as I can tell- and yet you continue to drag things out...”

“Sometimes that’s what it’s about, fräulein” He said, stopping just outside the doors. “A ‘give and take’ relationship of sorts. I give him what he thinks he wants, and he takes it, enough so that he continues to come back for more. And they always want more, my love.”

The woman rolled her eyes at the vampire, a gesture she found herself doing more often than not at her companion’s vivid imagination and wiles. “But what is it you hope to gain?”

“Loyalty.” Nico said with a charismatic smile. “It is a slow burn, Liz, as any good strategy is.”

Nico opened the door to the Sunset, allowing the atmosphere that escaped to abruptly wash over them both, as they entered into neutral zone.

Hector See

L.A, the City of Angels. Or the City of Supernaturals, would be a more appropriate title. Hector looked out from the cab window, seeing lights shining through the dark smog like stars in the night sky. He had been traveling with no clear destination in mind, simply asking the taxi driver to just drive. The taxi driver was a rather inauspicious man with dark sunglasses and a thick accent. As Hector turned his head to look around the car, he saw the taxi driver staring at him in the rear view mirror. Hector didn't understand how he could see him in the reflection, as Lasombra are invisible in mirrors. What kind of man was this cab driver?

"Ah, so you must be the American Lasombra Antitribu, the Dark Angel Hector. I've heard about you. A former Sabbat who doesn't believe in myths and legends. I've met many who try to cast off Jyhad, those who believe they are above the legend of Caine and his legacy. Those who have come to the conclusion that there is no person or group they can pledge loyalty to." The cab driver said. Hector was taken aback. The seemingly inconspicuous cab driver knew much about him. "Wait, just who the hell are you?" Hector demanded.

"I am just a driver. As for you, you walk the path of both legends and pariahs. I have walked with many like you, but they all end up in the same place: emptiness." The cab driver said. "Hmm...well I've survived so far on this path, the politics have always bored me anyways. I'm sure nothing is going to change in these nights." Hector said. "Your confidence in your abilities arouses my interest, kindred." The cab came to a stop outside an alleyway and the door unlocked. "Let's see what the Dark Angel has to offer this city. Our drive ends here." Hector stepped out of the car and walked into the alleyway. He saw some figures in the distance, they were muttering something about the Sabbat. On closer inspection, their skin was pale and some of their arms were elongated and clawed. The cab driver had dropped him off at a Sabbat meeting, it would seem. Even though the cab had driven off, Hector could still feel the driver watching him.

Hector walked up to the Shovelheads, who turned to him. "Ah just who the hell is this guy?" said one of the Sabbat. More vampires walked out behind him. "Wait, I know that face. This guy is that Lasombra Antitribu! Oh yes, if we were to take his head, there would be quite the reward." One of the vampires said. "Well alright then, I'll let one of you fledglings take the first swing!" Hector said, pointing to one of the vampires. The vampire ran up and drove his claws into Hector, but only hit nothingness as Hector dissipated into shadow. "Where the hell did he go?!" Screamed one of the Sabbat. Suddenly, a darkness started to blanket the alleyway. The Sabbat started to panic as they could not see a thing. "I'm right behind you" Hector whispered into one of their ears. Before he could react, Hector grabbed the vampire and threw him into another one, colliding them into the wall as they evaporated into red mist.

The darkness faded away as the vampires saw Hector wiping off his hands. "All right, I'm going to give you all another shot. This time, I'll even let you hit me." Hector said, with his arm stretched out beckoning them to attack. Four of the vampires surrounded him, and charged. They all impaled their claws into Hector at once. "Hahaha, looks like we got em', boys". One of the Sabbat said. "Wait, what the fuck is this?!" Dark tentacles began sprouting out from Hector's body, they had impaled the vampire's hands. More tentacles sprouted out as they impaled the four vampires and extended them into the air. The tentacles all receded at once, and they vampires evaporated into red mist. "Pffft...seems like they'll just embrace anyone in the Sabbat these days." Hector thought to himself. Hector calmly walked out of the alley and began walking through the desolate streets. "There's got to be somewhere more interesting than these streets to be." Hector thought.

Just as he turned the corner, he heard music and many people talking. He looked to the source of the noise, and saw a place labeled the Sunset Lounge. A watering hole, huh? Just the kind of place he was looking for. Hector entered the building and saw an entourage of supernaturals in all corners of the bar. He took a seat opposite from a large group of powerful looking vampires and observed them quietly, listening in on their conversation. To his right was a Ventrue with two women accompanying him and to his left was a rather young looking man with a woman with him. "Let's see where this night goes..." Hector thought.

Old timey music blared through the speakers in the compact room, it stank of something foul but that stench stopped affecting the occupant of the place. On one of the walls a black and white film played, the actors in it long since dead. A vintage projector emitted the film as it sat in the center of the room on a small table, as dusty as everything around it. The reel turning gently as the film neared its conclusion. As the characters onscreen conversed, the pale man watching the film laid back in his seat, focused completely on the motion picture in front of him.

Trask had been gifted the old recliner years ago, it was worn out and creaked whenever he moved it, the once fine leather was heavy with cuts and marks. But he couldn't complain about a gift, if anything life in the sewers had mellowed his once fine tastes. His predatory yellow eyes stared at the screen, lips pursed in a comfort filled smile.

"Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship..."

Then the trumpets blared as the film ended, Trask watched all the way up to the final screen. His eyes hovered over the sight of the Warner Bros insignia, he had starred in some of their films. He was dwelling in nostalgic feelings, a tear would fall from his undead eyes if he still could get himself to cry.

"You ever gonna watch anything from this century, you old fart?" Another malformed vampire said as he leaned against the opening to the small room.

He had watched the last few minutes of film, rolling his eyes the whole time. George was one of the more recent Nosferatu that lived in the sewers with Trask and the other outcasts. He mostly meant the comment in a joking way, but it always amused him how much Trask enjoyed these old outdated pictures. The old vampire's room was a testament to that love, worn out film posters, film reels on a shelf, it was a funny thing to see.

"You know I prefer the classics." Trask replied in his low, dark tone of speaking.

His voice had dropped in volume during his transformation, nothing on him had been saved from mutilation. A single long, skeletal finger reached out to turn off the projector, then Trask rose from his comfortable position. He stretched out his unnatural frame, cracking his knuckles and bones as he did so.

"Are you heading off somewhere?" George asked as he approached Trask, tapping his fingers together impatiently.

"I'm going to have a drink in the lounge, and meet a friend there." The elder Kindred said as he walked to one side of his room, over to a dusty wooden dresser.

The dresser door came open with an creak, then Trask pulled some clothes from the inside of it. An old grey Dodgers' hoodie and a pair of knockoff sunglasses. He remembered when the Dodgers played in Brooklyn. It was strange for him, another flashback to a better life. He went to few games back then, hadn't been to one in decades, for well, obvious reasons.

"You have friends?" George inquired jokingly.

"Yes, aren't you one of them?" Trask replied as he dug through the dresser.

"With that face of yours I'm sure some pretty lady will love to have a drink with you while you're there." George said sarcastically with a wide smirk, showing his sharp teeth as he made himself laugh.

"I'm not going out for women, asshole." Trask said affirmatively as he walked past George, a long middle finger raised towards the other Nosferatu.

"I know, just playing with you. Don't get yourself killed up there Trask. All us uglies will miss you down here." George called out with another smile as Trask left his humble dwelling.

He stepped into the knee deep waters in the tunnels outside of his den, the discolored, stench filled liquid shaking and moving with each of his footsteps. He had to try his best to avoid ending up to smelly from his familiar walk through the tunnels. His looks were enough to turn away others, he didn't need to stink in an overbearing way to accompany that. Trask was silent as he strolled down the sewers which were now his home, his own disgusting little refuge.

---

A manhole cover in a back alley slowly shook, then with one final push was set aside as the source of its movement climbed up from the final steps of the ladder. Trask stood under the moonlight for a brief moment, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the surface world. Bugs chirped above him, a dog barked in the distance and horns sounded in the streets. His stance was unusual, more akin to a stalking animal than a man. He left the manhole uncovered, hoping that no one would fall down it. They'd be in for a world of surprise, the thought bringing a smile to his scarred face.

A homeless laid amongst a heap of dirty blankets and old newspapers, Trask could hear the man's snores. As he walked towards him silently, his eyes instinctively went to the man's neck. He saw a dirty grey beard sprouting from the penniless fellow's lower face. The vampire briefly considered quietly lower his fangs down upon the man's neck, and having a little drink before he went into the lounge. Then for some reason decided not to, instead he reached into one of the pockets of his pants and pulled out a crumbled ten dollar bill. The monetary piece of paper wafted in the breeze as he unfolded it between his pointed digits.

With a smile the Kindred slid the money into one of the man's hands, then closed his fingers over it. The money wouldn't last long, and it was likely he would just waste it on booze. But Trask could not exactly walk into a McDonald's and order the vagrant a burger. The homeless reminded him of himself in a way, outcast. At the bottom of the totem pole in society, looked down upon by many. Ever since his transformation he'd felt a strange bond with those types of mortals, the losers of life. Even if during his own mortal life he was at the top of the chain.

The back door came open with a creak as Trask's elongated fingers gently squeezed the door knob. He had his hood up, and his sunglasses on. He also tried to walk more like a human, forcing himself upright in his stride. The Lounge was a neutral ground, most of the vampires here wouldn't give him shit for being a Nos. The occasional crude comment or insult he received stopped fazing him long ago. Still, just some of the looks he received from the others in the past when he had come to this place unhinged him.

It was like they pitied him for not being one of the beautiful undead. He hated those types of looks the most, even more so than gazes of mocking. They weren't all beautiful Anne Rice type vampires, only those Toreador scumbags got that lucky. That was why he always charged them more for information, made them crawl through his disgusting, rat infested sewers and seek him out personally. It made him laugh when they did that, like they were dragged down to his level. It was the small joys in life like that.

Trask ordered himself a Jack on the rocks. Then slipped into an empty booth in the darkest corner of the room. He ignored any glances aimed his way, just kept his head down as he took a sip of the whiskey, swirling the straw between his fingers. Sinatra loved Jack, and Trask loved anything that reminded him of the past.

Bright city lights, traffic, this was definitely Los Angeles, and Shania's beige 2000 Toyota Corolla zoomed down the highway, a nice big dent in the rear bumper where she had backed into a lamp post running over a vampire's ghoul. A loud whine emitted from the engine compartment as a pulley that was loose rubbed a bearing wrong, making the rather reliable car seem more like a junker. Shania stared out the windshield, lost in her thoughts as she suddenly swerved to the right speeding down the off ramp as she almost missed her turn. "Shitty Los Angeles highways." She rolls to a stop, then turned into a parking lot, a bright golden double arch glowing yellow light across the Corolla.

For a moment Shania just sat there staring out the window, repeating to herself. "Agent Collins.. Agent Shania Collins.. I'm Agent Collins, FBI... Agent Shania Collins, FBI..." She hums a bit and picks up a bad, and ID, the badge was an authentic FBI badge she had taken off a dead agent who had a bad run in with a werewolf, the same for the ID, except now it had her picture instead of Agent Collins on it.

"Looks good enough." A groan escapes Shania's lips as she pushes the door of the Corolla open with a creak, and heads to the trunk lifting the lid to stare inside. What had been kept inside were various outfits, a set of scrubs, janitor uniform, and a nice clean pair of slacks complete with button up shirt. There also seemed to be various pairs of shoes, and a myriad of weapons that would get Shania locked up for years if she ever had her vehicle checked by the police. "Well, time to be Agent Collins."

Tank top, and jeans were quickly peeled off of Shania's form leaving her standing in the middle of the Mcdonald's parking lot in her underwear, but only for a moment as she began to put on the slacks, and button up. The shirt was a bit wrinkled, but wouldn't anyone's after a trip all the way to LA from D.C. A Glock 22 was holstered on her hip, and a pair of black flats slid onto her feet as she tossed her comfy slip on sketchers into the trunk.

"So much for vacation huh... Always thought I'd vacation here, not come here to kill monsters." And so the Corolla was off again, the loud whining blurring down the street before pulling up in front of the Santa Monica police department.

Nervousness crept up Shania's spine for a moment, but she pushed it back down as she stared at the door leading into the police station, she tugged at her wrinkled shirt managing to straighten a few wrinkles as she tucked it into her pants a bit tighter. A deep breath almos undid that though as her chest pulled the shirt upwards.

"Agent Shania Collins, FBI..." She stepped towards the door, and pushed it open rather easily walking up to the front desk, and looking at the officer behind it. "Hi. I'd like to speak with homicide, and missing persons. I'm Agent Shania Collins with the FBI... Just got transferred to LA, and I'd like to get caught up on all the cases that are suspect before meeting up with colleagues."

The officer stared at her for a long moment, before shrugging. "Alright.. Down the hall and too the left. You'll wanna talk to Robins, he's in charge of Homicide." A nod would be all that was given to the desk Jockey, before Shania stepped easily down the hall and stopped in Robin's doorway.

Leaning on the frame Shania cleared her throat to get Robin's attention. As he looked up she walked forward with her hand out stretched, that was quickly taken in a shake. "Agent Shania Collins, FBI. I'd like to review strange murder cases, and missing persons if you don't mind. I'd like to get some copies to go so I can catch up before I meet up with my team."

A suspicious look was what Shania got in return, but then Detective Robins shrugged. "Alright. let me just make a call. Make sure you are all good to go."

"You ever played coyote?"

The words came first, muffled and distorted like they came through a tin can. The pain followed after, daubed on like paint from a trowel all up and down his right arm. The next moment it was insistent, demanding and hot as it radiated up from his hand, but when he tried to jerk it back to his chest it stuck fast just like--

"Puta madre, are you fucking kidding me?!" Enrique half snarled, half whimpered as he hissed through his teeth and squeezed his eyes back shut. He'd been through a lot of things in his twenty years of life, even been shot once, but he'd never had--oh what the hell, six nails?!--punched through the back of his hand before. They stuck out at odd angles like angry little quills, big nine-goddamn-inch carpenter nails rammed right down through the table, and he had a pretty good idea who put them there as the world started catching back up with him. He could practically hear things speeding up as the adrenaline started kicking in.

"No, no, it's not a race thing." The white bitch in the black sundress admonished from where she sat across the table, flipping her hands up in an innocence that didn't bother to reach her flat, atonal voice. She raised one up over the stubble on her shaved, inked head. "Come on, man, it's not funny if I have to explain it..."

But oh, Enrique got it. He got it enough to want to get up and knock her damn teeth out, only that was what got him into this mess to begin with. She'd shown up out of nowhere while he and his homies had just been kicking back, asking to score like she wasn't marching into his fucking house, and when they told her to get lost she laughed. And then he'd pulled out his piece, smacked a bitch like she earned it, and--

Been punted across the room. Into his refrigerator. Where he must have passed out, or something, because not only did he not remember her playing Bob the Builder with his goddamn right hand, he didn't remember her turning the rest of his buddies into spare parts either. He could see them in the living room over her shoulder, lying there, soaking into his carpet and couch and...wall paper...

"Jesus Christ." He muttered and closed his eyes, trying to take a breath. Having just lost cabin pressure, he was pretty sure he was starting to hyperventilate--his breathing came quickly, his heart was starting to race. His eyes were starting to spin in his head. They were right there, man, they were right there and dead--it had just been another afternoon--

The woman snapped her fingers in front of his eyes, twice, close enough to make him blink and sharp enough to make him wince.

"Hey. Hey. Pay attention. This is the important part." She said pointedly, letting her hand slap to the table as he swallowed and tried not jump. The important part--right. Now was the time to focus. Whatever fight Enrique had in him was leaving very quickly as he tried to find somewhere to look other than... other than. The trouble was the bitch wasn't any more comforting, her shark-dark eyes bored and hungry with no more recognition of him than a pair of black marbles. There was something about the way the muscles in her shoulders moved, the way they seemed to crawl through her forearms, but she was talking and he wasn't listening. He did better, tuned in, because he had the distinct impression that if she didn't think he got the message she'd make it clearer.

"You and your little cholo assholes are done here. Okay? Donezo." She was saying, slicing a hand through the air with apathetic finality. "I mean, they don't have much choice in the matter--pretty sure you're the only one juiced up here, they haven't moved in a while--but you're officially over. No more parties, no more girls, no more little white bags of what I can only assume is at least half talcum powder, you're through. And you know who else is through on this street? Your little boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Whoever it is that put a little vamp in you? Similarly donezo." She leaned back and tugged a cigarette out of a pack that used to be his and lit it with a Bic that used to be Roy's. It cherried to life as she took her drag, watching him without changing expression, before letting the smoke out through her nose. Enrique licked his lips, trying not to panic.

"I don't--I mean, that's not--"

"Wait, wait." She interrupted, raising a hand pointedly and closing her eyes. "You're about to tell me that's not your call to make, because whatever leech is giving you his backwash has made damn sure you know that. And when you do, I'm going to backhand your jaw off and walk out that door without a care in the goddamn world. And since we've established you've never played coyote before..." She leaned over and pat him on the back of his staved-in hand, getting to her feet with the kind of wry smile that barely moved the rest of her face. "I'll cut you a break and tell you that'll make this a whole lot more difficult for you."

"So run off to see the Wizard, Dorothy." She added as she turned for the door with a two-fingered wave over her shoulder to the sweating gangbanger. "Maybe you'll get lucky and he'll give you some balls."

She flicked off the light before she left.

---

Michelle Darrens was a familiar, if not necessarily welcome, sight at the Sunset Lounge. Not because of anything she did--half the time she just drank herself into a stupor--but because drinking with her was a little like sitting across the way from an active tac nuke. Sure, it wasn't likely to go off, but did you really want to be anywhere nearby when it did?

Today was no different than most days, which meant she was there killing brain cells, boredom, and time by the droves. She wore her little black sundress like gang colors, moving with the liquid fluidity of the mildly drunk and the swagger of a John-Wayne-meets-Jason-Statham action hero. It was a cute little joke to herself, one most people never got. She slipped in past the toughs at the door with a snort at the familiar scent of death and cologne before moving for the bar top, saddling a seat and sinking to her elbows.

"Tecate and a tequila for me and whoever owned the assholes on 7th and Lake. I broke his stuff."

Hector See

The music of the Sunset Lounge filled Hector's ears as he took in the relaxed ambience of the place. Surprisingly, a place filled with so many supernaturals was a relatively nice hangout spot. Hector kicked back in his seat and gave the place another lookover, then in the corner of his eye the bartender walked over to his table carrying a Tequila. "I can't drink this." Hector thought. He turned to the bartender and asked who bought it for him and he pointed to a lady with a shaved head.

Hector walked out of his seat and approached the woman. Her skin was not pale and her nails where human. She clearly wasn't a vampire, what was she doing in a place like this? "How about you get me something a bit more...on the red side next time, lass?" Hector said to the woman.

Sunset Lounge

The benefit of being a garou and the downside of not yet being hammered was that Michelle could still tell she was surrounded by things that shouldn't exist. Admittedly in a proper world she shouldn't exist, but that was an existential-self-loathing kind of thing, not a horrible-abomination-against-creation kind of thing. It wasn't so much that she minded on an academic level at this point so much as it didn't help the urge to crawl out of her skin and gut the nearest walking corpse, but as per usual she turned back to her drink and decided against some half-cocked kamikaze bullshit.

On the other hand, there was the apparent recipient of her drink. She had to admit, he wasn't what she expected--well, in some ways he was exactly what she expected. Tall, dark, pointedly mysterious, impossibly young for the thick scent of mystically charged iron and hemoglobin electrifying dead veins and muscles, he might as well have walked out of some romance novel. Count Skullfuckula III, The Rapening; best seller.

"You know, I never can tell with you guys. I know you can't eat, but can you drink? I mean, I see you doing it all the goddamn time." She snorted at the admonishment, rolling her eyes a little as she put a thumb up to her lips and bit it hard. Her teeth were very white compared to the dull black of her eyes, but when she pulled her hand back she was licking pink off them. She tilted her thumb over the drink and gave her palm a solid squeeze, forcing an extra splash of Grade A Garou Fire-Water into the shot. Hey, look at that--a Tequila Sunrise. Now that was funny.

"There. Red enough for you?" She added without looking, bringing the digit back to her lips and sucking idly on the rent flesh. Feeling the skin crawl back together under her tongue was always a hoot.

Nathaniel

---

The Sunset Lounge was a common location, but with too much attention typically set to it's front door. Nathaniel knew other avenues, even if it meant using a long pinky nail to unfasten a steel grate, and push through while being careful to refasten said screw--the Native had made it quite clear the group didn't want the properitier of the Lounge getting bent out of shape, though no one but the Native seemed to know the whys, and she was being typically tight-lipped. He'd met Nosferatu looser-lipped than that woman, an unusually irritating trait for a Toreador, with all their pretty and flash. He would've muttered more about it, but getting out of the Lounge's basement freezer took precedent.

The black weathered to dark grey hoodie zipup sweater was unzipped, allowing a clean, freshly laundered, black longsleeved cotton collared button up dress shirt to peek from underneath. A strange item to pair with the foul smelling black trousers soiled with grime and overuse and age, but one of the damned Toreadors were responsible for stealing his appropriate smelling, dirtied, clothing and replacing them with cleaner, perfurmed, versions of their former selves. Yanci was too kind to do such a thing, so it left the bombastic blonde, or the Native. Considering the heavy artificial scent of cotton candy left behind in their wake, Nathaniel's bet was on the bombastic blonde.

"Staff Only" read the door he exited out of onto the main floor of the Sunset Lounge, dehooding to reveal a face as long as his jagged, yellowed, nails. Pale with eyes sunk deep, beady things that seemed as prone to violence as they were paranoia, darting here and there. He passed the back booths like a Coterie he belonged to wasn't sitting there, feeling their gaze as he passed, before the weight of stranger eyes distracted him from the weight of the familiar. He stole a quick look at the Native, so fast and so quickly moved away, as she rose from her booth and head for the touch screen juke box. Nathaniel snorted; he preferred the old style of jukebox. Then agian, he preferred the old style of everything to the current plastic consumerism versions of the modern world.

"Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones played. It caused another peek from Nathaniel towards the Native; a knowing smirk on her face as she stared at the touchscreen. What did it mean? Everything with the Native had a purpose, nothing was ever random. She knew something he didn't...and there were precious few things in this world that irritated him more. Nostrils flared once, twice, before his focus returned to the mission at hand: the fellow Nosferatu sitting at the table off to the side, by himself.

"NATE!" the cotton candy scented annoyance called out, and he ignored it. She was teasing him. She liked to tease. But two could play at that game; imagine the disturbance a pack of rats rampaging through a private party hosted by the annoyer attended by Hollywood starlets and their entourages could cause? Nathaniel knew. The very memory nearly drove him to smirk. Instead bloody-gnawed lips flattened into expressionlessness, his thin frame moving into the seat across from the still hooded Nosferatu. Dark eyes met dark eyes, and after a few awkwardly silent moments, Nathaniel nodded stiffly.

"Trask. We have something to discuss, although I insist you keep this close to the ves--" Nathaniel abruptly stopped speaking, eyes narrowing as the scent grew closer and closer. Ignore her, it seemed, and you only dared drawing her closer and closer until there was no ignoring her. If the unlife was good, he would rip her throat out, and smile while disfiguring her gorgeous golden image, silencing her forever and ever. Alas. It was petty, it was petulant, but it felt good when he reached over to the chair situated next to him, and knocked it over before she could reach it.

He heard it picked up from the ground, and re-situated; closer to him than it had been before, backfiring on him. "Nate." The tall California blonde bombshell was suddenly in the seat next to him, interjecting herself where she was not welcome, where she did not belong. It didn't just irritate him, either, he could see the way Trask shuffled in his chair, the way his eyes moved here and there, suddenly, as the blonde put more attention on them than either wanted. But it wasn't as bad as what she did next, sliding her arm over Nathaniel's shoulders, and leaning closer and closer, big sparkling blue eyes on Trask, smiling sweetly, before she moved those eyes back on him. "Hi, honey. You didn't hear me. So I--"

"--I heard you."

The pout was overdramatized. "Aw, why would you do such a thing, Nate?"

"I can see why your acting career struggled. At least the one where clothes were required."

Pretty blue eyes narrowed on him. He almost smiled. Almost. "HA! I saw that smile. It was there."

"No, it wasn't."

He felt her index finger poke at the corner of his mouth, his nostrils flaring, his eyes twitching at the touch. "Right there."

"Go away, you insufferable--"

"--be polite, Nate."

His eyes rolled, a long, heavy, pained sigh coming all the way from his chest to his lips to the air of the Sunset Lounge. God dammit. "Trask, Gwendalyn Parker, one of the vampiric overlords of current day Hollywood--likely the reason they produce such mindless, but pretty to look at, drivel these days."

Gwen smiled big, ignoring it, long lashes fluttering a second as she extended her hand to him, palm up.

Trask's eyes briefly stared at the blonde from under his sunglasses. A handshake from such a pretty vampire? Formalities after all. He extended his right hand out, then grasped hers firmly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." He said calmly with a friendly smile.

The blonde's eyes stared at Trask's eyes even a second longer than the second longer than it should handshook lasted, letting Trask break the touch, not her. Only then did she turn to Nathaniel, and whisper in his ear a whisper loud enough for Trask to hear. "A pleasure, Trask, don't be a stranger...and you," she said, poking Nathaniel in his ribs, "behave yourself. You boys have fun."

He waited until she was gone to lean in, letting his voice lower. "My apologies for the pushy, daft, woman. I have something important, but you must keep it quiet, report back to me, and only me, Trask. I do not joke when I say this. Not doing so could be risking both our necks. Do you understand this?"

Sunset Lounge

The woman had poured him a fine glass of sanguine fluid into the cup. "Ah, now that's a bit more like it." Hector raised the glass to his lips and gave it a drink. Hector could feel the warm blood ripping down the chute and coating his insides. He could feel his throat pulsing, his stomach clenching and thanking him and his entire body just drop a couple of degrees sending cool shockwaves through him. This was the most wondrous blood he had ever gotten his hands on, even more so than his first drink.

The blood was so good it began to overtake Hector's mind. He could feel the beast inside begging for more satiation. "More, more!" in a flash Hector bore his fangs onto the woman's neck and began to drain her. A wave of ecstasy overtook the two of them as Hector got his fill and the woman moaned in pleasure. "That feel good for you too?" Hector asked.

Eva, Andre, Rachel

---

"Get. Off."

The room stopped, the Elders off to the side huddling together silent and staring, as the Baroness of Los Angeles stood like a sentinel just behind both Hector and Michelle. Andre stood just to the side of Hector, Rachel standing further off to the side of Michelle--far enough where a raging Garou wouldn't be able to immediately swipe at her. The small army of roughs standing outside the Lounge silent, and staring into the establishment through the front windows, focusing on Hector, focusing on the Baroness, and waiting for Andre to make a signal.

Hector removed himself, Eva stepping in between the offender and the Garou just a beat slower than the sound barrier, her eyes on the Garou, her back to the dead man. "Andre, remove this creature."

Up and out Hector went, the Brujah battlemaster shoving Hector through the front door with no more than a, "Bye Felicia!" That left Hector and his bloodied mouth staring at a group of black and silver clad badass Brujah having already encircled him, more of them than the twenty that had been standing in front of the Lounge just moments before. A single beat of beatless hearts, and the beatdown began just outside the Lounge.

Most in the Lounge didn't see it; most sets of eyes were on the Baroness and the Garou. Eva smiled, cool, calm. "Rachel."

The small Ventrue nearly jumped, telling whoever was on the phone to 'hold on a second', "Yes?"

"See to our damaged friend, here, please."

Rachel blinked, and swallowed, hard. Looking up at Michelle, her eyes the size of saucers as she muttered quickly into the iPhone, "Call you back." The phone dissappeared into a pocket, Eva and Andre already back at the back booth, Gwen still staring from her seat in the back booth, whispering something to Eva. Something Eva only smiled at.

"Um, here," Rachel reached for the bar, finding Henry standing there, offering a clean white towel. Her eyes thanking Henry with more emphasis than the mouthed Thank you before she turned back to the big bad wolf. "Our apologies for the rudeness of the offending party," spoken like a lawyer, spoken with nerves, spoken like an awkward fish out of water and in much more dangerous waters. "Um, here! For your...uh, wound." Rachel handed Michelle the towel, on tippy toes and trying to get a better look at the wound, difficult as the scent of that blood made thinking straight. "If you'd like to sit and discuss ways for the Barony to make this situation right?"

Spoken as the brawl outside began to rage.

Outside the Sunset Lounge

In a flash, Hector was outside the lounge before he could realize what was going on. There was a large group of brujah surrounding him and some mortals walking around the streets. It looked like Obtenebration was out of the picture.

"Well look what we got here, some high and mighty Lasombra. You think you can frenzy in that lounge like that. Frenzy around Andre?" the thugs said.

"Hmm...well I couldn't resist after having such a sweet taste of blood in there. How could you blame me?" Hector said.

"Cocky bastard, huh? Don't do that in public again or we'll do a lot worse than break your damn legs!" The Brujah said, surrounding Hector.

Hector activated Potence and punched one of the Brujah, sending him flying into another. Two more Brujah surrounded him and hit in the back of the head with a baseball bat. "You...that kinda stung!" Hector said, mildly annoyed. He took the baseball bat and smashed it into the Brujah's face. He was hitting much harder than normal, knocking the thugs out in one hit. The woman's blood must be empowering him. Over 20 more Brujah surrounded Hector, and a fight wasn't starting tolook like the most optimal solution to this predicament.

"You didn't see anything." Hector said, waving his hands and dominating the Brujah. He quickly ran for the next block and onto a new destination.

Sunset Lounge

Teeth.

He was on her in a flash of dark hair and dark suit, pointed teeth breaking skin and flooding Michelle's nerves. Pain, yes, but not nearly as much of it as she would have liked--pleasure hijacked her system in rogue bursts, re-writing whatever it was she was meant to feel about having some leech stuck to her neck. It radiated, coiled, pumped out along with her blood onto his awful tongue, and if she gasped with a bit of a moan on the end of her breath it likely was stolen.

Worse was that it was over in a flash. Her muscles were crawling, her breath was coming heard, her blood was louder in her ears than the music around her, but the half-dozen goddamn vampires crowding around her didn't include the asshole who'd nipped her. They included all sorts of Head Bitch level people, and if Michelle had been looking forward to tangling with Andre one of these days now and here were not the time. The only trouble was convincing herself of that, because God did it sound like what she wanted to do right now. What could have been more satisfying than letting those crawling muscles under her skin burst free? Than whipping around and burying a claw into Pretty-Miss-Thing's tucked little tummy, than turning around and feeling her secretary's skull split between teeth like railway spikes? Like--

Stop. Focus.

She was talking to her, the short one. Babbling on about reparations or towels or what the fuck ever. Didn't she know she should be running? That it was a matter of how many vamps would go down before they could stop her, and that logically it would be the ones closest to her that went first? But this wasn't Michelle's first rodeo, and it wasn't going to be the last time she nearly ripped a dance floor apart. So she turned her swollen black eyes to the counter and spread her fingers over its mirrored circus and focused. She could feel it clawing its way through the skin, through the holes in hers, and she would...not...let...it...win.

It was a handy little trick. She'd learned it from some Child of Gaia peacenik who'd been in her first pack and been damn grateful she had ever since--turning a frenzy inward wasn't easy, and it hurt like a sonofabitch, but it was better than waking up wondering whose liver was stuck between her teeth. Just think about the people, she forced herself to remember, all those people whose lives would end in an instant because she couldn't hold herself together. It was visible, too, her fingers cracking the bar top under forearms tight as iron bars. Her eyes flooded and beaded red at the corners, her tongue tasted blood, but she held on--one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi--

And it passed.

She breathed out low as she did, licking away the blood at her own lips and swallowing it back even as she brought a hand to her eyes and smeared the red of it over the back of her wrist. Rolling her shoulders, she even managed a bark of a laugh as she took the little creature's towel and ran it over her face and neck. It hurt--fuck yeah it hurt--but it was another little fuck you to Big Bad in there and Michelle was no stranger to pain.

"You," she pointed out wryly, coughing past the knot in her throat, "are a brave little bitch, you know that?" Spitting the rest of the blood into the towel and tossing it to the counter disdainfully, Michelle sat up straight and unkinked her neck while her breathing worked its way back to normal. "Next time you see someone like me get chomped by someone like that you run for the hills, cupcake. We're not all so cute and cuddly."

She drained her tequila, sucking it past her sharp teeth and feeling it scream down her torn-but-healing throat before setting the glass faux-daintily back to the counter. Now it was the Ventrue that had her attention, and she smiled a little crocodile smile.

"But sure, honey. Let's talk reparations."

Rachel

---

"Brave? No." Rachel smiled. And then actually began to laugh, a little, before simply residing to amusement. "Oh, no. I was terrified--am terrified, actually. But that didn't matter, and still doesn't. The woman that ordered that ill-mannered fiend off you? I'd leap into Final Death if she needed me to. My unlife would be a state worse than Final Death if it wasn't for her. So when she moved..." I moved. It's what we do for each other. But none of that really needed to be said aloud, did it? Rachel thought not.

But the woman's point was taken, just so long as she realized Rachel's counter-point: Eva wouldn't have publicly backed down. Not even from a Garou; suicidal, sure, but you don't make friends with creatures you definitely shouldn't make friends with if you only followed the natural (and supernatural) order of things in the world. Fear doesn't make friends, so you stand there, unflinching, and smile, and offer a helping hand. Suicidal, sure, but Eva was still standing. And because of that attitude, Rachel was standing right next to her, Princes allowing Rachel to go unhunted, kill orders suspended.

The iPhone went off again. Rachel slipped a hand into her pocket, and silenced it. A few seconds later, it happened again, and her mind was forced in half; half of her bringing the phone out to quick text a response, the other still in conversation with the big bad wolf woman. "I know what you are, I know what your kind can do to my kind, believe me. Still this world doesn't come down to martial skill alone anymore. Last time we dealt with a group of your kind who refused to play nice, that woman threatened one of their holy sites with enough radiation to ensure you'd be turned into a glow stick if you tried to use it for...whatever your kind uses it for. Then it'd be handed over to Federal authorities for clean up, which would've meant so much more headaches and trouble than getting cranky with a very nice one of my kind was really worth. Never was physical violence threatened, not by our side, anyway. Oddly enough the biker gang of your kind still shows up for BBQs on the beach from time to time, and they're downright friendly, even if they smell like..."

Text done, her mind fully returned to whom she speak to, and her words trailed off. Well, smell like you kinda do now. Another something better left unsaid, hushed behind a tiny hint of blushing smile. "Another shot, Mr. Locke, on Ms. Eva's tab?..." Her brown eyes had grown soft, even if the wheels within wheels of her thoughts were in constant motion just past the softness. "Youknowwhat, just leave the bottle, Mr. Locke, please."

"WHATTHEFUCK JEW GIRL."

Rachel jumped, before groaning, dread and exasperation thick in her voice; the "super agent" had exploded into the Sunset Lounge, not seeming to notice the blood he walked past to get in. "Not now, Theo."

But there he was, persistent, right behind her, all million dollar Agent with the designer suit, shoes, and sunglasses to match. He wasn't the tallest; Michelle was likely taller, but his presence was pretty well demanding for a mortal man with no ties to anything supernatural; other than the power of his Contact list, and the power of his super Agency. His tone lowered, but not the combatant nature of it, as he stepped up behind them, ignoring the fact Rachel had been speaking to someone else. Ignoring Michelle's existence completely, so far. "Who the fuck gave Badlands to McConaughey?"

Rachel only turned her head, her voice becoming sharper with each syllable. "Uh, maybe the Director? McConaughey asked for much less than your client, and didn't demand a Producer credit."

"My client? You mean Leo-motherfuckin-DiCaprio? That Texas Irish fuck couldn't out act my client if it was on a stage in Texas and they were both playing an Irish cocksucker FROM Texas."

Rachel stared, Theo Finestein fumed. "How do I talk to her? I'm going over your head on this one."

"Talk to the Studio President?" Rachel smiled, now, knowing Finestein doing so wouldn't have matter. Not when--

--he knew why. How he knew, she could only guess. Theo Finestein wasn't supernatural, but it was easily forgotten that he wasn't with how good he was at his job. "She owns the Warner Brothers President, with what black voodoo fucking magic I have no idea, but don't play games with me, Rothkopf. How do I talk to her? How do I get a phone into her mother. fucking. hand?"

Her smile never budged. In fact, Rachel Rothkopf only seemd to get more relaxed. "You don't need a phone to talk to her, Theo."

...the man's demeanor changed, instantly. He knew something was up. Knew Rachel had something he didn't, some knowledge he didn't possess. Suddenly his sweetest smile came out, his tone gentle, even downright friendly. Like an old friend. "C'mon, Rachel. Last year at Sundance, who was there for you? The year before after the Oscars? You even remember that?"

Rachel's eyes danced; from Theo, back to Michelle, back to Theo again. His eyes followed, and for the first time, seemed to see Michelle. "...hey." Then back again to his prey, like a bloodhound who couldn't be shaken from the trail. "What is it? Is she here?"

She but pointed in the direction of the back of the bar's main room. He followed, moved a few steps to the left, peeked...and grinned like Lucifer in the middle of a deal at the crossroads. When he came back to Rachel, he was quiet, hushed, careful not to be overheard...but the excitement in the mortal man was impossible to contain in full. "The motherfuckin' Don herself is here! How do I look?...better than your dyke ass lookin' friend here, huh? I'mjustkidding. Whew."

"Go away, Theo."

Gone he was, approaching Eva's back booth like a peasant to a King, humble, respectful, as charming as he could possibly be--which was surprisingly charming, when Theo wanted to be. Eva would see through it, but there's no telling what she might decide; it didn't matter to Eva who the better actor was. It mattered to Eva who was better for the movie in question. Who was best for the overall project, which would contribute to making the piece of art as good as it could be. Sometimes the politics of Hollywood, and mortal celebrities, got in Eva's way of artistic perfection. Most the time, however, it didn't.

"Anyway. I have to apologize; some of these Hollywood agents you can't ignore, otherwise they'll hunt you down and make a scene. My name is Rachel, and if our intelligence is to be believed your name is...Michelle?" She waited for any sign of body communication that said she wasn't wrong, before continuing. "So I do apologize, Michelle, for the interruption. Reparations, right? Would would be best for you; a lump sum? Real estate, if you're new to the city and need a safe haven? We have a stilt house in the hills that might be up your alley; surrounded by trees, far from neighbors, not large but with amazing views and good architecture. There's also a few options in Malibu, those are even more private, if the beach is your thing? Whatever it is, I'm sure the two of us can come to some sort of agreement that would allow the Baroness and yourself to part ways from this incident without feeling anyone was uncared for."

This, now, was Rachel in her comfort zone: dealing with super agents, hammering out terms to a deal, etc.

Sunset Lounge

What. The. Hell. First she was getting half of the Ventrue's life story, then she was getting half-ignored, half-insulted by some jackass in a suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. After playing blood bank for some Don Juan motherfucker! It was turning out to be a hell of a night, but at least she wasn't bored. And, after that little speech, she was even a little interested in the "JEWGIRL" who was so willing to die for some other leech in a nice dress. She seemed sort of sweet in that earnest, awkward, don't-look-at-me-outside-business-hours sort of way, but as she listed off the dozen and a half things that could be done to earn Michelle's good will back the woman couldn't help but smile, and cup her hand under her chin.

She didn't know the first thing about Michelle.

With her other hand she poured herself another three or four fingers from the bottle the 'tender had dropped off--he'd even brought it up a bit too, thanks probably to the little lawyer's presence, and the reposado she tasted was an awful sight better than the well she'd purchased to begin with. If Rachel thought Michelle would be intimidated by the mention of Eva's new potential Chernobyl she had another thing coming, but frankly Michelle didn't like pissing contests. She was way more entertained by the idea of throwing the little thing back out from her land of organization and bitchy politics.

"Your phone." She said lazily, setting her glass down and reversing the hand to lie it flat out for the brunette.

The Empire of Salt and Fire
Collab: Ezekiel and Fallen Muse



"May Caine shroud us in Glory."

The chant was repeated the moment it escaped the lips of the Archbishop. The gathering, despite its severity, was only small. Deep in the North-Mexican foothills, the buried sacred hall of the Sabbat had been build to hold hundreds, but for now, a precious few. The Archbishop himself, a trio of bishops, and a small pack of Black Hand agents.

"We are gathered, that we might invest in our chosen childer but a fragment of your power, of your divine will, to carry out your will." He stepped forwards from the alter, a chalice of blood between his hands. All Sabbat endured the rite of Vinculum, among their pack, but, for those ascending to higher realms of power, a new bond must be formed with the others of their rank, and the chalice contained the vitae of all those assembled.

The chosen individual in question, knelt before them, at the base of the stairs leading up to the Sacrificial Alter of Caine. Garbed in the Sacred Black Robes of the Sabbat; in her case, cut to best display the perfectly sculpted form of the Tzimisce beneath.

"Rise, and drink deeply, of the gifts of Caine."

The dark brown pupils of Anastasia danced about to those other figures present, though she gave off a facade of focus on the Arch Bishop before her. Her robes seemed to differ greatly from those around her, cut to be just above mid thigh, and dripping low enough in the front to dive right past her ample cleavage. Her movements slow and purposeful even as she knelt. Ana's hands reaching forward and easily holding the chalice and taking deep droughts of the blood of those above her in rank. Drops of it rolled down her chin as it escaped from the corners of her lips.

"Et nomine Caine, et patris, et gladius, et sanguis sancti." the words move softly from those perfectly full lips crafted over time to become what Ana considered the most desirable, every part of her meticulously worked on to befit her own ideal of beauty.

"Your faith in me in allowing me the opportunity to take Los Angeles on behalf of the Sabbat is gracious indeed." 'If a bit over due.' "And so I submit all my power to conquering the land in the name of Caine, and the congregation here." Ana stands up slowly, her eyes moving once more between those gathered.

"And so I will travel to LA as soon as the Congregation releases me to do so." She folded her hands in front of her, awaiting the Arch Bishop's verdict.

"You are released from your bonds here, but never from your duty to Caine, childer, may his eyes weight upon you, till his judgement comes." The Archbishop's response was filled with the vindictive fervour of the true believe, placing a palm on the forehead of the newly blessed kindred, before descending the steps to stand level with her.

"A few scattered packs of our brethren survive in Los Angeles, but you will be free to take more soldiers of our cause with you. Your primary task is to find the Icons, then secure the city for the Sabbat. Tell our warriors there what you will, but a city is less important to us than the resurrection of a God." He waved a hand, to dismiss the gathered elders, eventually, after some moments, leaving the pair alone in the darkened halls.

"Are your duties clear?"

Standing there with the Arch Bishop Anastasia watched the other leaved, feeling empowered by the fact that her contributions had finally been recognized. Her head swiveled towards the Arch Bishop as he repeated the question from before. The vampiress gave a nod of acceptance to the idea of doing whatever was necessary.

"Of course Arch Bishop, it is my place to do as the Sabbat wishes even give my eternity for them." She began to move in whichever direction the Arch Bishop indicated, listening intently to his advice.

"There is a Toreador we have had some contact with in LA, he bears the name Alexander Stone, he has, in his own way, been preparing Los Angeles for our return. You may find him...unconventional, but he will be a useful tool in your task. That is all I can offer you, beside the blessing of Caine." The Archbishop once more placed his hand upon her brow, marking it with a stamp of blood, forming the Blade of Caine, before rolling down her features.

"Journey with his eyes upon you."

Los Angeles

The roar of the jets engines engulfed the private runway as Anastasia's private jet took its place on the runway. It coasted for a bit before it came to a stop in front of a private hangar. The stairs slowly lowered from the side, and from the jet walled a man stoic and stern first, followed by a tattooed Hispanic girl, and finally Anastasia, she was dressed in a dark purple dress fit tight to her body.

It wasn't long before Anastasia and her retinue found themselves in a private lounge, mostly ghouls and humans, a few of them giving off quite the delicious scent. 'No time for that unfortunately' Anastasia thought to herself as she flicked her eyes about the room. Finally she gave up and said aloud. "Alexander stone." Everyone stopped and stared. "If you are not Alexander Stone then I suggest you avert your fucking eyes and mind your own business."

Despite the overt display of aggressive tone, and the 'muscle' to back it up, the calming noise of the lounge-piano continued to waft through the air, as most of the present Ghouls and Kindred scattered for their own good, or simply a lack of desire to deal with any dramatics. The figure sitting at the instrument had his back turned to the new arrivals, playing away with deft skill, right until they would approach behind him, spinning around on the stool set before the jet black piano.

"Ah, that would be me, a pleasure." He slapped his knees before standing. Tall, and garbed in a perfectly tailored suit, for now the jacket hanging off his shoulder, he bowed theatrically, taking the Tzimisce's hand as he rises, planting a kiss upon her fingers, before letting go, rising to his full height, all in a motion faster than the trio could respond to, but still able to see every detail.

"They didn't mention you'd be stunning."

Cold eyes stared into Alexander's own eyes. Drinking him in so to say. She slowly let her hand fall to her side. "So you are the vampire that calls no no one family." She lifted a single hand and waved them towards a side door.

"Let us talk, and ride. I would prefer to be on the move seeing the sights while you explain to me exactly what is happening in this city." She seemed to ignore Alexander's rather optimistic behavior, preferring to be all business. Anastasia moved through the door followed closely by Maria, while Ulrich stayed behind to walk behind Alexander, and staring at the Toreador as if he might attack Anastasia at any moment.

"Fear not, there's a rather large, fancy car, awaiting." Alexander's tone remained the same, jovial, to the point of carelessness, as he pointed towards a certain door. He walked with a slight spring to his step, almost as if he was about to break into dance, but not quite, turning his body to half-wave at the ex-Teutonic Knight tailing him. With the power of the private lounge's aircon, stepping out into the LA night brought on a rise of heat. The car awaiting them was indeed as described, jet black, the Sedan limousine purred as its engine ran, a Ghoul holding the doors open for them all, before taking his place as the driver, a thick sheen of sound-proof glass shortly separating him from those within the travelling compartment of the vehicle.

"L.As a nice little mess of a city of late, the Anarchs and the Camarilla have been going at it, but then, it's broken down to the point no one really cares 'which' side you were on, new alliances being drawn every day." His gaze alternated between the Sabbat elder, and the view of the shining city rolling by, as if he couldn't quite decide which was more interesting, before finally settling on her.

"There are very few Elders left on any side, we've been pruning the herd."

As she slid into the stretch limo, Anastasia looked over to Maria, and held out a hand. The ghoul knowing exactly what her Mistress wanted handed a Ipod to her. It seemed as if Anastasia was only half listening, though in reality she was fully paying attention. Within moments the bluetooth radio was playing a rather old song in Spanish to which Anastasia began to let her head sway back and forth a bit, mouthing the words as they were sung.

"No peudo vivir, si vivir es sin ti... No puedo vivir, ya no puedo dar mas." She stopped as there was talks of prunin the Elders. She leaned forward, her fingers tapping on her knees a bit cautious now at the idea that this Toreador had been helping murder the older vampires.

"I see.. There are no plans to try and murder me from you are there?" Her nails grew longer by the second sharper, but then retracted as she took control of her thoughts. "I am of course joking, who is in charge of anything then? If there is anyone in charge. I do hate clutter, it makes things much more difficult to take hold of the world."

"You? Oh no, I've never murdered anything quite so delightful." He chuckled, his eyes passed over her growing claws for the moment, but he other wise did not react, remaining calm, and reclined, in his seat, one hand moving as if he was still playing a piano, going over the keys of a for-now silent song. He ceased as he continued;

"Some of the Anarch eldership remain, and I imagine the Camarilla are beginning to seed the city." He paused before continuing, tapping a hand on one shoe, resting on his knee, as he collected his thoughts; "Primarily though, you may have heard rumours of an elder working behind the scenes to safeguard the Anarch States, Christopher Houghton, he's very much real, and the main obstacle to any outsiders taking power. It will be hard to force him to appear, however, and much harder still to do anything about it."

A single sound was the only retort to Alexander's talk of Christopher, a rather dismissive snort coming from Ulric's direction. Meanwhile Maria had gone to sprawling herself out and playing angry birds on her phone, the sound of green piggies being killed quite audible.

"What Ulrich meant to say is that this Elder is a miniscule obstacle in the larger picture. This city is in chaos and in major need of a change. I will offer that change. In the meantime I want you to put word out that any Sabbat who have forgotten their ways have a single chance to return to the fold, to find and repledge themselves under my leadership. I promise the rewards will be greater than they could have ever wanted." Anastasia taps her lips for a moment. "I understand you consider yourself independent, but know that if you join me I will reward you for all the work you do for me. Do not answer now. Give it some consideration." Ana slowly crossed her legs placing her palms in her lap as she leaned back a bit and turned her head to stare out the window.

"In the meantime let's dispense with this scenery, and find somewhere with more kindred. I would like to make my presence known."

"Ah yes, we should be arriving shortly, sorry to be dull, but we're heading to another airport. I've gathered what brethren would listen to me there, ready for you. Although, I can't imagine they could ever be truly prepared." He eyed her like a connoisseur would eye a fine wine, drinking in deeply the perfected sight of the Bishop, without losing any of the cool facade he projected.

"You have my services, my lady, let us see what we can do for each other." His shark-like grin stretched across his face, before he was up, seat belt clicked off, door thrown open. "We're here." Bob Hope Airport was considerably smaller than the International Airport Anastasia had arrived at earlier. A primarily domestic airport, it had fallen into Sabbat hands as part of the reclamation of the Cartels, and had survived the recent conflict simply by being not important enough to be worth the resources. They had arrived only a few steps from the entrance onto Terminal A. A group of five ghouls stood guard for them, Alexander paused only to allow Anastasia to proceed before him. Once the doors opened onto her, she was to meet with the assembled throng of the Sabbat.

Only a quartet of Sabbat packs remained, that had attended, totally something around forty kindred, each awaiting a message from on high, eagerly.

Being told that an arrangement had already been made for her arrival. "Very good Alexander." The words came out like someone giving praise to a puppy for not pissing on the floor.

Her stride carried her easily though it also bore a momentous amount of hip swaying as she pushed open the door to the meeting place, a look of disappointment quickly growing across her features.

"This is it?" Her head turned slightly toward Alexander. "This will not do." Once more she stared at those gathered, drinking in their auras. Anastasia's frown furthered as she began to shake her head.

"No... Contact the Arch Bishop. I will need experienced warriors. In the mean time the rest of you seek out whoever you know. Grow in strength. Also find me a nosferatu, a particularly knowledgeable preferably."

Alexander seemed more amused by her frustration than anything, surveying the assembled Sabbat before they left, already, on their tasks, giving one a cheerful wave, before stepping out towards the centre of the terminal, the clack of his finely cobbled shoes filling their air; "You would do well to not underestimate them, it has not been easy for Sabbat to survive in his city." Standing in the dead centre of the atrium hall, he looked up at the now unlit arrival screens.

"Ah, a Nosferatu, I can do, you'll find my contacts 'far' more useful, than anyone you ship in from 'down South' I should thing." He spun on his heel once more, to face her, as he spoke. For a brief moment, he allowed his aura to blaze through, aware she would have been reviewing the power of those available to her. In comparison to the waifs of Sabbat that remained, Alexander burned like a bright star before her.

With pursed lips Anastasia simply nodded at the Toreador. She walked towards him a hand out to her side to keep Ulrich at bay while Maria was still off in the corner playing games on her phone.

"I like your enthusiasm Alexander." She reached out to stroke a finger over his cheek, the tingling magic of viccisitude only touching the Toreador for a split second.

"If you were not so important and powerful I would definitely try to add you to my collection." She made a sniffling sound. "Any chance we can find something to eat? I like twins. Preferably female."

"Ah, perhaps one day, my lady, I might yet outgrow my use." Alexander smirked, his flesh still alive with the briefest touch of her power. As their contact finished, he removed a phone from his pocket. One speed dial away, when she mentioned the need to feed. Of all the many contacts one could have in Hollywood, a casting director had many uses for the Kindred, especially one with a moral complex to put off a serial killer.

"Twins, female. Yes, I would imagine preferably identical. Usual delivery. Penthouse." The few words were spoken, and the call was ended, the smart phone returned to his pocket, and the grin to his lips. "Feel free to bring company, but we shall have to retire to my 'place.' This would hardly be suitable." He gestures to their surroundings, before motioning towards the entrance. "Shall we?"

Anastasia lit up at the sudden conclusion for her request to eat. She twisted a bit and began to walk towards the door as it was motioned to.

"Wonderful also Ulrich will have whatever else we can gather. He is not picky." Anastasia had let down that cold hard appearance in place of one that was quite hungry, and would soon be fulfilled.

An evening at the Sunset was more than a distraction from the otherwise day-to-day grind of eking out an unlife that’s only real purpose, at times, seemed vague and meaningless. Moving forward only to step back a few paces just to survive another night in a City swarming with predators. And yet, somehow many of them ended up at the Sunset for the same reasons, perhaps not always aligned, but similar reasons: We all need a break from the shit.

Nicolaus strolled through the all-too-familiar entryway of the lounge with an arm around Elizabeth’s lower back as they passed through, it’s walls filled with photographs, paintings, and sculptures of times gone, but continued to remain embedded in the minds of Elders who didn’t forget where they came from or, to a greater extent, why they were still around. A few curious stares, friendly nods, and firm handshakes from various Ventrue kinsmen, as well as outside clans came and went as they usually did those evenings he decided to show up, and a respectful nod to the proprietor behind the bar as Nico escorted his companion to their usual table atop the wide landing of the stairs that lead part-way to the second level. At this time of the evening it was rather out of the way from the crowds, which is what they both wanted tonight. The handful of servers in the main “Lounge” were busily preparing themselves for the evening, a few greeting the couple as they took their usual seats, and one in particular, a small framed Native American girl with a defined face, waved to them as she pulled a particular vintage of wine from behind the counter.

“I do like that young lady..” Nico said with a slight smirk, unfolding the cloth napkin that was part of the table placement, and using it to polish the silver raven head pommel at the top of his walking cane.

The other snorted, sipping a glass of spring water that was laid out specifically for her. “You only like her because she knows what you enjoy, you old bastard.”

“Well, if it wasn’t for the selective vitae that I’m forced to imbue due to a refined…flaw in our clan’s lineage, then I wouldn’t have to be so picky.”

“You picked me, didn’t you?” Elizabeth smiled sarcastically, her full lips separating to reveal perfect teeth. “And I’ve always been more ‘refined’ than you.”

Nicolaus grinned. “That you have, fräulein, and yet-”

He paused for a moment, staring into the woman's steel blue eyes, a puzzled expression on her face until she too realized what he was thinking, as Liz had been with the vampire long enough to read him like a dime-store novella.

“It’s not going to happen, Nico.” She sighed, nursing the now half glass of icewater. “I don’t want to be like you, like any of you. And you know this…”

Elizabeth’s words soared through his mind as they had several times in the past, knowing that her mortality was the only thing she cherished in a world fallen to the most vile of creatures, and living in an eternal darkness was not her idea of “living” at all. Her Romany heritage, a proud line dating back countless centuries, were the more adamant -some would say “stubborn” even- of mortals living through the threats of vampires, werewolves, wraiths, and any other supernatural entity thrown their way, and holding onto humanity until their dying breath. They wanted nothing to do with the underground realms where nightmares thrived and erupted over the earth in waves of plague and pestilence. Her people were Hunters of his kind, choosing never to fall prey to the ravaging teeth of darkness and betrayal. Nicolaus knew of this, but he also knew that ever since the day he saved her from the raging apartment fire that consumed her family, she was indebted to him until her last days, and he would protect all that she was, even if from herself.

“Hey, good to see you two lovebirds again.” Momentary silence was broken by the young waitress, who came bearing a beautiful smile and the bottle of wine she previously retrieved from behind the bar, plus two glasses, which she set out in front of them both. “It’s been what, at least a few weeks since you’d been back?”

“At least.” Nico nodded. “And how are you doing, Jessica? Still running with Catlin Monroe?”

The server grinned as she popped the cork on the thirty-five year old bordeaux. “Yeah, she and I are still hanging out…sometimes, although she’s been busy lately with her own shit I guess.” A slight frown formed on her lips as she filled both guests glasses to about the quarter mark and her expression returned to a welcoming smile while placing the bottle down on the table. “But, ah, otherwise, things are going great.”

“Alright then.” Nicolaus could feel twinges of the girl’s pain, whereas his own vampiric senses allowed for him to influence and sway the emotions and thoughts of others to an extent, he could also pick up slight vibes from his focal point. However, Jessica’s mind was shut pretty well, and not much information surfaced, save for trace emotions.

Elizabeth reached for the girl’s hand. “I’m sure Catlin hasn’t forgotten about you, hon, she just has a lot on her plate. You know those Hollywood types.” She said, shooting a wink at the girl.

“I-I know and I’m not too concerned about it.” She said rather dismissively, pulling her hand away. “But hey, I gotta get back to it, but let me know if you guys need anything, okay?” And with that, she turned and headed down the stairs toward the bar, receiving a few slaps on the ass from the younger, roughneck patrons as she passed their way.

“It’s my fault.” Liz sat back against the cushion and shook her head. “She can’t even look at me anymore without thinking I hate her...”

“I’m sure she doesn’t think that, m’love.” Nicolaus said, moving the glass in a circular motion and causing the red wine to swirl inside. “Besides, that was several months ago, and no doubt she’s aware of your limits while sexually active, so she must understand one way or another...”

The odd relationship between Nicolaus and Elizabeth -vampire and mortal- had been, for the most part, an open one, allowing only those who they trusted into their circle and lives. Jessica had been one of those they considered a friend, and Elizabeth’s desires for the touch of another woman piqued the female kindred’s interests even more. However, an evening of unrestrained passion and lovemaking between the trio turned quite violent as the young vampire sunk her fangs into the mortal’s warm fleshy thigh, knowing that she had crossed a line that her lover drew, but could not help the instinctual call of the beast within. Liz pulled away screaming, her inner thigh torn and bloodied, and Nicolaus having to hold back the near-frenzying vampire who’s only crime was giving into the inevitable…

“Maybe. Maybe not. But we, no…I should have known better...” Elizabeth shrugged, sliding across the leather-bound seat, until she was up against her companion. “On that note, let’s drink to this shit hole of a city.”

In his typical fashion, Nicolaus took his lover’s hand in his own while maintaining full eye contact, raising it up to his lips and gently kissing along the underside of her forearm until reaching her wrist. His lips pressed against her warm skin, eliciting a slightly nervous shudder from the woman even though she had done this hundreds of times, but loving the surge of adrenaline and ecstasy that she felt as he watched her expressions of pleasure. Then fangs pierced her skin, her arm recoiled slightly, and a hiss escaped her lips, as Nico disengaged and held her bloodied wrist over his glass, allowing the vitae to flow and mix into the red wine. Moments passed and the overwhelming aroma of her blood assaulted the Ventrue’s senses as he returned her wrist to his lips, running his tongue along her bloodied skin to not only “clean up” what remained, but to seal the puncture wounds that would quickly disappear.

“To us.” Nico raised his glass.

“To us.”