"Well, looks like everything checks out." Robins admitted to Shania with a grunt. With a heavy breath, the fat detective wandered off to to a filing cabinet, and began thumbing through the folders. One after another detective Robins pulled jackets of cases out and slammed them down on the desk after they were about thirty thick.

"There's the most recent." the Detetive said with a huff, sitting his rear in the rolling desk chair.

"Thanks..." Shania said with a sigh as she leaned over, and grabbed the stack of folders off the desk and began to walk out with them. "I'll bring them back once I've gone through them." Shania hurried out of the station as quickly as possible, sliding into the driver's seat of her Corolla, and flipping open the first one, a flash light in hand as she began to scan each of the cases, her eyes narrowing as she does.

Finally a brown folder, with a leather styled lamination was sitting in her hands. her eyes roamed over it, staring at the page. A club called 'Lux' fifteen women, all mysterious disappearances, all blonde... Same night.

"This has monsters written all over it, a serial killer would be very hard pressed. Too bad I'm not blonde, might be easier to attract whoever did this." She hums for a moment, and turns on the ignition, the Corolla taking off down the street once more, whining loudly as it did. Soon google maps was directing her into the parking lot of the club, Shania's car coming to a stop with the bright white LUX glowing in front of her windshield. As the car was shut off, she once more flipped through the folders once more.

"Male.. Missing, entrance ticket to Lux. Latino, not blonde. Hm. Not much of a connection there. Maybe things will make more sense once inside." Shania slid out of the seat, and once more opened the trunk, shimmying out of her FBI outfit, and sliding on her corset, red jacket, black and red skirt that barely reached mid thigh, and calf high black leather platform boots.

"I hate dressing like a fucking clubber... All for the good of humanity though." She mumbled as she gave her seductive walk, her hips sway back and forth as she perked her rear up. She walked past the line waiting outside, and gave the doorman a twenty as he opened the rope for her to step inside. It was fairly what she expected, a typical club. Guys spending money to get the girls, and the girls wearing outfits that weren't much better than Shania's if not worse.

Slowly pacing herself Shania stopped, and took in her surroundings, the flashing strobe lights, the occasional neon spots blasting over the crowd. Her ass got groped three times in a matter of ten seconds, but she ignored it.

"Typical drunk guys." She mumbled as she made her way over to the bar, sitting down on one of the stools as a guy fell off it. "I'll have a Corona!" She had to practically yell at the bartender for him to hear her. The bartender, was a skinny fellow, but moved as if he had been here for years, and Shania realized he had. She could see what he really was, she saw that he wasn't human. her eyes narrowed a bit, but she took the Corona as it was handed to her.

"So, I heard some girls disappeared around here. I don't have to be worried do I?" Shania turned her head away to look into the crowd once more, and to push back the nausea that came with knowing she was sipping a beer given to her from a Vampire. That's when out of the corner of her eye she noticed the bartender taking a picture of her on his cellphone. A protest didn't come though, curious to see what the point of that picture was, and how it would come up later.

House passed by, and nothing happened. The patrons slowly stumbled out, and soon there were only remnants of the crowd were left, some of them passed out at tables, or winding down while smoking cigarettes. A sigh, and Shania slipped from the stool glancing back at the bartending Vamp that was staring at her from a corner of the bar while wiping a glass. A feeling of discomfort slid through Shania's mind as she pushed the door open to exit.

"Waste of twenty dollars." She mumbled as she stopped by the old toyota, kicking off her boots into the backseat before settling into the drriver's seat. The whining pulley started up again, the Corolla reversing then pulling forward out of the parking lot.

"Weird that guy taking pictures..." Shania stopped at a stop sign as normal, looking at the screen of her phone, before pulling out into the four way stop as no one else was waiting. Though all of a sudden the interior of her vehicle was illuminate as a set of headlights came on, a vehicle suddenly bearing down on her out of the darkness. "Holy sh-" But she didn't have time to finish the sentence as her car went spinning onto the sidewalk, she could feel something hot and wet dripping down her forehead. Confusion overtook Shania, her vision fading in and out, that was when she felt hands grabbing her, pulling her, then everything went black.

"Another dumb slut huh? God damn at least you can say this guy has some kind of taste."

The tall, slim man said as he casually walked about the penthouse apartment. His white collared shirt with three of the top buttons un-done lazily. He admired the lavish furniture and perfect view of the city below. "Hey, think we'll ever get a place like this Barry?"

He turned to the much larger man who dropped their target on one of the nearby lavish couches. He answered with a grunt, "Dunno. If this job keeps up though I could definitely see it. How much are we getting payed for each of these bodies?", the slimmer man shrugged.

"We make a clean 2k a body. This guy is loaded.", he chuckled and looked back towards the window. The other man, about as tall but far more muscled walked up beside his partner in crime, "So uh, what are we gonna do with all the shit in her trunk?"

The slimmer man rolled his eyes, "Obviously we are gonna keep what we want and sell the rest, Those were some nice blades and pieces, shame to see them sit in some collectors room. We'll be keeping the choicest ones. As for the fake ID's? I'm sure some shady characters would kill for quality shit like that. Whoever this bitch is she sure has made us a nice payday."

Barry laughed, "Damn right. Hey, where's the client anyways? He knows the dropoff time right? We early?", the slim man nodded, "Course we are. I like to get a good look at his digs before he kicks us out to feed. Best part about this job is that we get to take a couple choice blood bags for ourselves. Can't wait till I'm the one hiring mooks to pick up pretty women to feast on.", he laughed and turned to the woman Barry had so casually tossed on the couch.

He looked her over and smiled, "Too bad we don't get this one huh? Bet she tastes divine.", he chuckled, sauntering over to her passed out form. He took her chin in his hand, turning her face to get a better look at her, "Hmm... this guy has better taste than some of the shits we deliver too. Better place too.", Barry seemed nervous as his partner touched the merchandise, "Eh, sure you wanna be doing that?"

The slim man hissed back at his partner, "He ain't gonna know. I ain't bitin' her.", he said, before looking at her busted forehead. With a smile he leaned down and dragged his tounge along the gash, his tounge soaking up the sweet liqud. He drew it back into his mouth before licking his lips. "Damn! If this guy weren't payin us so well I'd say we blow this joint with her, perfect taste.", he laughed, turning to Barry as if about to say something.

"I am paying you so handsomely because unlike some other couriers you two are known to not 'steal' the 'merchandise'.", the two Brujah turned to see their current client. The slender man wore an immaculate white Armani suit, beneath a fine black collared shirt and red tie.

He stepped down the hardwood steps to examine his aquisition. He tutted seeing the smeared blood on her forehead, "What a shame you had to hurt her face, but I suppose injuries are all to common no?", he said turning to look at the two, who had taken a few steps back.

"Uh yea. We got the text late so she was already in her car. We uh, had to you know... stop her.", he said nervously. The well dressed man laughed and brushed back his immaculate white hair, "Of course. Now come, I have your payment in my study down the hall.", he stood from where he had sat on the couch and led the two thugs away from Shania and down the hall.

Everything was blurry, and bright colors danced in the vision of the Huntress as she slowly woke up on a sofa. The house around her was immaculate, and obviously not one of the cheap motels Shania would normally have stayed in. She groaned, and twisted rolling onto the floor and began to crawl on all fours for a moment.

"What the fuck.. Someone hit me." She slowy stumbled to her feet, and leaned across the wall, touching her forehead and feeling the wet blood, tracing it up to her scalp where she was cut. She stumbled a bit further, finding herself in a kitchen, immediately going to the freeze for ice, only to find it empty, then opened the refrigerator side only to find bags of blood. Eyes going wide she took a step back.

"Shit. I'm in a fucking... So that's what it is... Some kind of catering service." She turned her head slightly, and began pulling open drawers, finding nice big butcher knives. "Beggers can't be choosers. She limped over towards the side of the ice box, and slide between it and the wall with her new weapons, as she awaited the return of her enemies.

"Now, if you two will excuse me.", the man in the white suit made his way towards the couch as the two Brujah followed him out, counting the money in the metallic briefcase they now had. "haha, yes and uh if you need anything else we'd be happy ta help you out anyt-", he was interrupted by the suited mans sudden loud laughter.

"It seems my meal has... gotten up and walked away!", he chuckled looking around the room to see if she had gone far. "No blood trail... hmmm well she's in here somewhere haha. Darling, please do come out! My associates found you unconcious after a hit and run! I've already called an ambulance so you really should come out.", he said loudly, gesturing to the thugs to start looking. The slim man nodded and quickly made his way up towards the mans bedroom. The larger thug stalked towards the kitchen quietly as the suited man made his way towards the balcony.

The heavily muscled thug made his way into the kichen. It was rather large, and he started by opening the cupboard. He thought it quite odd their client had so many food storage containers despite the fact he could not eat. He shrugged, ascribing it to ecentricity. When he came to the fridge he opened, and his eyes widened at the large number of blood bags. He looked around to make sure the client wasn't nearby, and slowly started to take one out for himself later.

Shania quieted her breathing, remaining completely still as she did, that was until one of the vampires was in the fridge next to her. Then her arm came out from around the corner in a blur, slamming the blade all the way to the hilt in his throat. This was followed by the other knife slamming into his ribs. Her arm moving quikly as she began to saw the blade in his throat back and forth until his head tilted foreward, and the entire Vampire's form burnt to ash.

"Shit. She skirted around the counter, and started to stalk down the hallway, stopping at a door lightly ajar and peeked inside. "The garage." She frowned a bit' "And I bet they have all the keys..." She gave a roll of her eyes before starting to slink back towards where the others were at.

"Hey Barry, you see anything?", the slim man shouted as he made his way back towards the kitchen. "Hey you better not be-", he said as he rounded the corner to find the pil of ash that used to be his partner. Suddenly he thought back to all the blades and guns and fake ID's...

"Fuck me. Hey Mister, I think your meal's a fucking hunter!", the man in the suit growled and entered back in from the balcony. "What makes you so sure?", the slim man chuckled, "She just ashed Barry. Oh yea, and her car was filled with weapons. I thought she was just some kinda enthusiast.", the vampire lied as he stalked out into the living room.

The man in the suit rolled his eyes, "Wonderful. Well I suppose I'm working for my meal tonight.", he chuckled. The slim man turned down the hall, "I bet she's trying to escape... I'll check the door.", the man in the suit nodded and let the slim man go. He smiled, he knew hunters were smarter than that, and took a seat on the couch to watch the thug as he moved towards the exit.

"Stupid, and loud." She shook her head as she slide along the wall, coming face to face with the Slim fellow as he came around the corner. Her knives moved in a flash slashing towards his face, and throat. She meant to cause as much damage as quickly as possible, but this wasn't like the way she had killed Barry, the slim vampire would have a better chance at defending himself, while Shania was caught quite a bit in the open not having the drop on him.

"Try to eat me! Kidnap people and eat them!" She narrowed her eyes as the blades flashed in the air, contiously in a rapid slashing movements.

The slim man screeched as the knived raked across his face and chest, caught off guard he stumbled backwards, lifting his arms to block the incoming knives, taking many gouges in his skin. "You fuckin whore!", he shouted and threw many wild punches at the quick woman, desperately trying to fend off her attacks.

The man in the suit smiled and simply watched. He wanted to see what she was made of... besides she wouldn't be able to hide now.

For a moment it seemed as if Shania had the upper hand, that was until a nice hard punch struck her across the ribs, then another back handed her across the face, sending shocks through her teeth as she spun and hit the ground with a thud, laying there limp on the ground. She stared at the floor, she knew she couldn't win in a hand to hand fight like that, not with just knives, not with a vampire. So she laid there, and waited.

The slim man growled as he stumbled back, blood seeping from his wounds before they began to heal. "Fucking... slut!", he kicked her hard in the ribs before suddenly the man in the suit was suddenly next to him, a hand on his shoulder. "Thats enough of that, pick her up and bring her back over to the couch. I'm done playing with my food.", he walked back towards the living room. The Brujah growled under his breath,

"Fuckin Ventrue orderin my ass around, mother fuckin...", he leaned down to pick up the woman who he believed was unconcious again.

A quick twist, a thrust, and the knife was shoved into the Vampire's chest, slide ride into his heart. She knew this would cause paralysis, and quickly stood up to let him fall on the ground, She stared at the Ventrue the entire time as she knelt down and began sawwing off the Brujah's head tearing it clean as everything once more turned to ash.

The man in the suit chuckled as he watched her finish of the brujah, clapping for her. "Wonderful! You are a hunter haha. So tell me, how many Brujah have you killed? Is that the first? No certainly not.", he mused, tapping his chin as he sat down in one of the lavish chairs. "Well, what about Ventrue?", he smiled menacingly.

She furrowed her brows a bit. Staring at the vampire. "I've killed plenty of your kind, but I don't know what a Ventrue or Brujah is." She didn't move any closer at the moment, instead still keeping her distance. "So what? Not going to try your luck?

The man in the suit laghed heartily as she revealed her ignorance. "Oh, what a new hunter you must be. Or possibly ignorant I'm not certain. Your... kind are all such a mixed bag. Oh well, I suppose you'll never know seeing as I don't exactly intend to let you leave. You are my made to order meal after all.", he smiled, his eyes suddenly taking on a menacing red glow. "Now, why don't you put that knife down and sit on the couch hmm?"

She blinked a few times, started to walk down the steps, dropping the knives as she did. She settled onto the couch next to the Ventrue and looked up at him. "I..." She seemed at a loss for words now.

The man in the suit chuckled and brushed her hair back, able to se her smooth neck, "Just relax, it'll all be far simpler soon my darling.", he said as he leaned in, fangs barred as they approached her neck.

Her hand came up and she pressed her fingers against his lips. A sudden blast of depression, consideration would come from her. "Aren't you ashamed of what you do? Think about the things you have done?"

The man in the suit stopped dead as her fingers touched his lips, suddenly overcome by depression... sadness... regret. He recoiled from her with a hiss, shaking his head, he brought a hand up to his forehead. "Haa... I-I... wh-what is this?!", he snarled as he tried to move away from her, sliding further down the couch.

Shania moved quickly after, opening her mouth and begining to inhale. The vampire would quickly feel his lifeforce begin to flee from him, going into her. She was drinking of the life force that the vampire had. The vampire had become prey. "Just... Relax. It'll all be far simpler soon."

With a growl the man in the suit attempted to run as he felt his very power being drained, he tried to run. His speed quadrupled yes but he smashed into a nearbye coffee table with grunt, tumbling over it as he dashed himself against the floor, trying to crawl his way back to his feet, "Wh-what are you?!", he screamed.

Standing up from the couch, Shania moved easily aross the ground snatching up a fire poker from the fire place. "I am redemption." She said raising the poker into the air. "Your reckoning." She brings the fire poker down with a snapping sound, repeatedly the blow until a pile of ash lay beneath her.

The tangerine sky slowly disappeared, leading into the darkness, as the star of warmth and light sank below the Los Angeles cityscape making way for the chill of death and it's followers. The reaper emerges to drag another soul to their fate this night. On the outskirts of the city, far from the ambiance of harsh luminescent street lights, crowds of people, and the otherwise prying eyes of their constituents, the Sabbat deviants lie beneath the ground in their newly established sanctum, their ”playground” as it was sometimes referred to. A derelict, multi-level maximum security correctional facility that hadn’t seen use in decades, purchased years ago by unknowns with money to burn, and heavily guarded by Anarch “muscle”. While many of their Sabbat brethren thrived in recruiting through political manipulation and backdoor deals to further the Sect’s cause, a select few deemed it appropriate to amass their own army of supernatural creatures to join the ranks of the ongoing war. It was a bold decision for such an unsanctioned and illegitimate movement, but to these young upstarts, they had the answer that would sway the tides of battle in their favor.

The Garou.

“Lupines” as the kindred refer to them, or simply “dogs” to many who'd rather see them scraping and begging at the feet of their vampire masters, reducing the race of fierce warriors and spiritual shapeshifters to mere cannon fodder for a war their captives would rather steer clear of. To the Garou Nation, they see all vampires as created by -and followers of- the Wyrm, better left to their own internal wars, tearing each other apart in the name of power, greed, and a thirst for more of what they don’t have. “Clear the earth of undead rot..” The werewolf tribes would say. “And allow Gaia to thrive once more, unfettered”. But there they were once again like the unwelcomed cockroach, chopping at the foundations of the creator, pursuing and pushing the Garou to fight for hearth and home, their ancient rights, the spiritual realms, and survival of their species, just to steal them away, systematically break them down until they serve the interests of their Sabbat masters.

“Two more for the meat grinder...” The pale, greasy-haired adolescent stood with an elbow propped against the wall and the other holding a phone to his ear, staring out into the large center “pit” that would soon be full of violence and carnage. “This’ll be fuckin’ epic too, bro. Did you see the pics I sent you when we picked this bitch up in Washington last month? Massive fuckin’ werewolf, probably one of the biggest I’ve seen! She can fight like a mutha fucka. Shit, outlasted the other two dogs of her tribe. Those assholes went down hard, but this bitch stood strong. And bro, she has horns growing out of her fuckin head! And-”

The kid, interrupted by the other’s loud voice on the phone, paced back and forth for a moment before responding. “What? How do I know it’s a ‘she’? Well...shit bro, it wasn’t that tough to notice the lack of a fuckin’ cock ‘n balls! What, you think I’m some perv? Y-you know what, don’t answer that…”

Another long pause came as the other spoke, eliciting a sour expression across the kid’s face as he shook his head in disbelief before continuing his rant. “Right, right, I get it bro.” The grungy kid pulled a pack of smokes and a zippo from his tattered leather jacket. “Besides, that bitch Eva and her band of assholes is a joke. She’s too busy hanging out with hotshots in tinsletown, fuckin’ anyone and anythin’ who gives her the time of day! So much so, why the fuck would she care about us and our little arrangement out here in the middle of nowhere?”

He fired up the tip of the cigarette and pulled a long drag as he listened to the other, responding with a “mhmm” and “yeah”, before a response came. “Yeah, yeah. Well, for the last year we’ve been doing this shit, I haven’t heard one fuckin’ peep from any of my contacts regarding Eva’s concerns. I’d like to think we’ve done a pretty fuckin’ good job of movin’ ‘round enough to keep her off the scent. But either way, I say fuck her up her prissy little ass!” He slammed his fist into the concrete wall, forming a series of large cracks that left shattered pieces of rock and dust, followed by a calming sigh escaping through his pierced lips. “Anyway bro, I gotta jet, so I’ll see you here in a couple of hours...”

---------------------------------------------------------

Wild cheers, disjointed arguments, excessive heckling, and general rowdy behavior of the growing crowd filled the upper levels of the octagonal-shaped prison’s center hub, which looked down into the “war pit” several feet below. Dozens of guys, gals, and otherwise -a mix of young white, black, hispanic, and asian vampires- lined the viewing area which was enclosed by thick metal bars that showed signs of rust and oxidation, and like much of the old interior, stank of rot and mold. However, the upper spectator areas had nothing on the lower pit section which contained the deadly fights as best it could, the three Black Spiral Dancer opponents pacing back and forth -two currently in hispo form, and the other crinos- awaiting their time to make a name for themselves, as well as serve the Wyrm in the most vile way they knew: destroying another of Gaia’s creation.

Along the perimeter of the arena, housed the cells for each contender, warded and augmented by the deep spiritual magicks of the sect’s Mage allies for more effectiveness in keeping the “monsters” inside. It wasn't perfect, but when dealing with the likes of the Garou, every little bit helped. In this instance, however, the one the vampires feared the most was a creature they'd scarcely come across, a werewolf they never imagined existed.

“Portador de la muerte!” A deep booming voice echoed through the hall, and a resounding roar of the crowd commenced at the name they came to know well in recent days.

Death Bringer

She could hear it, even without heightened senses, the vampire “MC” and his bassy voice permeated every nook and cranny of the stronghold, as it did each night of their “games”. Since birth, the female werewolf’s primary tongue had been that of the Garou language, however, she also understood the human language to an extent as was customary within the Black Furies to teach their pups early on. But as of late, she wished her ears and mind would block out those words as they resonated more than any others in the past several weeks of her captivity. It was as though the blood-sucking Wyrm sympathisers felt the need to create an identity for her many exploits, label her for their own entertainment purposes. But this was still Los Angeles, was it not? Everyone had an identity, for better or worse…

But I have a name…it’s ”Victoria”.

She’d recite this in her head as a reminder of who she was, the name her adopted kinfolk gave her as a newborn when she had none. These Sabbat had no idea who she was or where she’d come from. They only saw the potential to exploit a “war dog” for their own benefits, to mold and shape the beast into their personal tool of destruction. A tool she would not so easily allow them access to as long as she still drew breath.

The cell she’d been held in since being torn away from her caern, her tribe, and her life, was filled with nothing but the weight of dread. It wasn’t the constant stench of days old urine, excrement, vomit, or even the rotting human flesh and bones they’d left for her as a “reward”, but rather the growing presence of the Wyrm. It encompassed everything around her, from the brick and mortar walls, to the thick rusty chains with silver-lined collars used to keep her weakened, sapping the spiritual energies that otherwise breathed life into her being, allowing her to call upon the gifts Gaia bestowed. But there was that emptiness, an absence of Gnosis, and the looming emotional disconnect from her spiritual ancestors all within the twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot prison she'd been confined to. They knew this, as that was all part of the “Lupine Breakers” plan to whittle down any semblance of the Garou’s psyche, bit by bit, until there was nothing but a husk and unconditional loyalty to its new masters.

Vic’s large ears perked and her once shut eyes cracked open as the sound of the cell door unlocked and swung open, revealing six Sabbat members armed with silver tipped spears, and assault rifles with enough ammo to put down a herd of elephants.

“Alright big girl, you know the drill.” The lead vampire pulled at the four chains secured to the Garou only several feet from him. “Nice and easy...or you’ll get the business end of this spear jabbed into that pretty skull.”

The young Anarch back peddled and two others grabbed the slack, as they began leading her out of the cell on all fours as her massive ten foot stature and bulk wouldn’t allow for room to stand otherwise until she cleared the small space. The incessant snarls and barks of the Dancers were heard along the other side of the pit, anxious to put down the one threat to their existence. Vic ignored them -casting their threats in the Garou tongue aside- but rather stared at her vampire captors with hungry and fiery eyes as she lumbered along the cold floor, biding her time as the Rage within began to grow once more. But she knew better than to attack them, as the many slow healing scars across her face and body reminded her, and the silver they held as their only defense against her wrath would soon be diminished as time went on.

Patience had to be on her side.

What cruel game is this creature playing at?

Rachel smiled. And it was not a pleasant smile. It was nervous, teetering on the edge of true anxiety. Her cellphone was not simply a mental crutch, or the extension of a hyperactive mind. She couldn't imagine the millions Perez Hilton or TMZ would pay for her cellphone; to say nothing of what a Camarilla agent would pay for it. She managed a true empire from that mobile telephonic device; two of them, if you were playing the home version of their little game of blood and stars. Anyone in the Free State could claim that no one person had true dominion over the Free State--but that was simple ignorance as Rachel saw it; anyone who made such a claim was ignorant as to who, and what, Eva was to the Free State.

It wasn't simply a big deal the female Toreador went public. It was a sea change. The history of supernatural in Southern California would never be the same, a demarcation of supernatural history, and frankly, nothing less. She had help designed Los Angeles; consider it. The second largest city in the United States was a direct result of this woman's mind and energies. She might as well be the Wizard, and L.A. her personal Oz. If that wasn't a true empire, than Rachel would be happy to see what was.

The second? Even those who claimed the Free State was fractured could never, ever, not once, question the following: Eva owned Hollywood. Not just the district of Los Angeles, but the entire film industry as it was known on this side of the Atlantic and Pacific. And if you were still playing the home game, she had ties that ran so deep in the Hong Kong, Delhi, and London film industries you'd have to "dig" down until it got hot to find them. Hidden under covers and over time to the extent that she had a hundred names in these foreign markets. Welles, Hitchcock, Fellini, Kurosawa; all Bishops to the Queen of Motion Pictures.

Circle back, and re-evaluate the ramifications of what it meant to have access to the cellphone of that Queen's personal Consigliere. The wolf would literally need to beat her to death just to get their paws on it. Rachel wouldn't blink to give her unlife to protect Eva, her personal savior. It was a devotion that went both ways, as Eva had once told her: "I took you from exile, Rachel, and I can never imagine giving you back." Surely their had to be another way. Surely their had to be something else, anything else. Surely...

Pretty eyes danced from the wolf to the back of the bar. If she was any less composed, she would've gasped, finding the serene gaze of her savior. From a smile on razor's edge, to sudden laughter, in all but a few prolonged moments of time. She could read Eva's every look, like being able to translate every hint of a smile, every soft look, every hand placement of the Mona Lisa. And right now, what was her savior telling her?

Give over the damn phone, woman.

Wild. Never in a millennia would Rachel have expected that.

With the kind of incredulous laugh and roll of her shoulders typically reserved for the "fuck it" crowd, of which Rachel Rothkopf had NEVER been a member, she adopted that exact sentiment: fuck it. After a quick motion to kill the power on the phone, ensuring it'd need her eye scan and fingerprint to unlock, Rachel slid the phone over the glossy surface of the bar over to the wolf.

That small smile still on her lips not just a little pained.

"Happy?"

Eric O'Hara

---

The sea-salt of sweat. The warmth of gyrating bodies. The thumping of hearts, the noise of applause and raucous screams, all tumbling into a wave of stimulation, overcoming the senses, bringing them to light. To Eric, watching the humans move to the beat of drums and the whine of guitars, it was like he was tasting life again, crashing against him in waves in time to the music.
That's what he loved about The Smell.
It represented more to him than a pit stop for momentary rebellion, or a haven for the less compliant. It was a beacon for an unfiltered expression of humanity, of life, that he knew he'd never see again. And he drank it in, every single drop, savouring the sticky warmth in the air, the dimmed lights and sounds. He was swaying, he knew, ever so slightly, to the beat of the song, the harsh guitar cutting through him like a knife, and he loved it.

"Hey, man," comes a voice, smooth and clear above the noise. "Eric, you listening?"

The young Brujah, yanked clean from his trance, blinks before turning his attention back to Reyes, the Toreador with the skin coloured like sunkissed sand.

"Yeah, man, sorry," he clears his throat, leaning back into the seat tucked away in the corner of one of the many rooms housed in the labyrinth of the building. "Just got caught up in the music."

There's a flash of clear white as Rey smiles, a genuine expression, and shakes his head.

"Well, don't let our crumbling world distract you from the good vibes, jefe."

"O'Hara, stop fucking around," a lean, mousey blonde interjects, sneering. "We're talking serious shit here. Some of us are actually worried about what the fuck is happening."

Janette. A Brujah, like Eric, all sharp angles and a permanent scowl. Always starting fights, always overcompensating.

"Jan, we're all on edge, it's fine," Rey reassures her, placing a hand on her thigh, and Eric can't help but smile as she almost immediately softens at his touch. If she could blush, he had a feeling she'd be blood-red.

"Listen, I know why we're here," Eric motions to the small group secluded away with him, all Kindred, all neonates, all afraid. "But what's this gonna accomplish? We're gonna talk our way out of the fact that we're in the shit?"

"The whole point of a Rant, O'Hara, is to talk. To come up with solutions, or at the very least, open discussion."

"Yeah, Jan, but what the hell are we gonna do anyway? Jack sixty-nined the Elders, and no one knows what the fuck to do about it. There's not much a little talk is gonna fix, other than figuring out where to bunk down."

"You really think it was Jack?" asks Benji, a docile Brujah with a shock of black hair and wide, innocent eyes. Eric, like every other neonate in the city, was left almost completely in the dark as to the events that transpired over the last few weeks and months. Shadow wars and backstabbing from private rooms, those were some of the rumours. But everyone knew Smiling Jack. And everyone knew what he was capable of.

"I dunno, man. I've been here, what, a year? Less? I've spoken to the guy twice. Once, when I was welcomed into the city, and another time up at the Last Round. He sat down with me and Jones and Colette, and he bought us all a round. Started talking about where everything was going, the Cam and the Masquerade and all of that. I remember looking him in the eye, and he said he'd do anything as long as it meant setting us, the humans, everyone, free. And I didn't see a single moment of hesitation, not fear or regret or even anger. Just... Calm."

"Look," Rey cuts in again, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whether or not Jack did or didn't do it, the point is we're all stuck in the middle of it. The elders, whatever's left, they're not gonna be any help. They're all holed up at the Lounge tonight, making friends and kissing ass like the Cam leeches. Right now, we gotta watch out for each other, understand? All of us."

Rey flashed another one of those warming smiles, and Eric knew he had everyone in the palm of his hand. Rey might not have been the oldest, the most influential, or even the most popular Kindred in the city, but to those who knew him, he was a friend. Someone you could trust. It didn't hurt he looked like he walked straight out of a telenovela, either.
The others murmured and nodded in agreement, eyes locked on the young Toreador like he was reaching out and grasping at their minds, their thoughts. He was just that good.

"Eric," the smile disappeared, and his eyes took on a warmer, sincere look. "I know Barnette was one of the guys killed in the crossfire. He was paying for accommodation for a lot of the newcomers, bought up rent for some places Downtown."

"I'm fine, man."

"Come on, O'Hara," his eyes hardened, just for a moment, and Eric felt a pang of hurt. "I have a place. You can hole up with me and Colette for a while. Doesn't gotta be anything permanent, jefe, just until we find you something better, something permanent."

"I'm fine, Rey," Eric waved off his concern, avoiding his eyes. He knew the Toreador was struggling to keep his own haven afloat now, amidst the chaos of the power vacuum, and he wasn't about to add to the burden of a sinking ship. "I have a couple months left until Miss Carlton kicks down my door for cash. Trust me."

There was a moment of quiet, drowned out solely by the band playing behind the group, and Rey's gaze hardened again. Eric thought he'd protest further before the vampire relented with a shrug, and the Brujah felt his cold muscles relax.

"Hey, look, I'm gonna get some fresh air, alright? Don't miss me too much, Jan."

With a wink and flip of the bird, O'Hara lifted himself off the couch and manoeuvred his way through the smokey room, inhaling a dead breath as he felt the thumping bass of the drums slowly pulsate through his body. As he walked passed the hidden rooms and open doors, smelling of piss and sweat and wrapped in a skin of graffiti and vulgar imagery, the dead man felt the thumping in his chest slowly weaken, the music softening, before he found his way to the side entrance of the club.

He stepped out into the alley, cold and dark, and he expected himself to shiver in the frosty wind. He didn't. Old human habits die hard.
Watching as a few clubgoers stumbled around in the dark, illuminated only by the flickering neon writing the spelt out "The Smell" and the moon that hung lazily in the sky, Eric ran a hand through his hair pensively, staring at the wet pavement.
He knew he didn't have a few months left. His rent was already passed due, and he could only ignore the human landlord for so long before she kicked his cashless ass out. And a Kindred without a haven during a time like this was a Kindred that was as good as dead.

Well. Deader.

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

---

^{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}

First looks of the Kindred and his Retainer might as well have been assumed to be some spoiled rich teenager, belonging to one of L.A.’s notoriously famous millionaires with an affinity for over-embellishing their children with things instead of time and attention, and an expensive escort with whom he was rather familiar. Both sat next to each other in one of the plush, leather booths of The Lounge. Peter’s right arm was lavishly draped around Melissa’s light frame, and his head was cradled shallowly on her shoulder. Melissa’s gentle, gold locks dipped against her Dominator’s lucid, ivory cheek as her own cheek blushed was softly rested on his head. A small smile tilted upwards, pushing the skin of Peter’s cheek upwards. A blissful silence held his eyelids closed as the sweet scent of Chanel’s N°5 mercifully laced the skin of his Retainer.

A waitress had already come to take their orders, and a single glass of chilled Valpolicella Classico for Melissa was in the making. The moments between the orally spoken request and the time it took for the waitress to show her tan, bare legs, again, the two specious customers exchanged nothing but a silent truce of awareness for each other’s chimerical company dwelling amongst the buzzing murmurs who spread short voices cautiously around The Lounge’s wiring. It was only a certain amount of time after the waitress dismissed herself to attend another customer’s affairs did Melissa extend a slender wrist and trace her lacy, black fingers down the stem of the glass before wrapping them delicately around the long, clear neck.

Melissa slowly raised and tilted the glass to study the pale purple liquid. She was not so keen on the formal etiquette of wine tasting, but the polite, outward appearance might as well have said otherwise. Her head lifted as the cool glass was brought to her lips. The shift of her weight stirred Peter’s seeming trance of faux-slumber, and his dark, cloy eyes winced open — only to twist his smile wider and cause his left hand to curve and wander his fingers playfully over the satiny fabric, tightly veiling her inner thigh. The Kindred rubbed his cheek against the warm, milky skin of Melissa’s shoulder and turned his head to embrace her neck with his cold lips. The slightest movement of her muscles trembled as the sip of her wine trickled down her throat, and Peter enjoyed the taut movement, as well as her stoic response to his teasing hand. Of course, her pulse was saying otherwise, and the heating of her skin against his lips was all so satisfying and lush.

He was tempted to nip through her flushed skin and breach their little immature charade under the dim light hanging above their table. There was only so much Peter could do to Melissa before Frank’s will began standing firmly against Peter’s own undead thoughts, and making Melissa’s heart thump like a timid rabbit’s without him barely touching her was one of them, ”You’re being rather frisky today, Scott,” Melissa scoffed satirically. Her glass was placed gently on the white napkin resting lonely on the rich wood table.

Peter let out a docile, callow growl as his neck tilted forward and moved his cheeks lower on Melissa until he was now caressing the supple cups held jauntily underneath the black thin, clingy fabric adorning her chest. Before the command to move his hand inward on the Ghoul’s body shot from his thoughts to the muscles in his arm and hand, a thin, invisible string weaved effortlessly through the convoluted maze of his mind and pulled his head upwards in one sharp and sudden snap. His attention immediately curved around the network of the room in a panic. Small shadows dripped loud echo laughs from the shadowy corners of the entangled cobweb roped delicately throughout the building.

His mortal servant’s heart beat had changed paces into a further selfish and worried drum of muscle work. It was loud and obnoxious like some onset of misophonia. She was talking lowly at him in question, but her words were drowning in the ghostly echoes as one-by-one, kindred-after-kindred trickled slowly through the front door of The Lounge. He could feel his muscles flex and stiffen as his fingers gripped painfully into Melissa and caused her to squirm slightly into her Regnant until she exasperatedly submitted into the growing burn when the late reaction to the hallucinations crawled violently into her senses. Peter hesitantly closed the distance between his mouth and her ear, holding her motionlessly, “The night has come, and she has brought darkness with her — shhh … shhh,” he lulled her in a voice hardly above a whisper.

Nervous, stiff movements proceeded to move Peter’s actions as black, horned translucent movements mirrored vibrations of the newly arrived guests making their way to the bar counter. The bass of the shadows quickly collapsed to the flooring and dispersed into nothing as reality flooded back into both Peter and Melissa’s visions. The pale, undead hand resting on Melissa’s thigh lifted and took hold of the wine glass, bringing it close to Melissa’s quivering lips, “Drink up, my little Solnichko,. The thieving magpie is not going to be giving us any porridge tonight, hmm,” his chin shifted to press his lips against her fearfully moist forehead as his grip on her loosened, ”Drink up,” he coaxed her, again, but in a more syrupy voice. The clear glass tipped to her tainted lips, and the dry alcohol dribbled onto her tongue.

Peter was unnecessarily hungry, now. The morning bird got the worm, but what did this order of Strigiformes get for making it out of his usual prowling area? Uncomfortable clawing from the loosely shackled Beast was oozing with a nauseating lust for release, but the Malkavian gave it no such true satisfaction except a small bone to chew emitted in a shy, boyish laugh that caused his body to sink into the cushioned seat. So much was happening. So, so much.

And, if it were not for the ruckus outside spinning some new stimuli of distraction and sensory overload, the Kindred would have been able to more easily navigate through the pulling threads and weaves heavily veiling all the conversations with luscious amounts of comprehension, which upset Peter’s appetite — only because he could not fully grasp any of it but tiny straws that tickled his subconscious more than anything. He felt like he was suffocating here, drowning in the ooze of late night drama, but his mania would not let him leave the scene. The void was too empty, and he did not have anything to persuade it otherwise. Suffering through this madness was all that was left of the night. Such a monotonous repetition of the usual menu was driving him crazier. He was starving for something more stable, and his faux-family was turning more and more demented after each sip of his Vitae.

The glass was placed back on the table, and Peter tucked his head over Melissa’s light curls. He drew in a deep breath of perfume, differing in scent, now from the emotional shift. The distant human memory lingered briefly and then transformed back into the present lunacy of the present: cheshire smiles, dielectric coated glass, lokas, and the undying feeling of eternal torture. The Kindred and his Retainer continued haunting The Sunset Lounge’s booth, embraced in the dimness of the vague refuge that the bar had to offer amidst the glittering lights and sharpened knives.

Nicolaus & Elizabeth

Liz looked on in pure bliss as her exquisitely handsome companion pressed the rim of the wine glass against his lips, tipping it back to swallow the last of her vitae mixed in with his drink. And all the while with a wry grin across his face, gazing at the stunning beauty to his side, Nicolaus playfully flicked the tip of his blood-stained tongue along the glass edge to soak up the remaining few drops that attempted to escape down the side of the goblet. She arched an eyebrow, intrigued by just how clever the man could be, and yet not so surprised at how hot he made her feel by doing the simplest of gestures. She knew the Ventrue had his little mind tricks that he’d employ every so often to enhance the emotional responses of his guest, altering their perceptions and thoughts, but it had always been different with Liz, as he never quite enjoyed it as equally if fairplay wasn’t involved, and manipulating the woman he loved -and who loved him in return- through dark supernatural means didn’t make much sense to him. He enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, so to speak, catching his lady off guard at times and places that may even seem inappropriate, and feeling the exhilaration as her heart pumped faster, blood heated and rose to the surface of her smooth olive skin, and the tiny hair follicles along her arm and back of neck stood on end.

“You know they watch me with hungry eyes?” She whispered into Nico’s ear while doing her best to maintain some semblance of composure as a few Lounge guests -both vampires and their coterie- passed by, nodding in reverence to their Ventrue brethren and his gorgeous human companion.

Many knew of the couple’s long-standing relationship, and in as many who did not approve with Nicolaus’ lifestyle and choice of company, they respected the vampire enough not to push the subject or cause strife within the ranks. The Elders, most set in their ways reaching back countless centuries, were more concerned of a conscientious mortal who had not yet gone through the blood ritual bonding process of a ghoul, allowing her master to keep his retainer in line. However, the young lady had given little reason for them to suspect anything that would otherwise be a breach of the Traditions, and have forgone any further probing.

“As they should, m’love.” Nico said, placing his empty glass onto the table. “But I’ve also found that many kindred are envious of mortals and their humanity more so than they’ll admit. To gaze upon a woman like yourself is, for many of us, a mirror into a world we’ve forgotten. So perhaps in that sense, you’re a reminder of what we can never obtain.”

An abrupt noise from the main bar caught their attention as well as much of the ground floor’s guests, as it seemed one of the frequent visitors - a Lasombra if Nico recalled - decided to take it upon himself to allow ego to overrule better judgement, which never ended well for anyone in a place like the Sunset. He knew their kind all too well, once being a Sabbat member himself, and having little respect for their audacity to assume they can do whatever the hell they please with little regard to the consequences. Nicolaus smirked, watching as the vampire was pulled away from the bar and escorted out by way of Eva’s inevitable intervention.

“What the hell was that all about?” Liz asked, a sour expression on her face considering she’d had her earlier moment with Nicolaus wholly interrupted by petty vampire disputes.

“That, fraulein, was a good example of how not to conduct yourself in the company of a Lupine?”

“Lupine?” She said, furrowing her brow at the foreign term.

“It's...what we call the Garou, the wolves, of this world.” Nico sat back as he spoke, putting an arm around the other's waist. “I scarcely remember where the term originated, but it stuck. However it’s also considered derogatory to their kind regardless.”

“So which one is the ‘wolf’?” Liz asked, resting her head on her companion’s broad shoulder.

“As far as I'm concerned, they all are.” Nico grinned. “Eva and her pack of friends, vampire or otherwise, consider themselves the ‘wolves of hollywood’ in an unofficial way. But more to the point, the actual Garou is the young lady with the shaved head.”

“Shit.” The other perked up gazing toward the group at the bar, paying particular focus on the female with the tattoos, buzz cut, and pissy disposition.”That's a girl?” She exclaimed, not realize her voice may have carried further than she wanted, especially after a few glasses of wine.

“Elizabeth. Manners.” He nudged her, his tone as though a guardian were reprimanding a child, pausing for a moment before continuing. “That she is, and perhaps one of the few Garou allies we Kindred have in our war against the Sabbat.”

Nicolaus drifted for a moment in thought while keeping his attention on the Lupine known as “Michelle”, doing his best to penetrate the thick walls of her psyche in order to plant a thought in her head that would possibly grab her attention and lead her innate senses to the source of the one calling her. A slight frustrated expression began forming across his face, sa the difficulty of such a feat against the erratic mind of a werewolf, trying to push against their inner Rage and a lifetime of chaos for the sake of a single thought.

“Dammit” He mumbled.

“What?” The other responded with concern.

“I just tried to leave a message and was kicked off the line.” He said in a somewhat jovial tone.

There was a moment of silence between the two, with the ambience of the Lounge in the background, until Elizabeth snorted in laughter, covering her mouth and smile while a little embarrassed at the outburst. “You were trying to get into her head, weren’t you Nico?”

“Yes, and I’ll be damned if they weren’t the most impenetrable puzzles I’ve encountered.”

“But why?” The other said, slowly coming down from the humor fallen just short of her companion’s mood.

“Because she needs to be aware of what the Sabbat are doing to her kind…”

Liz sat up straight, composing herself as she looked at her lover. “What the hell are you talking about?” She said with confusion. “And what does it matter to you? How do you eve-”

“It’s not about me!” He said in a sharp hushed tone that caused the other to recoil slightly. “It’s about our future. Immortal and mortal alike. And something tells me that a Garou who would rather sit in a bar chatting it up instead of out helping her own kind from Sabbat shitheads is most likely an ill-informed Garou.”

“Okay then…” Elizabeth quickly slid out from the booth.

“Where are you going?” He said plainly.

“For starters, I’m going to let you sit for a few minutes and cool the fuck off.” She said, leaning on the table wagging her finger at the vampire across from her. “And second, I’m taking my drunk ass down to the bar, ordering a shot for me and the wolf, and perhaps even making us a new friend in the process. Is that okay?”

At this point, Nicolaus could have seriously lost his nearly four centuries of cool in a single moment of his companion’s defiance, yet he did not. Even when she immediately turned around and headed down the stairs without waiting for a response from him, his lips simply curled into a smile as he watched one of the most alluring and strongest-willed mortal women he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing, strut her lean, well-formed figure down to the lower section.

--------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey there. A double shot of Cuervo...” Liz said boldly to the man on the other side of the bar, as though she were some kind of connoisseur of alcoholic beverages. She moved closer to where Michelle was seated, although the girl’s back was to her as she was in conversation with another.

“Eh, and get her another round of whatever it is she was drinking…” She said to the barkeep, motioning to the girl with the shaved head and tattoos.

Sunset Lounge
Collaboration with @Ruby

---

Vampires always had a dozen and a half things going on at any given time. There were always schemes on schemes, layers on layers, and they all required precise and silent communication. They lived by spinning secrets and lies, weaving intricate little social webs of power and control, and when someone else even began to threaten that web they squirmed. The look on the little Jew's face was priceless, every bit as uncomfortable as one might expect, but after a significant glance over the shoulder she was left with a pretty little smile and nothing to do with her hands.

Which had actually been the extent of Michelle's plan from the beginning.

The benefit of living in the dog-eat-dog world of a burgeoning apocalypse is that one no longer has to care about little things like power games and struggles. Or at least one shouldn't have to, and Michelle absolutely didn't. Was it irresponsible? Probably. Stupid? Likely. Dangerous? Intentionally. But there were benefits to not giving a fuck, and one of them was being able to watch the probably-centuries-old creature at her side shift like an awkward teenager in her seat.

It was the little things.

"Yup. You're cute when you're off balance." Slipping the phone into the padded compartment at the front of her dress that would probably have looked killer on someone else. Her muscles were too defined, the thick scarring to prevalent for her to really be pretty--the art on her body was a different story, an eclectic hodgepodge of surprisingly beautiful work, but beneath it she was all wasted potential.

"How old are you, Rachel?"

There was a long moment of silent staring. Where the doe-eyed, straight laced, overly proper appearance of Rachel Rothkopf almost appeared to take on an edge. Irritation? Curiosity? Something between the two? For a woman who had long ago learned to control her emotions, but not quite her impulsive reactions to the emotions of others, the current situation bordered on dangerous. And that had nothing to do with the 'grr, rawr' nature of the woman next to her.

"You should NEVER ask a lady..." Then Rachel grinned, looking more drunk than amused, even if she wasn't. Drunk, that is. Then she sighed the grin away, leaving only the casually distant expression of her default, cutting Michelle's response off at the knees. "Yeahyeah, 'dowhatIwantI'mthebigbadwolf'--I get it. I'm one hundred and fifty two years old, combining my living days and not-quite-so-living days."

Her initial instinct was to ask whether Michelle meant how old was she in total, or how long until she'd been turned? In the end, she did the very unlawyer like, and very unRachel like thing, of giving more information than was exactly asked for. Maybe because she wanted her phone back. Maybe because she liked the way it felt when the woman called her cute.

It was hard to say.

Rachel wasn't the only one looking like she was feeling it. The benefit to swallowing down a frenzy was the warm-endorphin aftermath that always came with kicking your body into overdrive. Human...hell, Garou psyches aren't meant to sustain that kind of emotion, that kind of fury, and without the knowledge that something terrible had happened the aftermath was actually almost relaxing. Like treading water after drowning. Michelle whistled at the figure, a wry smile on her lips.

"You don't exactly look happy about it."

Rothkopf went blank, for a beat of the creature's heart, before her head tilted just-so, and something curiously close to confusion approached her delicate features. "It is a state of being that I have very little control over given the base instinct of survival. I am neither happy, nor sad, about it--it simply is. I am indifferent on the issue of my age."

It was a bizarre observation, but was it a loaded observation? She wondered.

"Thanks for the party line, Spock."

Michelle couldn't help but laugh. Between the lawyer and the leech it was an open question if there was anything actually human left about the little creature sitting next to her. She sure didn't seem to want to show it. Maybe that's what Michelle liked about this place--most people went to clubs to feel alive, if only because they thought that 'alive' meant 'drunk and horny'. Walk into the Sunset and you get that, sure, but you also get to watch the nightmare creatures of the world try to pretend at it, with predictably hilarious results.

"You get how fucked up that is, right?"

"Vulcans don't use contractions in their speech. I just did. Therefore, I am not Vulcan, clearly. I like Spock, he's very cute, and quite enjoyed Mr. Nimoys work with the character; more so his introspective and reflective books on the subject later in life. And infinitely more than his work on the Mission Impossible series. The show from the 60's, not the walking little man syndrome actor focused movie franchise of modern day."

Her eyes drifted skyward for a beat, as reflection overtook her. "I miss the '60s, especially the television, although that HBO does some good work." When her gaze returned, a cold index finger "booped" the nose of the wolf, the downright silly smile seemingly coming to her at random--but it wasn't random.

"Just because I don't wear my emotions where everyone can see them, doesn't mean I don't have them. The Coterie I'm apart of is the most human group of vampires I've ever encountered, to the point where they might as well be walking heresy to many of the values spouted by other governing groups of undead. It has a lot to do with their connection to art, and the human experience, and the massive tragedy that defines our fearless leader. I have plenty of joy and humor and, some would call it, "life" under my surface--but I'm a soul that doesn't trust easily, and likes to keep that stuff to myself, and the precious few I trust enough to show it to. Last night I giggled so much I was thankful I haven't the need for constant breath. Why? My "sisters" are silly, and my "brothers" are dopes. You're a stranger who's trying to make me uncomfortable WHILE, I think, anyway, trying to flirt with me. I can't understand the logic, but I'm still here, right?"

Her face lit up, even if her lips remained silly, the humor was there.

The fact that there was such an identifiable verb for someone touching someone else on the nose was bizarre. That the little vampire next to her had just "booped" her was more bizarre, and honestly Michelle was trying to figure out quite how to respond to it for a good portion of her schpiel. By the end of it she was just feeling lonely. Of course the little thing had a happy and cheerful undead life and family. Why wouldn't she? That was the point of the Wyrm, after all, the problem with it these days. Why wouldn't you be able to have your cake and eat it too? Hell, contribute a bit to spiritual entropy and you can have all the cake you want! She smiled back, wry and defeated, and flicked the fingers beneath her chin up in amused surrender.

"This is why everyone hates vampires, you know. Too many years of accumulated comebacks." Wrapping one mottled arm around the other, she pulled her arms above her head and stretched until her shoulders popped. What was she even doing here, trying to kill the party? Actually flirt with the creature next to her? Because if she was really trying she would...

...yeah. You know. That.

"There's no logic to it." Fuck it, why not be real for a change. If the vamp could do it, so could she. She laughed again. "I got zero game. You are still here, though, and you shouldn't be. If your family makes you smile like that then you should be hanging out with them, not some bitch trying to poke holes in you and see what makes you tick."

The smile relaxed into the memory of a silly, happy, smile. The very hand used to "boop" now held out to Michelle, palm out and up. "Sure thing, just release my phone back to me, and I'll be on my way."

Michelle snorted at that, waving the hand off and tapping the top of the exposed phone to tuck it more firmly into her non-existent cleavage. "I said family time, not phone time. Go play, I'll leave it with the bartender when I'm done or something."

"Okie-dokie, have fun."

Well that went well. The irony that a random dead girl was better adjusted than Michelle was not wasted on the werewolf. Waving off the vampire, she turned back to order a drink and blinked to find one already in front of her. A look at the bar tender directed her towards the stunning woman (human, if Michelle's admittedly intoxicated nose was on point) settled nonchalantly on the other side of her.

Damn. Maybe her game was better than she thought.

"Man, I know I struck out but I didn't realize it was pity-drink worthy." She snorted by way of introduction. "Fair warning, if you turn out to be some vampire starlet living the dream I may laugh in your face."

Grace Liu by @tanderbolt
Mateo, Eva, Gwen, Andre, Rachel by @Ruby

---

It was easy to blend into the crowd inside Sunset when it busy. New arrivals streamed in, and each seemed eager to make their presence known. Some were overt but still subdued, content merely to be present, while others traveled with an entourage and provoked so many stares and hushed whispers that it was obvious that they were here for some reason dictated by the social mores of their society. While it would be great fodder for a sociologist or anthropologist writing a thesis on this alien and covert group, Grace had to be concerned with practical matters. Even without context, she could get an idea of the power players and some of the social circles.

As one party was arriving Grace's phone began to vibrate. She answered promptly and fielded questions from one of the police precincts, these people had been told she was an FBI agent assigned to certain types of crimes. An alleged FBI agent had come by unexpectedly wanting to investigate odd murders, and they were wondering if she had anything to do with it. She told them that she would like to meet this agent at the field office the next day, and they agreed to relay the message.

With that business finished, Grace could turn her attention to the crowd. Some commotion had happened and a dark haired man had been removed from the premises, but Grace was too far away to have noticed much more. Evidently tensions were boiling over even in here. She checked the path to the exits and walked towards the bar, listening to the murmurs of the patrons and watching them mill about.

Among them she recognized one face from the photos in her files, a Hispanic man who dressed quite casually, his plainness made him stand out in a room full of people trying so hard to project an image. Several briefings listed him as an occasional contact for information, particularly intelligence related some of the more hostile and overt vampire factions. Grace walked into his line of sight and approached him casually, then said “Hello, I believe you are Mateo? We haven’t met, but I work for an organization which has done business with you before. You’ve been quite helpful, particularly when it comes to issues originating south of the border.”

The entire booth froze at the sight of the woman. Well, almost. The Hollywood Super Agent mortal was mostly distracted by still trying to talk to Eva about the virtues of DiCaprio, though it was impossible to tell if it was having any impact with the secret Hollywood overlord; especially when her bright eyes were up at the human mage. Andre sipped at a drink that did nothing for him after realizing the mage was no immediate threat; no need to flex, and Andre lost interest. The blonde hanging off him fluttered long lashes up at the human, but her interest too passed quickly back to the conversation between the super agent and Eva.

It was Hollywood business, afterall.

Mateo took longer than all the rest to look up to the woman. His mind had wandered, as it had a habit of doing when he was (more or less) forced into these group outings. They weren't his particular piece of pie, and without Rachel to keep up a constant chatter with, he found his mind wandering into strange places. Eva's presence, he liked to joke, was his favorite intoxicant. Strange trips around that girl, I swear, man. For half a beat of Grace's heart, he even looked like he recognized the woman. But, no, that wasn't Rachel returning to the booth. It didn't stop a friendly enough shine to his dark eyes and a quick, if easy, motion of his head nodding upwards to the woman.

His butt scooted over a few feet, his right hand motioning Grace to sit down, his left hand bringing a swig of his bottled beer to his last, and back to the table. He just liked the taste, as it happened. And it felt wrong to go to a bar and not drink something, even if none of them were getting intoxicated tonight.

Not that way, anyway.

"What can I do for you, uh, Agent?"

"Mage," Andre said, correcting Mateo.

"Grace," Eva corrected Andre, correcting Mateo, a thin smile threatening her high glossed red lips.

The group's attention did not startle Grace. Slowly she sat down in the space Mateo had vacated, and looked over each face, but none of them were immediately familiar to her. She didn't appreciate being called a mage, and it had been some time since anyone had called her Grace in public, but both of those were trivial compared to the business at hand. Grace's posture was upright and formal, and her attention seemed to focus on the are in general rather than on any one specific person.

She addressed the booth with a calm voice, speaking in a tone of carefully rehearsed word. "I would normally use other means to reach out to you, but we determined those would be unreasonably slow for the present situation. I do appreciate getting the opportunity to meet your associates. My organization is concerned by what we are hearing of the current state of your community, there are reports of significant turmoil. We are worried that this could begin to affect our interests if left unchecked, and are looking to prevent further destabilization. Whatever you can share with us at present is greatly appreciated, and we may be able to offer aid to you in return." It was clear to her that Mateo was not chief power player at the table, but the overall composition of the group was an odd mix that would require further analysis. Perhaps one of them would have something else to discuss, either business or something less pressing but more interesting.

"Theo." The Super Agent stopped talking as Eva spoke his name, while watching the other human at the table. "I'm convinced. Leave, before I change my mind."

She hadn't, but that didn't matter. DiCaprio was already trying to shop a pet project without his super agent knowing; it was a wonderful spec script that would piss off nearly every studio head in which the super agent sucked up to, threatened, blackmailed, or slept with to get his way. But DiCaprio was an artist, first and foremost, and what mattered to him was the art, not the politicking of art. So Eva would agree to give DiCaprio the role, but he would drop out when he got his pet project green lit (to which she would personally see to), and that would be that. Theo appeared shocked into silence, and might've said another word...but for the look in Eva's eyes.

Except it wasn't the look in her eyes that paused his tongue and forced his leave. It was the way every ion in the air changed, filtered through her supernatural presence in ways so intricately subtle that it took the same amount of complexity, energy, and focus as it did to make a good Hollywood film--considering the rarity of such films, that was saying something.

The audacity impressed her. The woman's "organization" had once gotten info from Mateo. That was fair, that was fine, that was Matty's thing. It was one of the public-esque things in which he was known in the under world. He was a gatherer of facts, of observations, of opinions. He did so for numerous reasons, none of which had to do with the nature of the man, except for that he was talented at putting others at ease. He was so unassuming, he was so nonjudgmental, he was so easy to be comfortable around--people talked.

But he never enjoyed the role. He enjoyed being productive, though, and so far it was the best role he'd found for fitting into this little group, the little pack of stranger things that this woman, this mage, this Grace, had willingly sat down with and bluntly asked for information. The audacity...Eva loved it. By the end of a long stare at the woman, her lips were truly, genuinely, smiling. The smile that came only before a laugh.

The woman had her curiosity based on little more than amusement. To a woman as old and well traveled as Eva, it was enough.

"The ambition on you...your motives aren't exactly hidden are they?" Eva nodded, taking a sip of her long neglected, watered down, drink. "I appreciate that. Let's make this a bit of artful fun, shall we? Is that fair, Matty?"

Mateo shrugged, a goofy smile and half chuckle coming out of the man. "Yeah, sure."

Yeah, sure. So unassuming, so practical, so...Mateo. That was his role for her; the every man, the average Joe. And she adored him for it. "There we have it. Six questions, Grace the Enlightened; I, or any of my friends here, will answer six of your questions to the very best of our ability. As truthful as we are able."

Mischief played at the corners of her mouth. Truth was a funny thing, but amusement inspired her to do what she could for the Mage. She would hold nothing back unless one of the six questions hit bone, and then for marrow's sake, Eva would be forced to dance one way or the other, yet trying to remain illuminating--like a candle flame caught in a fit of breeze.

Hearing the discussion of acting choices added to the mounting evidence of kindred influence in Hollywood. Untangling the web of ties would be an interesting endeavor, but there were more important matters to discuss and her duties rarely involved that world. It was a curiosity, something to note for later. The offer of six questions was generous, even if Grace didn’t trust them to be forthcoming. In dealings like this, Grace believed in both honesty and discretion, though she knew that others preferred different values. The directness of her approach was well suited for fast action, and it did not rely on any fancy tricks or careful deceptions even if it was inflexible. In truth, the purpose of this public meeting was not just intelligence gathering, it was also to investigate further channels of communication. Trust was slow to build, but something like this functioned better than more anonymous means.

Grace focused on Eva as she asked her questions, both because Eva was clearly the one in charge and because Grace did not know who else would have the most relevant answers. “My motives are simple, they are those of my organization. I greatly appreciate your help in this matter. What is the root cause of the turmoil your community is presently experiencing? What do you believe these events will lead to?” She chose her first two question to settle on the most pressing issue, from there she where the answers would lead her. She maintained her calm in Eva’s presence, but there was definitely a sort of electricity in the air of the booth. Eva was somebody whose presence demanded to be noticed and remembered the moment she entered the room, quite different from Grace’s intentionally anonymous and easily forgotten public image.

The voice was rough, deep, and rumbled like distant thunder off the sunset coast: "What organization?"

Andre asked it, but none of them expected an answer. People speaking of 'organizations' rarely were straight-forward, let alone brave enough to drop names. Was this one different? Gwen smiled at Andre's question, Mateo chuckled, but Eva just stared right ahead at Grace, and offered little more than a tiny snort of amusement at the first set of questions.

"The root cause? Control of the Free State." One. Had the woman worded the question more carefully, certainly she may have gotten a more detailed response, but Eva wasn't exactly a novice at court intrigue, and she had one of the better Attorneys when it came to coaching her on how to, and how to not, answer questions.

Eva's eyes moved when Rachel came sliding into the booth, opposite of Grace, who was currently taking her place next to Mateo. Rachel already had a new phone in hand, her backup, Eva mentally noted before moving on to the next question: "Ultimately these 'events' will lead to a change in leadership within the Free State, a change to the Camarilla, to the Sabbat, or simply a change within the Free State Anarchs themselves. Time will tell which."

Two.

The blonde spoke up, the one now resting her head on Andre's very large shoulder, looking something like a child ready to go home but unwilling to make a fuss about it. "Include us in those changes resulting from chaos; Eva here now claims to be the Baroness of the Free State, and before she was just a rumor. Quite the change for us being 'outed' like this because she felt it was important to step forward and provide 'stability' for the young Anarchs of the area."

Andre’s question put her in an awkward position, and Grace decided it was best to disregard the question. There was little she could disclose, lying was risky, and giving a half answer would come off as disrespectful. It was likely that some information would reach him eventually through the other members of the group. Rachel’s arrival was noted by Grace with a brief smile and nod, just enough to say hello to a stranger. Introductions were awkward, and so repeating them was something to avoid.

With some of the basic information out of the way she moved on to some other questions. “It sounds as though you are embroiled in what Hobbes called the bellum omnium contra omnes. If you believe in his theories, then eventually some power will rise, and they will put an end to this madness. While we are at present only observers, we hope that the new order will establish itself soon, and that they will maintain the old customs which have done an excellent job of keeping your kind hidden from the eyes of the wider world. What actions would you suggest we take to help restore order and help ensure the privacy of your society? While we are particularly concerned about the Sabbat, I am glad to hear about any person or area of concern which could use our resources or information.”

She paused before starting the prelude to her next line of inquiry. “I admire your commitment to stability. We are happy to work with you and your companions, but it is always good to be more familiar with our partners. What can you tell me about yourself and your interests in the region?” Open ended questions had a high potential for useless answers, but at the moment Grace was still trying to grasp the basic facts of the situation, and eager to hear anything at all.

"You'll have to understand my lack of comfort in that offer of cooperation, considering the mysterious 'we' involved." It was said bluntly by Eva, yet presence and a sweet tone of voice had a wonderful way of taking the 'bite' out of such a response. Even if the words themselves still had a touch of teeth to them. Of course, Eva knew more than she let on, but when attempting to create a relationship it was hard to establish anything worthwhile on a foundation of found secrets rather than mutual trust.

And this woman had no trust.

"I'd suggest you find someone capable of power in this city, and hold onto them tightly; odds are they're in danger." Eva was well aware that was just as true for herself, not that it seemed to cause her any stress. Not that anything so far showed itself to cause her any amount of stress, or that Eva was the type to show it even if it did. In either case--Three.

"Is Malibu okay for tonight? They're asking?"

Eva's casual clarity instantly became clouded with curiosity, her head and eyes turning from Grace and to the woman on the phone seated next to her. "Malibu?" She asked, as if that was a strange question from them. Whoever the "they" on the other end of the cellular telephone line was. Her eyebrows perked, eyes scanning the booth, besides Grace. Mateo nodded, he liked drinking beer along the beach. He liked watching Rachel work. Gwen grinned, it went without saying she loved Malibu. Andre countered, "Beach or Hills?"

Rachel repeated the question into the phone, before relaying the answer: "Beach."

"Shit, I'm down."

Eva no more than nodded, before returning to the fourth. "About myself? Nothing, I don't know you like that. About my interests? The status quo that existed before the current carnage. We'll count that as two questions." Four, Five. One left.

The barrier between the two worlds in the booth was almost palpable. The coterie was a picture of social bonding and camaraderie, while Grace projected an air of solitude and formality. To her this was a chore more than a game, and there was little to gain by spending too long here. The others certainly had other business at hand, and she sensed that her silent routine was getting boring. Eva was playing hardball, it was unlikely she would get anything other than more basic facts. Confirming some general theories was enough to make this trip worthwhile, even if she learned nothing else.

Grace looked over the booth while speaking, and all except Mateo were visible in the reflection of her mirrored sunglasses. “I acknowledge your hesitance, and I apologize that I cannot share more about our operations. We take the approach of being forthcoming about our intentions and ultimate goals while being reserved regarding other matters, and I understand if you wish to do the same. While we may not work together closely, we are working towards similar ends. This city is overflowing with good cinema and poor transportation planning, but common goals are quite rare here.” Grace again refused to identify her group, but there were enough clues for someone who knew to make a strong inference. Telling people explicitly was not her style, anyone who needed to know about the Technocracy would find out by other means.

“When you get down to the final question you start to get lost in possibilities. There are thousands of things I would like to know. I wonder about existential issues such as finding out what it is that motivates you to keep working night after night, something so hard for me to comprehend. There are also trivial questions like if you had any hand in The Matrix franchise, which is a favorite of many of my coworkers even if they find some sections a little on-the-nose. But when it comes down to what I need to know at this moment, I believe that these five have been enough. While I enjoyed our conversation, it sounds as though you have other business to attend to.”

Before standing up to leave, Grace pulled a smartphone from her pocket and placed it on the table, avoiding any sudden motions. It looked modern but slightly different from anything currently on the market, perhaps it was next year’s model of an existing design. “If you would like to contact me, use this phone and call the number stored in it. Ask for Ms. Chiang. It was a pleasure doing business with you, and I wish you and your companions peace and prosperity, Baroness.”

"The art, Grace. That's what drives me, night in, night out. Rachel here," Eva motioned to the lady lawyer with the phone to her right in a small hand motion, "helped create the language in the original legal deal for the film Assassins that got Warner Brothers to also purchase Bound and, of course, The Matrix."

Rachel tried not to smirk.

"Seeya Grace." Mateo waved, a friendly thing just like his tone, looking a little confused at the phone laid down, not recognizing it--then again Mateo still had a flip phone, so what the hell did he know?

Andre waited until the woman was gone before letting his eyes creep to Eva. "What organization?"

"Technocracy, I'd bet. Mages, though Ms. Grace seems to be having a little more of a existential crisis than most of them I've met before, rare enough as it is. They don't want trouble in L.A., they get enough of it outside the Free State. At least according to the two I'm on friendly enough terms with. Shall we?"

Gwen raised her hands in the air, finally alive, finally excited. "PARTY!"

Ezekiel Kristoff was immersed in some light reading before starting his night off. An avid reader in life as well as undeath, it had become routine now with how valuable knowledge was, especially for a Tremere, what with many of the secrets of Thaumaturgy locked away in Grimoires of past Magi who were more experienced (or more foolish in some cases) in the Art of Arts.

This case was far less esoteric though, he was reading one of the latest "urban fantasy" novels that was making the rounds through the young kine. Why waste his time on trivial shit like this when he could be reading something far more stimulating? Mostly out of curiosity, he was always interested in finding out what the "popular" interpretations of his kind and fellow "supernaturals" were in circulation at various times. Plus, there was some practical applications, he was understanding how the kine thought on some subliminal level, something which many Kindred near his age showed a disdain for and he couldn't understand why. Knowledge is power, especially for a Magus and Kindred both, and in these Modern Nights understanding how to control Kine in less overt ways was key to maintaining their society . . . even though understanding young Kine today was admittedly like trying to understand quantum mechanics at times for the centuries old Vampire.

Not that Zeke, or Malakai as he now called himself publicly, had even had much interaction with his fellow Kindred as of late. He had arrived as a newcomer to California and LA several months ago incognito. Or, as incognito as a Kindred could be. He had taken up a new name, hadn't sought out any locals yet (as far as he knew, there was no official "Prince" of LA anymore), and had mostly seen to getting himself established in as low-key a manner as possible.

So, he'd set up a Kine Cult (Totally original for a Tremere, right? But he stuck with what he knew, he certainly wasn't going to try and compete in business he wasn't familiar with.), The Followers of Nodens, bought a couple properties, and set about surrounding himself with a few idolizing and capable servants. One of which knocked on the door to his study promptly. He didn't turn from his seat in reading.

"Come in."

The door noisily opened, it was Charlie, his "right hand" Ghoul. He had recognized the young man's scent after opening the door (though one could argue you wouldn't even need to be a Vampire to recognize this punk by his scent at times).

"Mal, Haines has still been pestering the guys at the shop as to how to become a member. Almost pathetic, they're having more and more trouble getting rid of him."

Zeke smirked slightly at bygone memories the scene reminded him of and chuckled softly.

"Perhaps it shall soon be time for young Gideon to have the opportunity of being inducted into our family, if for no other reason than to save us any more hassle . . . but then one could argue simply making the man disappear in more simpler ways could be just as effective."

Charlie walked up to stand behind Zeke's chair.

"You want me to do that for you? You know I would, or Juli, or shit, anyone whose one of us. Nothing we haven't done before even before you found us."

Zeke waved a hand dismissively and closed his book, slipping a bookmark in it and laying it aside on his desk (piled high with books read and unread).

"No, I was merely musing aloud. Gideon can wait until later, right now, I think its time I make my first appearance on the night life of this fair city, and since Juli's out, you'll be my escort . . . or, what exactly is the correct phrase nowadays?"

"Wingman? Bro? Take your pick of any of the shitty phrases."

Zeke sighed and stood up, his red and black embroidered robes straightening out as he stood.

"Who cares? You get the idea. Get suited up, I'll get myself a drink, throw on something fitting, and we'll hit the road."

Charlie nodded and walked out taking a left down the hall, Zeke following after him and closed the door, taking a right out of his study and into the living room. The living room of Zeke's house looked like a tornado had hit it. Clothes were everywhere (none of them his), furniture was moved all haphazardly to accommodate for sleeping bags or makeshift beds, there was leftovers or trash laying around everywhere, and the stereo was on playing some kind of music Zeke had no taste for, but knew the four young adults who splayed out in various configurations around the room were into it.

This was Zeke's Cult when it wasn't actually doing Cult business. He made them stay over at his house every night and paid for their expenses to do whatever the hell they wanted within the house. In exchange, they were effectively his security guards and disguise for the house. For one thing, they were all his Ghouls, so he knew they wouldn't go poking around where he didn't want them (namely his basement), and they could handle any Kine problems with ease. Plus, they were his herd, and an easy source of blood for him.

Calmly approaching the one nearest to him, a young woman who was busy vaping (Zeke abhorred actual smoking in his herd), and with routine ease and mutual understanding she stood up and twisted her neck slightly for his ease. Carefully supporting her in his arms, he barred his fangs and starting drinking. He stopped after half a minute, the moment he felt her heartbeat starting to waver just slightly. He slowly laid her down as she reacted dazed, but retaining consciousness. He had hardly felt the stir of The Beast within him, but then such was the fortune fact of abiding by the Camarilla's traditions and practices, they offered serenity and secrecy to Cainite existence, if at the cost of some freedoms. The blood itself wasn't prime quality, but it was definitely sweet and invigorating.

Zeke rolled his shoulders, feeling the fresh power within him. As he silently walked out to the closet by his front door. Opening it, he switched his robes out for a leather jacket of similar length, and checked his face in small mirror, wiping up a small trickle of blood left behind by his feeding. Satisfied, he scratched his shaven head and walked out the door. Charlie had already slipped by (must have been while he was feeding) and started the car, an older model black Oldsmobile. Charlie had decked himself out in similar black leather to his Master, and pulling the thundering car out of the driveway, they headed into downtown LA for Zeke's first real night out in months.

Vic Hëlix

Unchained.

The young Garou shook off the sustained effects of the silver-lined shackles that were removed, thick iron bracelets that had been the difference between her vampire captor’s survival or their bloody demise. It chipped away at the foundation of her will and strength, replacing the resistant beast with an otherwise huge lethargic dog, one of which they hoped to keep at arm's length for as long as possible. Her spiritual connection to the Umbra was unattainable in this state, as the silver took it’s course in the worst way among the Garou. While it didn’t cause the young girl physical damage -as her natural Metis breed resisted it’s wounding effects- the results were still debilitating on many levels. It had been one of the only ways the Sabbat anarchs could control the uncontrollable, to regulate her reactions, to remove any variables that would stand in the way of training such a species of violence. The vampires were afraid, and Vic knew this, or they would not have taken such measures to ensure their own safety.

Victoria winced at the harsh overhead spotlights that were switched on and beaming down into the arena, stinging her eyes, and all the while her heightened senses picking up the smallest of nuances within a wide radius. Past the stench and noise pollution of the raging crowd, the language of her kinfolk echoed through the darkened corridors, their cries of retribution piercing the young Furies’ rapidly beating heart, urging her to seek vengeance due her tribe and Nation. But it wasn't enough that the vile vampire Sect destroyed her world, they aimed higher than that, in an attempt to crumble the last vestiges of pride, hope, and the deep rooted spiritual connection to Gaia that fueled their very being. To top it off, the Black Spiral Dancers, those wolves most tainted and enslaved by the Wyrm, were employed to facilitate the Sabbat’s game of tearing down their Garou brethren and rebuilding in the image of their choosing.

For all intents and purposes, they were building an instrument of pure destruction...

“C’mon freak, get with the bloody program!” The snarls and barks of the three instigating Garou filled the fight ring with their native tongue, the raspy, bassy sounds bouncing off the walls and carrying to the ceiling high above. “These leech bastards are nothing but cannon fodder and you know we'll teach you what your true purpose is in this disgusting & wretched world!”

The hypocrisy of their words did not go unnoticed, as those involved with the Wyrm were the very reason for the “disgust” and “wretchedness” of the world, it was their passion to be greater than that of their creator, much like their vampire comrades. To have such selfish ambitions was not the Garou way, therefore, the young female only stared at them with fiery eyes, but pitied them as well for their foolishness. No doubt to them, it was all a matter of perspective.

“Fuck it!” One of them suddenly barked, breaking from the other two and launching itself at their larger opponent, whose initial reaction was still slowed, just nearly missing the brunt of the attack, but being left with a nasty claw across her face. Victoria roared something fierce, balling up massive hands into fists and hammering down onto the Hispo (Dire) wolf, causing it to yelp as it’s head cracked against the stone floor, only to be picked up by the neck and flung across the arena. The other two attacked as one, knocking the female Metis off balance enough to take her down, the Crinos wolf grappling her in a chokehold while the other -in Hispo form- locking down onto her massive thigh with it’s mighty teeth. She let out a terrifying howl from the sharp pain of the bite, doing her best to pull the culprit from her body, while struggling with the other’s grip on her neck. In a single pivoting move, Victoria twisted and contorted her body enough to break free of the flanking Crinos, raking her thick claws across it’s face, causing it to stumble back covering a bloodied eye.

The young Garou, with both hands free, wrapped it’s mighty fingers around the muzzle of the Hispo wolf still clamped down on her leg, and slowly pried apart the clenched jaw, it’s bone and cartilage cracking under the pressure of the beasts renewed strength. It's attempts to wriggle free fell short, as the female Metis let out a piercing howl that caused many of the vampire onlookers to wince, and vigorously pulled the muzzle apart, tearing through the Hispo’s thick skin, dislodging and snapping the bloodied jawbone off of the skull, only to jam the sharp tapered edge into the wolf's exposed eye, driving and turning it deep enough to penetrate the creature's brain tissue. It fell to the ground gurgling a pathetic whimper, followed by snarling and muscle spasms, incessant bleeding, and finally howling through its final last moments of life. A split-second decision later, Vic made a great leap across the arena, putting as much space as possible between her and the remaining two Spirals, one of which she noticed shape-shifting from Hispo form to that of Crinos, barely paying attention to its fallen brethren while rushing forward on all fours. Fortunately, Vic’s recovery was taking less time than she thought as the effects of the silver subsided and a surge of adrenaline was developing, knowing full well that the innate Rage within would soon unleash to empower and augment her vengeance.

“This ends now bitch!” The charging Crinos barked and spat in the Garou tongue, as it came low toward Victoria's legs and quickly circled around behind her for a sharp bite along the side of her torso. She retaliated by slamming down her large elbow several times against the attackers head, and all the while ignoring the sharp teeth digging into her ribcage. The other Crinos -enraged at this point by not only seeing his other kin lying dead, but by being humiliated as well by the young female werewolf- charged full on, ramming the Metis into one of the four support beams, despite his partner still latched on tightly. The ceiling above cracked and crumbled slightly as it’s load bearing support took a solid hit, sending large stone fragments and rock dust down onto the combatants. The Crinos relentlessly wailed onto it’s target, slashing curved claws wildly across various body parts, even as the other held firm with it’s teeth locked onto the beast’s side, keeping her in place while the beatings commenced. Victoria’s size and weight allowed for longer survivability, her wounds healing at an accelerated rate, and corded muscles protecting many vital organs from the irreparable damage of tooth and nail.

An attack of opportunity presented itself, as a large enough piece of ceiling stone came crashing down onto the attacking wolf’s head, stunning it long enough for Victoria to pivot to the side, and bash the back of the wolf’s head, sending it into the steel beam. Another swift elbow shot to the other Crinos finally hit hard enough to cause it to release its muzzle grip, allowing Vic to spin and free herself from being sandwiched in between the two Spirals. She took off on all fours, circling the perimeter of the arena as the crowd booed and hissed at her assumed cowardice. Yet, her goal was to bide time, enough so that she didn’t feel as handicapped as her captors would like. A Garou never backs down from a fight, fair or otherwise, but they also know when to hold or when to fold in hopes of fighting at another time. In this case, the Sabbat want to control her, yet you can’t control something you don’t fully understand, and she’d hoped that a change in tactics would confuse the lot of them as well as allow for recovery.

“Send in the scraps!” A raspy, heavily accented voice from somewhere shouted, eliciting yet another round of cheering from the crowd, as two figures were shoved in through the narrow gate leading into the arena, one a barefoot young man dressed in a dirty t-shirt and jeans, and another much shorter figure, with long hair, whose thin frame and facial appearance was that of a…

...child. No!...

Victoria growled in heated anger as she saw the little girl emerge, her clothing nothing but a tattered pink floral-patterned pajama nightgown that hung down just below the knees, her face soiled with dirt, dried blood, and whatever else this place had done to her. Wide eyes full of fear, and countless tears streamed down her red cheeks as she remained pressed up against the gate, murmuring something to the man next to her, as he too had nothing but fear in his watered eyes, a guarded arm covering the little girl even as he tried to be brave himself. Vic’s muscles clenched as she snarled at her Sabbat captors. She then turned her attention toward the sobbing human girl who couldn’t have been any more than ten years old, her still developing heart beating at a rapid pace, and a terrified expression mixed with confusion and a severe lack of understanding the situation she had been thrown into. Several times, her tiny voice pushed out the words ”Please! I want to go home! I want my mommy and daddy!…”, yet each time her futile cries were quickly drowned out by the heckling crowd, their sarcastic and vile remarks toward the two humans, knowing full well that entertainment would be had at the expense of one of the lowest species on the food chain.

The two Black Spiral Dancers were roughly equal distance from the humans, as they too began stalking them, playing a game of “hound and fox”, paying less attention to the real threat across the arena and allowing their own thirst for flesh to get the better of them. Vic seethed in hatred as the predictable scene unfolded, both Crinos morphing simultaneously into their Hispo form and pumping their legs to run toward their newly given prey with a gleam in their eye.

Their mistake.

The female Metis charged as her powerful legs pushed the boundaries of innate supernatural speed & reflex, carrying her massive bulk from one side of the arena to the other in what could only be described from an onlookers perspective as a “large blurred shadow”, eyes illuminating more intensely, breathing heavily with each long stride and push-off from her hind legs, and thick, hardened claws ready to carve up it’s prey. The Rage she’d longed for since captivity surged through her blood, fueled every part of her physical makeup, and healed lingering wounds, restitching and sealing tissue as easily as wiping away a stain. The Spirals could feel a change within the young wolf, as one of them stopped short, hoping to intercept their charging opponent, but it had little effect, as the simple laws of physics took over and the defending Spiral was easily knocked to it’s side with a strong, swift stroke of the Garou’s horned head. The other, within just a few feet of the humans, was quickly intercepted by a thick, clawed hand that hooked onto the Spiral’s neck, and broadsided the beast, slamming it into the adjacent wall.

An intensely quick and violent struggle of power persisted, as Victoria unleashed a flurry of tooth and claw attacks that tore through the thick hide of her target, fragments of skin, black fur, flesh, and sinew scattered about, blood splattered against the brick and steel walls, and the shrieks and snarls of the wolf pinned under the mass of its attacker filling the arena. The female Garou was relentless as her resolve grew with each deadly strike, fueled not only by the hatred for the Black Spiral Dancers, the Sabbat, and this whole ordeal of slavery to the Wyrm, but her instincts to guard the two humans who were pulled into a game they should have never been part of. What followed, however, caught the young Fury off guard as her physical structure began to reform, breaking down from its massive Crinos form to that of a much smaller human-like shape, it's wolf head changing to a monstrous and scarred version of a human face, as fur shortened in areas, and dark skin surfaced, along with long locks of thick, wild, black dreaded hair. The mythical “hollywood” she-wolf manifested itself...not quite wolf or human.

The First Change had finally come…

Victoria’s body screamed in pain as the sheer mass of her natural Crinos form disappeared, bones, cartilage, and muscle tissue transforming at a rapid pace, and the Glabro form taking its place, a somewhat cruel joke it seemed considering she was now at a physical disadvantage. Although with the Hispo still pinned under her weight, mauled and worn out, it eventually slowed its struggle while bleeding profusely through countless open wounds that failed to heal properly. It’s partner, however, back on all fours and shapeshifting into the “war-form” Crinos, leaped at the newly changed female Glabro, catching her off balance, and causing her to tumble over on her back as the massive attacking wolf straddled her torso and followed up with a series of bites and claws to her face and neck, opening new wounds on her shoulder and blinding one eye as blood seeped from her brow.

“The tables are turned little pup!” The Spiral snarled, barked, and drooled in Vic’s face while thrashing the smaller, weaker creature relative to his Crinos form.

The two humans, fearing for their lives as the vicious and bloody scene unfolded, thought to run to the other end of the arena, wanting to put enough space between them and the “giant dogs”. The sobbing little girl hid her face, unable to move on her own, all the while shaking her head in disbelief as she begged for the monsters and the noise to stop, to disappear so she could wake up from the nightmare that her mind trapped her in. The young man lifted her up and ran as fast as his tired legs could carry them both telling her it would “be okay” over and over again, even though he scarcely believed it himself. The crowd continued to heckle the humans, shouting out vulgarities and chanting “death to the blood bags!”, cheering louder as four Sabbat “enforcers” entered the cage dressed in SWAT issue body armor and wielded crude spears tipped with long silver heads that tapered to a fine point.

Meanwhile the quick and powerful struggles of both werewolves on the other side of the arena continued, with Victoria managing a swift strike that gouged her attacker’s eye, momentarily giving her the opportunity to wriggle free from under the Spiral, roll out and come to a stop on hands and knees. Panting heavily, broken, and still reeling from her sudden and unexpected transformation, she turned her attention to the fleeing humans, as well as the armored Sabbat, one of which quickly swung his spear wide, knocking the young man in the back of the head, causing him to fall and the little girl to go flying from his arms and land hard onto the ground. The crowd’s cheering and laughter once again filled the large space, their mocking echoes carrying throughout the entire building as the demand for a blood sacrifice was on the lips of every vampire present. Victoria tried to run, hoping to help the humans, but was caught from behind by the remaining Spiral, it’s strength superseding that of her own, enough that she was held in a choke hold.

“NO!” Vic growled, her new form lending itself to a slight human language. “I’ll...kill...you...all!” Struggling to break free, she watched the vampires lift the young man to his feet, cut the clothes from his body, and push him out into the center of the arena, cold, naked, and fearing for his life as well as the life of the little girl. He tried to run to her, but was immediately intercepted and held by one of the vampires, a knife put up to his throat and slowly slid across his skin as the thick lifeblood of the human poured down his bare chest like a waterfall. The little girl screamed to the top of her lungs, as she too was being held by a vampire and forced to watch as the man collapsed in a pool of his own blood. The female werewolf continued to struggle, clawing and biting at the arm of the Spiral that firmly held her, the Rage within that called her to explode and tear apart every Wyrm-tainted mother fucker in the entire building was subsiding. Where had her strength gone? Had her spirit animal vanished? Where was her revenge? Another pang of fiery agony surged through her body, as one of the Sabbat thrust a silver-tipped spear through her torso, and another after that, and a third from a different direction, eliciting a piercing scream mixed with the yelping of a wolf.

“Let her go, mongrel!” One of the vampires demanded of the Spiral, causing it to release his grip on Victoria, as she fell to her knees, holding onto the spears that protruded from her body.

The effects of the silver coupled with continued blood loss began to wear her down greatly, yet she wanted to ignore the pain, to lash out, to kill. But she could not. Her amber eyes stared across the arena, the sounds of the raging crowd, the snarling Spiral behind her, and the mocking vampires were suddenly pushed away as her mind focused solely on the little girl. The little girl whose hope had dwindled as she looked upon the bloodied and bruised corpse of the young man, a little girl who had no idea what was going on, and no recourse but to bury her face into her hands. Victoria felt a single tear form and slowly run down her furry face, as she reached out an arm wanting to hold the child, to comfort her, and take her away from all of this evil...

“Fuck this shit, just kill the little girl already!” One of the vampires yelled.

“No! Not just yet.” Another retorted, walking over to Victoria with a shovel in his hand and a smug expression. “We have plans…”

The shovel came swift and hard, knocking Vic along the side of the head, and causing everything to go dark.

Eric O'Hara by @Architect
Catlin Monroe by @Ruby

---

Kindred, ghouls, and freaks. It was the kind of crowd that made Catlin Monroe feel right at home; even though deeper down, under the surface, it made Yanci smirk. Maybe even a little head shake. Push come to shove, it was hard to say which "counter-culture" Yanci preferred most. Flappers were fun, and made inroads most never realized for women. Beatniks were interesting, a thoughtful bunch that hid many a grotesquerie; but the songs were thought provoking, and they had the best literature out of any of them.

The punks were a different sort, and were quite a deal more world wide than most other North American countercultures. They were also wildly inclusive. Racism had very little context within the group, the genders were even pushed closer together, so long as you were "punk enough"; a metric that varied depending on the group you were near, and one that could be pass or failed by males just as often as females. She wore a grey "Body Count" shirt with jagged holes where sleeves had once been, a white sports bra peeking from under it, black jeans tight enough to cause a few stares, and old black boots that were pridefully denied any sort of polish or upkeep for years and years.

Catlin's eyes danced left and right as she pushed through the Smell, a Los Angeles landmark that hosted as many of the Kindred, ghouls, and freaks as it did wayward teens and hardened 20 somethings. Rich posers, poor dreamers, all mixed with the stank and the supernatural. Most were careful in their speech, but in a place so skull crushingly loud when the amps and the drums became all a normal person could hear, some lips got loose enough to hear. And hear Catlin did. Sometimes with an eavesdrop, but more often than not because she was pulled in to conversation. Peppered with questions, and offering answers while holding a smile like most held onto beers; warm, easy.

A strange look on black painted lips.

Everyone knew Catlin Monroe. She did a million and one "nice" things for anyone, those she knew, and those who knew of her. It didn't seem to matter. Some swore she'd been a fixture in L.A. for decades, some she was merely a recent addition to the L.A. night. The truth was somewhere inbetween, as it so often was. Catlin Monroe had existed as a "cover" since the late 50s. Always into counterculture, always never more than just a "friend of a friend" for the young and disenfranchised of the Los Angeles scene.

It wasn't even originally her idea; that honor belonged to Eva. It had become a favorite role of Yanci, a character she'd grown with and into over the decades, one crafted carefully with a background that weaved in and out. Tonight was no different. The bloodshed had many scared, or nervous, or anxious, almost all some swirling mixture of one of those. Catlin seemed concerned, but not alarmed. Every group her gravity pulled her into was met with a similar message: "I hear good things from Elders I know, things are beginning to settle, an end game is in sight."

Who knew if that would be good, or bad, but it at least it would be settled. Worries of Camarilla and Sabbat rule were contradicted with hopes for Camarilla and Sabbat rule. Most, it heartened her to hear, simply wanted the Free State to stay free. When pressed, Catlin could admit she thought it would, but offered nothing to back it up. Tonight it was better to get lost in the hundred and one favors asked of her. That was when a young Toreador and Brujah came up to her, asking her pointed questions.

Not about herself. About Los Angeles. About the real estate market. Or as the Kindred youth liked to call it, "the Haven market." In her nature, Catlin's questions dug below the surface, prompting for their reasoning, and the source of their queries. Apparently, Hey, I'm fine.....but I need air, wasn't the most convincing or comforting of lines. Rey pointed her towards an exit, and Catlin left the two with a reassurance.

Whether she was playing tricks of presence, or she just put people at calm with her mixture of knowing more than she let on and pleasantly subdued nature, black lips were turned upwards just-so as Eric turned, and found Catlin Monroe staring at him from a few feet away. "You look anxious. I know the smell really IS that bad in there, but...damn." Laughter followed like a whisper between friends; nothing loud, nothing sharp, nothing that would draw unwanted attention. Just a private moment of humor.

"Concern like what's on your face ain't punk, my man. What's up?" Her eyes closed for a split second, her right hand leaving her front pocket and lazily going palm out towards him, before eyes opened and hand returned to pocket with the disclaimer: "The non-bullshit version, if you would."

Bullshit ain't punk, either.

The young vamp paused for a moment as his dark eyes focused on her, before slowly breaking out into a smile, bright white illuminated by the neon night.

"Catlin, right?" he chuckled, shrugging. "Guess everyone was right about you. Miss I-Don't-Take-Shit-Tough-As-Nails. Loving the look, by the way."

"Oh, my nails aren't that tough. They break all. the. fucking. time." It crept onto her lips like a black cloud over a blood moon, that smirk did. "But yes, Catlin Monroe, at your service. I'm known around these parts, something of a Fixer. So why don't you quit stalling and tell me why your friends sent Ms. Fix-It in your direction?"

She wanted to wink. She wanted to wink very badly....but she didn't. No need to rub it in.

Eric flashed another smile then, genuine and warm.

"Ah, you know how it is," he blew out his breath and waved a hand dismissively. "When the big guys screw up, the little guys have to catch the shit that rolls downhill with open arms."

There was a quiet pause as he looked her up and down again, for the briefest of moments, a flicker of curiosity and warmth passing his expression even faster.

"Barnette, that old prick up in the hills. One of the old blood that was dusted. He was a dick, but he was also in charge of real estate for newcomers and neonates. Those of us without a steady flow of cash to lay low in a Fort Knox haven. Lucky me, I'm one of the guys caught in the sun with no place to stay. Not for long at least."

He shrugged again, as if to mask his concern behind a facade of "cool", like everything was going to be okay. It wasn't.

"Barnette?"

What started as a smile twisting onto black lips ended with her head being thrown back, long shiny black hair trailing after it, and laughter coming loud and quick to the chilly SoCal air around them. And it continued for a good thirty seconds, give or take, before her right hand placed atop her chest and her humor wound down, her head coming back, her eyes settling back on him--trying to contain that, briefly, unbridled humor.

"I'm sorry. I don't find your situation humorous, just been a solid moon's turn since I heard that name. You don't wanna know. But NOT to worry." She put emphasis on the word 'not', because she could help him in more ways than she had time to count, before a pause got awkward, anyway. "It may take me a few days to find something more permanent for you, but in the meantime I know an Elder who doesn't mind your crashing. I doubt you'll ever see them or theirs, either--it's more of a "backup" Haven for them, one of many. There is security on site, so I'll have to escort you and 'check you in' with them, get you a key, but after that you'll be able to come and go when you want until we can get you something more permanent. I'll even phone the Elder and let them know so there's no surprises on either end, yours or theirs."

Catlin's eyes and lips came to life with the playfulness of a Lost Boy as she took a step forward, and offered young Eric her hand. "Deal?"

A frown found its way on his otherwise smooth, youthful face, his eyes glancing down to the outstretched hand. There was a flicker of hesitation in his posture before his gaze drew up to meet hers, his eyes questioning.

"Not to sound ungrateful. But... Why? What's the catch? You don't find a lot of altruistic types down here."

There was a pause. A long, quiet, awkward pause. And then he broke out in that smile, again, all white, all bright, all warm and genuine. He reached out and took her hand in his, cool and smooth in her grip, and squeezed gently.

"Deal," he looked back at her through the bangs in his eyes, those off-colour circles of restlessness highlighted the dark orbs looking back at her. "I'm Eric, by the way. O'Hara."

A few shakes and she let go, reaching into her back pocket for the small smartphone before formally introducing herself. "Catlin Monroe. And don't worry, Eric; the Uber's on me."

Someone In The Crowd

To a creature like Alexander Stone, Sunset was a hive of noise, sin and intrigue. A thousand thoughts buzzed in his ear at every moment, it was only practice and endurance that prevented such things from overwhelming him. To hear what he heard at every moment would drive a lesser being mad, although, whether he could truly class himself as not, was another matter. His eyes played about the room, reading auras, those on display, and those hidden away by the rudimentary defences of lesser kindred, as if they were open books. In a moment he could read the history of centuries passing by.

He held up his own hand, all Toreador bled purple, the colour of royalty, into the air. A vibrant blaze awaited him, senatorial purple speckled with black, like a flame dancing across reality. Carefully, he moved his hand across his vision, comparing each and every kindred he spotted to his own. Of course, those around him with the gift of Auspex would see but a pale imitation of his true shade, but even those who had put great effort into concealing their own would have no respite from him. He paused as the subtle motion of his hand drew over the Baroness and her coterie. The flames the danced from them were not to be sniffed at, but his focused pinned on her for a moment. While all Toreador bled purple, it was common knowledge that one could not only read a kindred's history through their aura, but their lineage. Once the flame of Stone and the Hispanic Elder's aura merged in his sight, one could barely tell the difference.

Both hands returned to the phone he had infront of him, reviewing the messages he had sent by title alone;

Gold
Decaprio
Malibu

Ignoring the various lesser kindred and kine that chattered around him, a group of near thin-bloods whom he had attached himself to for the evening, Stone focused his mind. Eva was a challenge, strong as the blood was in her veins, she would not be able to shield herself from him, but she would certainly pick up on the sensation of truly being 'watched.' The Toreador, Ventrue and Lasombra that made up her coterie however, were open books. The three 'higher' clans were close in blood, and by extension, close in blood to Stone. The latter two required a little more work. Stone was native in Toreador, but was fluent in the dialect of other-clan thought. He blinked, and he was looking through the eyes of the harmless seeming Jewish Ventrue, details, details, scrolled past his, no, her, face, as Stone watched. A thousand and one intimate details in half as many seconds. Another blink, and he found himself excitedly throwing his hands in the air. Her hands. How simple it would be to hollow her out and wear her skin as his own. The Lasombra had secrets of his own as well, secrets relating to Stone's new 'friends' in the Sabbat. It was child's play to delve through his mind, redirecting trains of thought away from anything that might point in his direction, not that anyone on this far coast of the world knew who he was.

By the time his sight returned to his own form, they had left, and much of the excitement had gone out of the Lounge. The other elders were soon to leave, whatever menial matters they had arrived to discuss already filed away in the vast complex of Stone's mind, but they were dull, colourless things. Hunting grounds and the like. His eyes, his own eyes, returned to his phone. Seconds had passed, before a list of bank accounts opened up before him. Gazing at numbers, numbers that meant little to the Vampire, for now. In the end, he simply home-screened out of them, the phone returned to his pocket. He stood, speaking a few words, to no one in particular;

"I need a walk, don't wait for me." He doubt they would have anyway, frivolous creatures, these young bloods, without any of the patience for the long game. It was not as if there was much left at Sunset for them now, he doubted they would be far behind him. Taking his leave, Alexander Stone made his way out into the warm LA night. He chose a direction, upwards, into the hills, and began to walk. LA beginning to stretch out before him.

"Finally, a worthy piece of art, childe." He mused. Before long, he was alone upon a bench, leaves rustling around him, as common as the thoughts of the Kindred that still lingered on his mind. His phone removed from a pocket, he dialled a number he recalled from an earlier glance. It rang fives times before an answer, and the voice that left Stone's lips was not, in the slightest, his own, smooth, and female;

"Leonardo? Yes, I know it's late, you have time for me. I want to talk to you about Gold."

Ezekiel Kristoff

---

Within twenty minutes of setting out, Zeke and Charlie were cruising through Downtown LA night-life traffic. Zeke was on edge, he left the driving to Charlie as he focused in looking out the windows. He hadn't set foot out of his recently bought house more than a couple times since he had moved in, and had never dared go near the heart of the city personally since his arrival in California. Everywhere he looked he thought he could see a Sabbat hit-squad waiting to take pot shots at his car. He had no doubt that he hadn't escaped D.C. cleanly, if they knew he'd fled to California, he'd probably be fairly high up on their hit list. Then again, maybe he shouldn't be so stressed out about them, the Sabbat probably had bigger fish to fry in LA as it was before hunting around for stray Camarilla supporters.

Nay, Zeke was worried about running into ANY Kindred. Sabbat, Anarch, or whatever, he knew that he and his kind were not exactly the most welcome around here. Sure, the Anarchs weren't as bad as the Sabbat, but they'd still likely go after him if they thought he posed a threat to their "freedom".

How exactly to handle that? Zeke knew that sooner or later, he would eventually be discovered, and unless he could make some sort of deal, or consolidate enough power to make trying to remove him a considerable pain for anybody in this city, he might as well just catch a sunrise as his odds of surviving would be even slimmer here than in D.C.

So, he figured he'd do the most Tremere thing, and set out to make sure both potential plans were there in case one failed. Schemes within schemes would be essential in this town. With any luck, Juli would fulfill her task tonight in making the latter plan closer to a reality, while he and Charlie would work on the former.

"Find us a place to park, we're going to go for a walk and check out the clubs."

"You're going to just stroll around in downtown LA? After all that time you told us about being careful who we ran into?"

"Yes, but then I'm not merely you, am I? I have reason to fear this city, Charlie, but I'm still no lamb lost in the woods. My power and my anonymity will suffice to at least give enemies pause. A golden rule in this business is generally not to kill people you don't know and aren't immediately looking to blast your face off."

"That's assuming those people aren't psychos, LA's full of those."

"Just park the damn car and let's see what we can see."

Charlie pulled the Oldsmobile down and along a road meter before stepping out. He didn't even bother to put any change in, but Zeke dropped a couple coins in while the punk wasn't looking. No need for him personally to show up in any local police records too quickly because of a fucking ticket.

Briskly, he and Charlie started walking down the street, their pale skin contrasting with their black leather attire. They walked along several blocks, Zeke gazed upon the various Kine clubs, bars and restaurants as they passed along the sidewalk. He wasn't looking with his physical eyes though, he was looking with his auspex. The world became a menagerie of colours and thoughts, and to a younger Magi with the talent, such visual sensation would be overwhelming, but to Zeke, it was only minorly straining to gaze among the sea of auras and streams of consciousness. As expected, most were Kine, but he caught the odd Kindred and other supernaturals walking among them. Mostly young bloods enjoying all the freedom for the Elders and their politics that LA seemed to offer now.

But Zeke was no neonate anymore, he knew that even if the game was not being played openly, there was always a tournament of shadows at play beneath the surface, especially in places like LA with the supposed power vacuum that had come just recently. His gaze drifted down to the end of the street, where particularly numerous numbers of Kindred were filing out of in their own time. An old, but well-maintained bar called "Sunset", the history of its property practically seeped out of its foundations, and with the mere glimpses it was enough to tell Zeke all he needed to know.

Zeke blinked, closing his second senses in the process. "Of course."

"Mal?" Charlie hadn't been paying attention to anything in particular as they had walked, if anything, he was more interested in checking out the girls, or "maintaining observation" than anything else.

"What better name for a meeting place for us than the very moment our Nights begin? If I can't find someone of some importance in there, then I wager they aren't the people likely to even give me a fair shake. Bring the car around closer, I'll meet you inside."

Shania by @Fallen Muse
Grace Liu by @tanderbolt

---

The whining of the Toyota Corolla was now replaced with the gentle rumble of a two thousand three Ford Ranger, complete with tool chest. Shania stared up at the field office, as she opened the door of the vehicle and slammed it back shut. She was back in her FBI officer outfit, button up shirt, slacks, flats, the works. Unfortunately she was also sporting a rather large bruise on the side of her face, and nursing a broken rib as she walked as delicately into the field office as possible.

Grace had arrived early and already commandeered one of the interview rooms for her meeting with the suspicious investigator. The receptionist would relay the instructions, and hopefully the individual would arrive on time. She sat at the table, flanked by two nondescript men in black suits, while she wore usual outfit of dark colored businesswear and mirrored sunglasses, even indoors. She kept her eyes on the door and her watch, checking the time and the growing chain of email alerts she was ignoring. Occasionally she focused on the black case sitting on the table, but most of her nervous energy focused on the doorway.

It wasn't long before Shania found herself standing at the room door, and turned the knob to walk in. She settled into her seat, and stared at Grace for a moment, before setting the files she already had down on the table. "These are the ones I have... I'd like" She slides them in half. "Any that have similarities to these on the right." She looks up at Grace and then frowns. "Excuse me that was rude. I'm Agent Shania Collins." She looked between the two men in black suits, but her focus stayed on Grace, the odd aura that came off the woman. Shania narrowed her eyes a bit and then slid her hands up on the table. "Or maybe we can talk about why you really wanted to meet me?"

Grace did not bother looking at the files, they were not her focus. She maintained a calm voice and stared at Shania. "I want to know why you wanted those files. I know you are not attached to this investigation." a

With lips pursed Shania began to stand. "I am not, and I do not feel the need to indulge you in the whys. Just know they are important." She started to stack the folders together. "I think it's quite clear we're not who we claim to be..."

A slight smile crept across Grace's face. "I haven't claimed to be anything yet. Believe me, I know the importance of these crimes, I have collected significantly more information on this phenomena than is available in those files. Now, that information will stay with me and your deception will be reported to the proper authorities if we continue down this path. Alternatively, you can start answering my questions and we can see where it leads us." Grace made a slow movement to open the case on the table, it folded out and showed an electronic device with a dozen different gauges and a place to place one's right hand. "If you do want to cooperate, I ask that you tell the truth. This little lie detector will do a lot to build my trust in you."

This was all very strange to Shania, but it seemed there were few other choices in this situation. Slowly she retook the seat, and placed her hand on the device."I see.. Well if you really must know. I investigate strange cases, and look for links to supernatural phenomena." She pursed her lips a bit. "Then I seek out that phenomena."

The smile remained on Grace's face, but she looked at the reading from the machine. Satisfied, she asked another question. "Do you do this on behalf or in association with anyone else?"

Shania took a moment as the question gestated in her mind. She considered how to reply, yet be truthful. "Yes I do... On behalf of all innocents in the world. On behalf of those who commit the crimes themselves so ultimately they can understand the crimes they have committed."

After she finished speaking, Grace said "But, ultimatley, are you alone in your endeavor? Is it just you who is out protect the mundane world from the monsters that lurk in the shadows?"

Sitting back, staring at Grace, Shania chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. "Who said anything about monsters in the shadows? Anyways.. I am in fact alone.. For now, though there are others like me out in the world."

There were many other points of data to discover, but Grace had found out the most essential ones. She gestured to Shania that she could remove her hand from the lie detector and said "You have more company than you think. The organization I represent has a deep and lasting interest in defending human civilization against supernatural threats. I believe we may be able to cooperate, especially in this current climate. From the looks of you, you may appreciate the help."

"I can't say I'm sure if I want to accept your help." Shania pulled her hand back from the lie detector. "I can't say I'm willing to, because I don't know what the hell you are." She narrows her eyes more. "I've never seen someone like you before, That color, that shape. What are you?"

The smile was gone from Grace's face, and her voice grew more monotone. "The reality of our present world is more fragile than one might expect. Out of the world, some have the power to alter it greatly, and each of them must choose whether they will serve it or serve their own selfish interests. I count myself as one who defends it. Now, at present we do not ask much of anything of you, just that you keep the line of communication open. As we both learn more about each other and build trust, our shared mission will become clear." Grace hid the fact that she did not know how Shania could see her aura, but she reassured herself that reviewing the reading from the device would answer her question eventually.

Shania stood and nodded. "Fine. I will keep my phone open to receive calls, but do not expect me to come to your bidding like this anymore. You do not want to entrust me with information when I ask questions, and only give it when you are ready. Expect the same in return. She opened the door to the room, preparing to leave.

Grace gestured to one of the men, who handed her a briefcase and smartphone. "I promise I do not intend to intrude on your time like this again." Grace held out the briefcase and phone for Shania to take. "I will entrust you with these, each of which may be needed in our continued dealings. Do not share them with anyone else or attempt to access them without being directed, the anti-tampering mechanism will make them useless if you do. It was a pleasure doing business with you."

Michele, Nicolaus, Elizabeth, and more booze to take the edge off
_{collab between @Howler & @Rawk, leading up to “Lupine Breakers”}

Elizabeth stood for a moment with her mouth agape, unsure of how to respond to the girl’s last comment, until the alcohol that had been streaming through her veins and rearranging her frontal cortex, decided for her. “Holy fuck you’re not a guy in drag at all!” Her voice started out a bit on the high side in the excitement, eventually leveling out. “In fact, you’re much better looking from this vantage point than over there. She motioned to the booth halfway across the room at the top of the stairway landing, her vampire companion preoccupied in a conversation with one of the waitresses.

“But...anyway, this isn’t so much a social call as it is...” Liz twisted up her lip and furrowed her brow as though she were in deep thought. “a ‘business proposition’, I suppose you could call it.” She reached for the second shot glass full of Cuervo and knocked it back before placing it down onto the bar top, her expression giving off a sour vibe as she swallowed the liquor.

“Actually...I’m not really sure what I’d call it and, in fact, I don’t even know what it’s all about.” She smirked as though amused at her own ignorance, suddenly catching herself on the barstool from almost falling, yet continuing her conversation without missing a beat. “But, what I do know is that my friend over there has a bit of news that might interest you.” The woman leaned in closer to Michele. “And your kind.” She whispered with a mocking wink and smile that said ”I’m as funny as a hat full of assholes”.

...yup. It was that time of night again. There came a point in every trip out where some drunk asshole would decide it was a good idea to poke fun at Michelle. She’d heard it all before at this point--this would make time, what, seven that she got called a dude?--but it never made it any less ha-ha-hilarious. Fortunately they were in one of the few locations that Michelle wasn’t allowed to deck someone and, admittedly, the someone happened to be attractive enough and drunk enough that there were better responses to be made. But no, it wasn’t a social call. It never was, but then again why would it be? Did she fucking look like a social person?

But alright. Her kind, then. Why the fuck not.

Draining her own drink with the Elizabeth’s tequila breath in her ear, Michelle set the glass down with a clink of ice and stood wordlessly. In the same motion she wrapped an arm around the drunk gypsy’s waist and hauled her up as well, the werewolf pulling equal shifts walking her over and propping her up on the unceremonious way to the vampire in--Christ, how did they all manage to sit in the back of the room?

“You dropped this.” She was killing it on introductions today, depositing the arm candy opposite the Ventrue only to slide in next to her. A bony butt-bump later and she even had herself a bit of sitting room. “So what do you want?”

If there had ever been a time Nicolaus begged for the ability to simply “switch off” his acute sense of smell -and perhaps to a lesser extent, taste- it was certainly now, catching the raw odor that permeated off the Lupine even before she and Elizabeth made it to the foot of the stairway leading up to the booth. It was a scent that, in it’s subtle own way, was as repulsive as a wet dog who’d previously rolled around in it’s own excrement before waltzing into its master’s house, muddy paws and all. It had been almost a year since he was around another Garou, at least within enough of a radius to sense their presence, and yet the initial shock to the senses never seemed to fully diminish. Perhaps if the Ventrue hung around their Glasswalker counterparts more often, they’d come to appreciate the aroma...

The vampire masked his internal disgust with a friendly smile. “Thank you for joining us, Ms. Darrens.” He nodded. “And, of course, for escorting the lovely lady back to me.”

The Romani woman gave the Ventrue a sarcastic smirk in response, sliding closer to him only to lay her alcohol-heavy head onto his squared off shoulder, slowly allowing her eyes to close as her lover continued.

“Let me first ask...have you ever been aware that Sabbat anarchs were holding a sort of ‘fight club’ in various parts of the city, perhaps even the outskirts?”

“That’s my Thursday night you’re talking about.”

Oh look, another gorgeous vampire in more gorgeous clothes. Fucking Hollywood. Did they only turn people that were pretty, she wondered, or did they just turn pretty after they died? She was pretty convinced the ugly ones were a different species somehow, like cockroaches and butterflies both technically being insects, but that was besides the point. Breathing out and kneading the bridge of her nose, she tried to shake off the alcohol and the edge that was crawling back through her fingers and forearms and deal.

“No, I usually have bigger things to worry about than dead people beating the tar out of each other. What, you want a ringer or something?”

Her initial response pique his interest, slightly raising an eyebrow under the false hopes that the Garou participated in these beatings, and perhaps an easier entry into the next fight could be made. But, to his disappointment, her flavor and degree of sarcasm slipped under his radar when she’d concluded with the polar opposite. But perhaps…

“What if I told you that they recently acquired a few of your kind by means of a raid on tribal Caerns up in the Northwest.” Nico paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in. “And from what I’ve been told, one of them is of a rare breed. So much so, that this enslaved Garou is slowly becoming their champion. A real boon for a bunch of Sabbat shits…”

Nicolaus allowed a bit of edginess to slip out in those last few words, his loathing for the twisted Sect ever in the forefront of his mind.

‘No man left behind’ meant a lot to a lot of people. It didn’t to Michelle, but that didn’t mean that she could just leave another Garou to play punching bag for a bunch of neck biting assholes. Michelle might not have been on the best terms with the Garou Nation but that didn’t mean she wasn’t wrist deep in their enemies half the time, and she knew well enough that there weren’t enough of without losing a few to the Sabbat. Besides, walking in and killing everyone until they killed you practically was Michelle’s Thursday night.

“I’d say point the way and get out of mine, but from the sound of it that’s already the plan.” She snorted wryly, leaning back to watch the pair of them. “So what do you want for it? Or is this out of the goodness of that heart of yours that probably dried up years ago?”

That was the inevitable question wasn’t it? And yet Nicolaus had already asked himself the same long before he’d decided on what to do with the vital information fed to him through his underground network. He struggled, in a sense, with whether or not there had to be any gain from this, and the answer did seem pretty obvious at first. Was he to aid the Camarilla in obtaining an ally who could very well be worth ten vampires? To bring this creature up to fight for a much worthier cause than that of the Sabbat and those who follow their dark path? Thereby increasing his Dignitas and resources within clan Ventrue as well? The deep-seated desires never went away, as there was always something to gain at the expense of others. But, the more the vampire contemplated the entirety of the situation, the less desirable any form of a “reward” felt. How different would he have been from his hated enemy? Nicolaus knew all too well what it was like to have everything taken away from him in one fell swoop, and to deny the Garou a fair shake had no semblance of honor. Of course, there was the matter of a debt spanning countless years that he’d hoped to one day pay in full...

“Simply the satisfaction of knowing that the Sabbat assholes and their confederates are struck a hard enough blow, that they’re reeling from the aftermath for a long while.” He said with a gleam in his cobalt eyes, and a wry grin that partially revealed fangs thirsty for the blood of his foes. “But ultimately, Ms. Darrens…” The vampire’s smile disappeared. “The decision is yours, as I am merely the messenger.”

“Can’t reel when you’re dead.” She pointed out, her voice flat and dull as she watched the vampire and his human companion. This was their world, all glass and nightclubs and elegant suits, and hers was out in the guts and gore. She had no illusions--she was doing someone else’s work for them, ashing some asshole leech because some other asshole leech didn’t like him. That’s how vamps liked to do things, even that liked to get their face bloody like him. She could tell from his smile, from the coiling tattoo at his neck worn with meaning instead of some dumb fad that lingered post-mortem.

But there he was, dropping little hints and nudging her along. Some people never could get away from the trappings. The muscles in her forearms were crawling under the skin, making the inky tattoos dance as they coiled--she leaned on her elbows and slid her hands over them. If she were anyone else, the gesture might have looked demure.

“You going to give me an address, or would that be a bit too hands on?”