Hello again!
Sorry this is so late, as I seem to be a few weeks late in delivering it,
but hey, we all make mistakes, no? Besides, one look at the length of
this section is pretty indicative of why it is so late.
I recently released a new 'fic, called It's a Kind of Magic. To all those
who replied to the story, I can confirm I will be continuing the story, as
well as gradually post other fanfics I have written. Fear not, Night
Saber fans (however many that may be:), I will yet continue to write Night
Sabers.
Before I go any further, I should make a few comments:
First, I would like to thank:
The Apprentice
for prereading, as without his invaluable assistance, much of this 'fic
would be of much lower quality.
Second, I would like to go over the cameo appearances in Part 7a of Night
Sabers. They were:
-When Mackie is having his dream sequence in the very beginning of Part
7a, there is one paragraph that contains numerous popular movie titles.
They were, in order: Anaconda, Deep Rising, Armageddon, Alien
Resurrection, Twister, Volcano, and Godzilla. (Med)
-The boy Mackie remember traumatizing into studying the occult in his
dream sequence is Hikaru Gosenkugi, from Ranma 1/2. (Easy/Med)
-A number of the weapons and armor in Night Sabers have been taken from
their native RPGs: Shadowrun and Cyberpunk, mostly for old fan humor.
(Easy/Med)
-When Sylia does a background check on the Ginawa Soy Bar, she discovers
it has connections to the Kazuma Corporation, owned by Kazuma Kuwabara and
Kazuma Yukina. Like Urameshi Yuusuke and Urameshi Keiko, these two
characters are from YuYuHakusho. (Med)
-In that same paragraph, Sylia comments to herself on having to talk to
one of her agents about his obsession with blue-haired women (in this
case, Yukina). This is kind of an inside-inside joke, as the person she
mentions is Nigel Kirkland, the "Dr. Raven" of the New Bubblegum Crisis TV
Show: MegaTokyo 2040. And in that series, Sylia character is now a
slightly strange blue haired woman. (Med/Hard).
Third, a bit of a warning. This section of Part 7 is where violence and
other material unsuitable for younger readers begins to appear. Thus:
For those who have missed the earlier parts of Night Sabers, you can
either E-mail me at curtiss@seattleu.edu or stop by Jusenkyo Guide's
Fanfic page, which has been gracious enough to post the earlier parts.
Stop by; the address is www.geocities.com/Tokyo/6549 and Night Sabers is
in the BGC section, along with a multitude of other excellent 'fics!
The obligatory cautionary notification of miminal age requirement into
this purview of creative expression called fiction: The material found
herein is of a more mature and serious nature, thus is not suitable for
those most blessed by the innocence and exhuberance of more tender years.
The discourse and open allusions may be inappropriate for people meeting
any of the above criteria. In more simple speech, those under 18 years of
age, or those who could not find at least two grammatical errors in the
above text, should READ NO FURTHER! Thank you for your time.
Hey, I'm not kidding here! It is DARK!
And [Lime] means adult themes! You have been warned!
Finally, fourth, all comments or criticism is appreciated, as this is only
a rough draft, and reader suggestions do make a difference. I am trying
to become a better storyteller, not just a better writer.
And now, Part 7b of Night Sabers:
"Ashes, ashes, we all fall down"
Flip. Flip. Flip.
Thomas glared over at his fellow Black Hand member, as the
deranged Malkavian took an almost unholy pleasure in watching the
matte black of his dagger arc up and down, spinning, before the handle
landed smoothly in his hand. Almost immediately, the weapon was
ejected upwards, to begin it's endless journey once more.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
And still it went on, the sound of the sold metal grip thwacking
into the inhumanly smooth and pale skin of the vampire. Thomas knew
that though the skin was without blemish, like a newborn babe, the
color of fresh ivory, it was hard as stone, like the alabaster it resembled.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
Patience, though Thomas had learned some, was not a virtue
that came easily to him. It had been drilled into him with hours of
repetitive tasks, with cuts and burns on his body, and even the shame
and anger of unkind words. But Thomas held a secret conviction that
the greatest way for anyone to learn the truth of patience was to spend
an hour with a certain someone.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
Namely his current companion, Rene Descartes. Thomas did
not doubt, for even one minute, that Rene was his real name. The
insane vampire had trouble remembering the time of day. Remembering
his own name on a regular basis was a task most likely beyond him even
on Gehenna. On the other hand, it was a fair bet that Rene could recite
to him the square roots of 138,383 and 1,222,934,385,935,893 in a
heartbeat.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
The fingers, Thomas decided. Just take that knife, and cut
them off, one by one. It would hurt a little, sure, but he would grow
them back in time. Or maybe just break his arms and legs.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
That obsessed and unholy light remained in the Malkavian
_antitribu's_ eyes. (_Antitribu_!) Thomas snorted to himself. As if
there was any difference! Or maybe just pin his hands to his wooden
chair with that knife. Perhaps a judicious application of flames?
Flip. Flip. Flip.
"Will you stop that?" Thomas hissed at his companion.
Rene's eyes remained fixed on the hand where the dagger
landed, before, wide-opened, they tracked over to Thomas, the rest of
his face blank. The mindless sadistic appearance of those blank eyes
made Thomas once more feel uneasy, a woozy feeling in his stomach.
Rene's eyes thankfully slid from his own, back to the table
before them. On the simple, slightly wobbly metal construct stood a
glass bottle of wine, a few cups, two plastic containers of no longer
chilled blood, and a few firearms. Rene continued to stare at them. No
muscle moved, no breathing as if in a mortal. But Rene still radiated a
nervous energy that no one dead should ever have. At least the damn
idiot had found something else to amuse himself with, rather than
tormenting him.
They had done as their commander had ordered, as well as
checking the earlier arrangements Mackie Stingray had made. They had
distributed the vehicles, most purchased from the illegal shops that
specialized in re-painted and re-licensed vehicles. All across the city, in
garages and streets, they had placed the vehicles, either themselves, or
more often through paid and Dominated street urchins, careful never to
directly go to their current sub-hideout, Vihn's Garage, long abandoned.
And after that had come the weapon storage sites. And the back-up
havens. And the sub-havens. And the dummy bank accounts. The
buried ready cash, in little plastic baggies in easily accessable locations.
And at the same time, they had gone and done the first two hits, as
ordered. The logistics of the situation was mind blowing in many
regards. Yet another reason, Thomas acknowledged, that he was not
suited for command. But there was still-
SSCCCRRREEEEEECCCHHHHHHH!!!!!
Thomas started, his heightened senses jarred by the agonizing
sound that reached him. Every muscle bunched up and Thomas found
his head twisting around, even as both hands lashed out, one for his
blade, the other for his firearm. It was there! It was-
Rene.
The deranged Malkavian seemed to be taking seperate, yet
equal parts pleasure and disinterest as he dragged the point of his
dagger almost languidly down the side of the bottle. Each stroke and
portion carressed by the poniard shrieked in protest as it was violated.
It was like nails being drawn down a chalkboard, like the most annoying
sound in the world, like the harping of one's significant other. It was
small surprise that the Malkavian seemed to be taking pleasure in the
discordant cacophany. To Thomas, with his Auspex, it was ten times
worse what a mortal would hear. He could almost feel every one of the
cracks as they were cut into the glass.
SSCCCRRREEEEEECCCHHHHHHH!!!!!
(Oh, Dread Lord Caine, please give me strength!) Thomas
whispered. "Rene, will you STOP IT?"
SSCCCRRREEEEEECCCHHHHHHH!!!!!
That was it! Thomas shot to his feet, as-
A tentacle of inky darkness darted from the shadows,
wrapping almost lovingly about the bottle, before pulling it away.
Rene raised his eyes, and smiled a languid and sadistic smile as
the bottle was raised by the tenebrous arm, and deposited in the hand
of Mackie Stingray, who looked a little distracted.
Mackie was dressed, as usual, very stylishly. Of course, he
could not compare to Rene, who was dressed to the nines in clothing
that could only be described as an adolescent's concept of Gothic style.
A white, puffy shirt lay under an ornate green overcoat, with a rich
assortment of jewels and pins. His pants, a velvety material, were skin-
tight and showed his calves well. A jeweled hair clip and deliberate use
of Presence made him far more impressive than he actually was. He
looked like the stereotypical screen vampire. Next to Rene and Mackie,
Thomas' simple jumpsuit and trenchcoat looked stolid.
"Enough of that, I should think", Mackie commented, as he
stepped around the table, then looked over the contents of the room.
"Sir?" Thomas stood at attention, almost in parade ground
form.
"Is everything set?" Mackie asked Thomas, ignoring Rene,
who returned to staring at the table.
"Ready to go. We had a little trouble with site #17, but we
took care of that." Thomas reported.
"Good", Mackie acknowledged, "and the first two items on
our agenda for the evening?"
Rene chuckled, a dark and sinuous sound, as he uncoiled like a
serpent from the chair at which he was sprawled. He looked into
Mackie's eyes, and Mackie involuntarily drew back, which only made a
small smile flit across Rene's lips. "Oh yes, they were... entertaining."
Rene turned and walked over to a bundle of his belongings.
Mackie stared after him for a moment, before turning to Thomas.
"Well, sir, it started well. We Dominated one of the
maintanence crew into adding the chemical mix into their cleaning fluid.
It went, for the most part, according to plan in the first one, as it did for
the second..."
* * * * * * * *
Alfonso Giovanni walked over to his imported Ferrari 560e, a
good Italian car with a genuine gasoline engine. The red trim was
pulsating red under the overhead floros, like an exposed artery under
examination, the illusion magnified by one flickering lamp hanging
above. It sat on black tires, inky pools of darkness on the dark gray of
the ferrocrete. The area underneath the Genom Finances building was
well lit by lights from the security towers around the small executive
parking lot. Despite this, the area had a vague, almost oppressive
atmosphere, only heightened by the numerous vacancies within the
expansive lot. True, it was the executive parking lot, but there were a lot
of executives within the massive conglomerate called Genom. Executive
parking meant close to the main enterance, and security by guardian
boomers.
Sighing at the time, Alfonso knew that he would be late in
getting back. And even when he did, he would still be staying at home,
hitting the books and combing the numbers. It seemed it never ended.
But his star seemed to be rising. Already, he had made several
corrections that had saved millions. And he had managed to trace one
of the largest Sabbat accounts that Genom had ever found, and choke it
off. Ironically, it had been the law they so often flouted that had
enabled them to seal the account. (Income tax evasion), thought
Alfonso, shaking his head, (how many great men have been brought
low by those three words?)
Pressing his electric code pad, Alfonso waited for the brief
churp of sound before placing his thumb to the door handle, allowing it
to read his print. After a few seconds of warmth, there was a click, and
he was slid into the genuine leather seat.
The car, unlike most Italian models, did have quite a bit of
space, especially leg room. But the dashboard was the same of all
luxury vehicles; green illuminated, with trideo, telephone, auto-pilot, and
every other advantage. With a sigh of contentment, Alfonso turned the
key, glorying in the majestic thrumming of a real hydro-carbon engine,
not a hydrogen whine, or an electric hum. Grinning, he kicked up the
RpMs twice, before grabbing the stick and taking off with a squeel of
tires.
It was times like this that made him feel alive. Here, on streets
of the Genom building, he could open up, and let the car stretch its legs.
Let the engine purr. MegaTokyo was too traffic congested to go more
than a hundred kilometers at best. But Genom Tower and Genom
buildings were closed to the general public, and thus perfect for racing
on lonely nights.
But all good things must end, and Alfonso slowed down as he
turned towards the massive onramp that led to the highway. It was a
large three lane on ramp, support by large pillars of ferrocrete that held it
aloft in the night sky, affording a magnificent view of MegaTokyo.
Grinning slightly, Alfonso stopped the car, preparing for his nightly
ritual.
"And Alfonso Giovanni is at the starting line", he murmurred,
revving the car higher and higher. The dull roar of a beast barely held in
check called out to be free.
Alfonso grinned. He loved this part. But just to be sure, he
sent the computer through a quick diagnostic.
The computer came back with a clean board.
"There is the signal!" Alfonso cried.
His foot left the brake pedals.
"And they are OFF!" he shouted, as the tires flamed, found
purchase, and propelled car forward.
It looked almost suicidal, but Alfonso had done this dozens of
times, even getting several tickets because of it. His Ferrari could
corner on rails, turn on a dime, and was generally very impressive.
Though he took the turn at over 100 kilometers an hour, he knew he
could make it.
And because of this confidence, Alfonso never knew why he
died.
Though perhaps justifiably proud of the Italian workmanship
of his car, Alfonso never knew one of the most important pieces of the
car was, in fact, not even Italian in manufacture. It was the
revolutionary engine that powered the vehicle that was so critical to the
awesome performance it produced. Though originally designed in
America, the designer had been greedy, and promptly sold it to the
highest bidder, a Japanese firm named Toyota, which in turn had leased
it to a German manufacturer, who then produced the engine for Ferrari.
After all, in the petro poor environment of modern times, a engine
primed for hydro-carbon fuel was not exactly in much demand. It was
effecient only in the power it delivered, not kilometers per liter.
The idea of a super-powered engine was nothing new. But the
designer, one Harry Fulgrim, had taken the idea in the only direction
that had been allowed: the construction of the engine. An average
chemical engineer, Harry Fulgrim had discovered a way to make an alloy
of two very reactive and unstable compounds, via a buffer chemical
compound. The alloy could be made via normal methods, but any high
temperatures, such as over a hundred thirty degrees centigrade, caused
the two component metals to violently react. If the normal metal became
too cold, it turned brittle and shattered at the slightest touch. But the
metal was unbelievably lightweight, strong, and flexible within the
operational tolerances. The complex chemical compound Harry Fulgrim
had devised made the alloy viable, with a wide range of operational
tolerances. The only disadvantage had been the extreme cost to
produce the Fulgrim compound. This limited it to high performance
devices. On top of which, within twelve years, Genom Heavy Industries
and Genom Precision Manufacturing had devised a more stable,
common, and above all, cheaper alternative, soon to be used in their C
series covert boomers.
But an error had been discovered in Germany, in one of the
University tests. The Fulgrim Compound was fairly impressive, but
when a compound of three rare molecules was introduced to the alloy, it
rapidly began to revert to its seperate component materials. The
process was slow, unless it had heat to catalyze the reaction. The
reaction itself was very significant as it was incredibly exothermic.
Which meant it produced heat. A lot of it.
Which was precisely the reaction the Black Hand had
capitalized on. By a stroke of luck, Mackie happened to be attending the
University where the discovery had been made. A brief examination of
his target had brought up the reports of one Normal Police Officer, a
Ms. Natsume, who had repeatedly attempted to ticket the joyrider. A
quick background on the car had revealed the weakness. A simple
addition to the fluid in the complimentary car cleaning while the
executives were at work was the catalyst. And thus, events had
unfolded.
A fact Alfonso discovered as, all of a sudden, his vehicle
ignited in flames, the pistons of the still-pumping engine ejecting out
like bullets, one snapping his spine. He barely had time to scream, as
his vehicle became a catapulting missile of fire, impacting with the
cement guardrail to the on ramp, before he careened over. As the car
began to fall, it seemed to shiver, then exploded, the debris and sheet of
liquid flame incinerating the homeless below, who made the hollows
under the freeway their home.
"Was it clean?" came the voice in Thomas' ear.
With a sigh, Thomas disengaged the telescopic sight on the
man-portable missile launcher he had slung over shoulder. It looked like
the backup would not be needed. Their commander's little trick had
worked. With another press of a finger, he put the weapon on standby.
"Yeah, it was clean."
"Cool! I'm just finishing over here. You coming?" spoke the
voice in his headset.
Taking one last look at the burning remains far beneath him,
Thomas shrugged in his coat, and tossed the launcher in the back of his
towncar. "Yeah", he said, as he got in the driver seat and started up the
car, "I'm coming."
With that, the vampire moved into drive, and pulled away from
the parking lot he was at. But he did drive much slower than he usually
did. He seen the results of driving too fast. (I guess 55 really does save
lives).
The car headed towards downtown.
- - - - - - - -
Unnoticed, above, on the building Thomas had just been at, a
portion of the building shimmered, and figure seeming to step out of the
wall as it ceased stillness, its rocky skin having taken the appearance of
its surroundings like a chameleon. Twin glowing red eyes appeared in
the perfect camoflauge, as the creature slowly abandoned it's disguise.
The stains on the segmented concrete faded, revealing the hard
epidermis below. A part of the window lost its dull reflectiveness,
becoming as the concrete, a dark grey color. Fully revealed in its true
form, the Gargoyle stepped onto the ledge of the building, clawed feet
clacking.
Ubz-Talk turned his horned head down, examining tiny light
that was the flaming debris of the car and its occupant. Ubz-Talk then
turned his attention to the car carrying the Sabbat vampire, fleeing the
scene. It grinned slightly, to itself, as it extended it's mighty leathery
pinions.
Everything was proceding nicely. Ubz-Talk took a brief
second to wonder if the Sabbat, Genom, or even the Black Hand knew
what was truly happening this night. After another brief second, he
decided probably not. After all, he knew more details than they, and he
was still in the dark.
Grinning at his own pun, and with a leap, the stony creature
embraced the air, finding and then riding an updraft towards the
darkened skies.
There was still much work to be done tonight.
Yes, much work to be done.
* * * * * * * *
The dull thrumming of MegaTokyo city sound was suddenly
broken by the soft and rythmic pitter-patter of pounding feet
approaching closer. Soon enough, a figure could be made out, running
forward with speed that would catch anyones eye. A speed that was
just a little _too_ fast. A man's body that wasn't _quite_ properly
joined, seeming to be a sack of bones that *flowed*, rather than
bothering with the crude mechanics of locomotion.
The man was Simon Gerard, ex-Sabbat patriot, and he could
feel the rising panic inside himself as he looked hurriedly over his
shoulder, towards his distant pursuers. He couldn't see them, but he
was not foolish enough to believe that he lost them. Even as he ducked
over to the next street at the cross-section, he could almost hear them,
just beyond his audiatory sense. And while it was true that he no
longer needed to breath, his undead body still suffered from the effects
of fatigue, only able to take so much before it started to become cold,
rather than the burning sensation of muscles that he remembered from
his living days.
(Why don't they fucking give up?) he swore mentally, pausing
to allow his freezing body to warm. He never understood it. Friction
should make his body *warmer*, not _colder_! But no, he couldn't stay
still, hiding in the shadows of a street corner. All his meager skill in
Obfuscate would not save him. He looked about, eyes darting as he
looked up and down the street. Giving himself a second to gather his
courage, Simon lurched forward, lighting towards his waiting motorbike,
thinking to himself, (Damn bitches!)
It just wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair. And unlife was even worse.
He hadn't wanted to be a vampire. He hadn't wanted to join the Sabbat.
And he sure as Hell hadn't wanted to get enslaved by that Sabbat
Viniculum, a Blood Bond of "brothers and sisters". What a fucking
crock! He really wondered if they bought their own propaganda. Or
were they so gorged on the vitae of murdered children and innocents to
actually care. At least the fucking Cammies were supposed to be more
honest about the Blood Bond. They supposedly never painted it as
being anything other than what it was.
(And why the Sabbat hunters? Why now?) he shouted
mentally to himself. It had been nearly three months since he had left
the Sabbat. If he could call it "leaving". Was it his fault Genom had
gotten a little "peckish" when that damn pedophile pervert Jiro had
decided to abduct that Genom executive's daughter? He hadn't been
able to even complain or attack Jiro because of the stupid Viniculum,
while Jiro raped and then drained her. He had almost wept with joy
when the boomers had smashed into the old wharehouse and killed all
his companions.
He was there. He vaulted the seat of the bike like a master
gymnast, the synthleather an oddly reassuring carress on his buttocks.
Key out of his pocket, in hand. Insert, received. Slotted, turn
sharply.
The hydro-fuel engine coughed twice, then thrummed to life.
Good old Doc Raven workmanship. Then a new sound intruded.
Simon looked over his shoulder again. There, he could hear
the sound of approaching vehicles. He didn't think they were normal
MegaTokyo citizens going for a night's drive. Dammit!
Throttle, kick gearshift, switch, move, move, move, move!
The screeching of rubber on two pairs of tires igniting slightly
from sheer friction was his only warning.
There it was! There came the garishly painted vehicle! Why
wouldn't they give up?
Sure he had quit the Sabbat. Who could blame him?
Unfortunately, his decision to leave had actually been worse than being
Sabbat. The strain the first few nights had been terrible. And it had
only become manageable as time passed, never become comfortable.
Constantly looking over his shoulder. Checking his haven. Expecting
every dawn that he went to sleep, he would not rise again to the night.
In a certain way, it was almost a relief that he finally had confirmation of
his paranoia.
The Pinto turned after him, as he sped down the street,
constantly shifting to more powerful gears, as he heard Richard
Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" blaring behind him, along with the
mad cackling of... Rene!
(That damn Malkavian!) cursed Simon. That meant the thrice-
damned Black Hand! Which meant- Thomas and Hiro were somewhere
around here!
Head darting around, Simon, slid into a side street, as another
motorcycle screamed out of nowhere to pull alongside his own. Even
through the helmet on the head of the interloper, Simon could see the
white fangs that contrasted brilliantly with the black skin of Thomas.
"Shit!" screamed Simon, as he almost hit Thomas and wiped
both of them out, trying to avoid a sideswipe from that lunatic Rene in
his multi-colored abomination.
There, there was an alleyway! Rene had fallen behind, and-
yes!
With a quick piece of manuevering, Simon slammed the brakes
of his bike, burning the synthrubber of the tires, before he fishtailed into
the alleyway, almost loosing it on the puddles of water and wet
cardboard, before his bike stabilized, sliding into the alley.
(Made it!) he exhaulted as he kept it going, before realizing he
could hear no pursuit. "What the-?" he wondered as he raised himself
on the racing bike, turning his head to look back.
Monofilament wire is a funny thing. It is an elegantly simple
construct, merely a series of multi-hexagonal carbon molecules or other
substance strung along in a semi-fluid, yet rigid state. The carbon
series, typically the Genom 60 arrangement or the buckyball format,
could freely shift positions, the bonding between the atoms allowing
radical departures from a primary configuration. It was beyond trans- or
cis- configurations; it was simply free-floating. Yet it was also
incredibly tightly bound, the very free-floating contributing to an
amazingly resiliant structure.
None of this was really know by Simon, or indeed the average
person. All most people needed to know was that monowire was very
thin; invisible to the naked eye for all intents and purposes, relatively
fragile unless very thick, and one important other thing. From any angle
other than the axial, it was sharp.
_Very_ sharp. Oh so very sharp.
A fact Simon learned first hand as the monowires stretched
across the alleyway dug into him. The Black Hand had opted to go for
Industrial Rating 3 monowires; fragile as cobwebs, but undetectable. So
much so, that Simon never knew he was dead, until it was too late.
The first wires had briefly cut into the metal, plastic, and rubber
of the motorcycle's frame, it's front wheel, and part of the tiny
windshield. Several penetrated centimeters before snapping, the wires
flailing about from their broken contact points. This, in and of itself,
was not severe.
But it was the three monofilament wires strung up high that did
the work. One monowire found itself digging through the leather jacket
Simon wore, before snapping on a button in the jacket.
But the top two wires were Industrial Grade 6, thick enough to
vaguely seen in direct light, and with far more tenstile strength than the
Grade 3 monowires. They cut through the crown of the skull and the
throat of Simon like a planar laser slices fruits and vegetables. The two
portions of the head were just beginning to seperate when the bike went
out of control.
It was overkill, to be sure, but the members of the Black Hand
had wanted to be sure. So as the bike began to fall, the tiny "Toe-
Popper" mines from Desert Wars 7 went off, the gel-stablized demolition
C-4 mixing with the expelled oxygen from the attached cartridge and
igniting, the force propelling the superheated ball-bearing that each
package contained outward from the tiny barrel, up and through the
bike. Designed to penetrate medium boomers and light tank armor, as
well as the flesh and bone of human beings, the shots shredded the
flimsy bike, also igniting the vapors the puddles of liquid produced, the
ones Simon had incorrectly identified as water.
In fact, most of the puddles _were_ water, but the fuel
compound the two Black Hand agents had selected had a very, very low
miscibility with water. In fact, the hydrogen bonds of the water only
accelerated the evaporation of the fuel, acting as a catalyst. Thus, when
the Toe-Poppers went off, most of the fuel was vapor, in the air.
The explosion was short and brutal. The fuel vapors became
an ugly orange fireball, tainted black by the fragments of the bike that
spun about, shredded by the machined steel spheres. The body of the
vampire, already becoming a dessicated husk, went up like a match.
And just as suddenly as the explosion had come, it was gone.
The fuel had been mostly depleted in that single orgasm of destructive
fury. The afterglow of small patches of fire and burning pieces of the
bike were all that greeted the two vampires that had dismounted their
vehicles and approached their trap. By the time they had completed
their investigation, Rene assuring the death of Simon through a simple
Thaumaturgical ritual, the fire was nearly gone.
Both vampires turned and boarded their vehicles. In this part
of town, no one would care, so they did not take any special
precautions.
As they peeled out, the fires were gone, but for a tiny book, a
diary, that had been thrown from the destroyed jacket of Simon. The
paper provided a few moments of radiance, before it too became ash.
The fire made one last gasp, travelling to the tiny picture of a man, his
wife, and their daughter that had slipped from out of the page. It caught
fire, bubbled in the heat, and then flare into a spark of brilliance, before
leaving the alley without light, with only the ashes blowing empty in the
darkness, as a scaly and clawed foot stepped among them, before there
was another gust of wind, and the alley was empty once more.
* * * * * * * *
"...and he burned up good, with no police or witnesses",
finished Thomas. He looked over at Mackie, who only nodded, looking
a little distant.
"Yes, what now, oh fearless leader?" inquired Rene languidly,
still possessed of a viperish mood and temperment. The Malkavian still
sat there, looking over at them.
Mackie looked briefly over at Rene, raising an eyebrow.
"What now, you ask?" Mackie shook his head slightly, as his fingers
seemed to move, rubbing something in his coat pocket with a
thoughtful look on his face. "What else? We do our job. We kill
people."
"Then we are off?" Rene asked, standing.
Thomas likewise stood up straighter, already standing. "Sir?"
"We go to kill. We will take target #7 first, then see where
things go. The timetable must be kept."
"What about target #2, sir?" Thomas had to ask.
Mackie snorted. "Hope we get a lucky break, I guess. Leave
that one to me."
"Sure", Thomas said, a little doubtful.
Mackie looked at the table and then at his cohorts. "Number 7
will take some time to both set up and eliminate any unnecessary mortal
entanglements. We better get going. Let's move like we have a
purpose", Mackie declared, heading to one of the doors leading out of
garage.
Briefly looking at each other, Rene bowed slightly to Thomas,
sweeping an arm as he said, "Ladies first."
Thomas just shrugged and grabbed some items from the table.
Rene gathered the rest, and the Black Hand was gone.
* * * * * * * *
There was no elaborate display, no parade or grand function.
No fireworks or servants to greet him. Nothing so elaborate. No, all it
was was the simple crossing over, of stepping into the city limits,
passing into the outer districts. Though his chariot was a cab, and his
adornment a set of suitable street wear, Takahashi Giro still felt like a
king. Like a hero. Like someone with a job to do. It felt good. More
than that, it felt _right_. He was confidant in the choice he had made for
himself. For finally, he was back in MegaTokyo. Back in Tokyo. Back
in Edo.
Back where he belonged.
And though the Cathayan knew his struggle to exile and slay
the foreigners who had invaded his land would be both long and
difficult, he was confidant that he would succeed. In time, the streets
would run red in gai-jin blood.
He would see to it personally. Now all he had to do was meet
the Centurion, though they now called themselves Dai'Shar.
That would come, in time. First, to set up a place of rest.
And then he could get to work.
* * * * * * * *
(It is so freakin' hot down below), thought the being who
exitted from one of MegaTokyo's subway stations, in this case, the not-
so-well-maintained #42. There was the usual press of gangers, blue
collar workers, party goers, and assorted riff-raff about, though in not as
great a many numbers as during the day. This was not one of the nicer
districts of MegaTokyo, a former factory district that had been shut
down with the advent of Genom's new super factory complexes. The
buildings were a dreary grey and brown, originally "temporary"
structures for people after the Great Kanto hit, but now in common
usage by whomever wanted them. Most needed to be condemned, and
only a few had even basic power or water, those rare few being
controlled by 'landlords', and their hired ganger 'grounds-keepers'. This
is where the dregs of society came, to sit among insipid squallor and
wait to die. Which they all too often did, before being tossed into the
sewage system. The dirty waste flowing through pristine sewage
facilities. The dichotomy never failed to amaze.
(Not that it is much better up here), came the responding
thought to his thoughts on the sewer. There was at least life up here,
instead of the banal and boring, regulated and redundant repetitive
nature of the sewer systems. It was life that drew him here, for what he
needed. To be among people, and talk to them. To feel them, and help
nurture those rare sparks who sought to escape the static reality among
them, and live life to the fullest. Which was hard, in conditions like
these. Even he could never imagine living here. For example, it was
autumn, coming on a hard winter, yet here they were, still burning up
from the heat of the factories and the deteriorating ozone layer. The
sunlight, if it broke through, could kill. Second-hand boomers, barely
functional, were used at levels of operation that should never be done,
even with a Genom AAA series master-crafted boomer. All too often,
they either shut down, blew up, or went on short term berzerk furies.
Coarse, so named because of his rasping voice, was dressed in
a simple, second-hand trenchcoat he had found on the body of a Genom
ex-executive who had been caught embezzeling. Too minor to be
worked on, and too knowledgeable to be sent to trial, three C-55 had
had a discussion with him about his retirement plan and options, before
slipping him the pink ticket. Underneath, he wore a unisex pair of
coveralls he had found in a sewer worker's closet. The Nosferatu and
others tended to keep them quiet, and even help them do their duties.
The Sewer People took care of their own. And tried to take care of
others.
Which is why he had, in a bundle under his arm, a genuine
Captain ADP doll, along with a picture of Leon McNichol helping a little
girl out from under some rubble, and a Junior ADP Detective badge.
Like most children, little Kendra had fallen in love with the show. These
items, though rare, were not so uncommon as to be impossible to get.
Rather, they were simply too expensive for Kendra's parents to afford,
especially since her father was gone all the time, her mother working at a
plant, and her siblings had little time for the mute girl in their midst.
Only their Uncle Coarse tended to spend much time with Kendra. He
could feel the imagination in the child, in the poems she wrote with such
insight and beauty. He hoped to feed off a little of that imagination, to
keep himself from falling into the abyss of normalacy, but it kept getting
harder. Coarse secretly harbored the hope that Kendra might actually
undergo a Chrysallis, and join the ranks of his kind. So few were
breaking free now. So few.
Still, Coarse did what he could to help, even as he strolled
down the street toward Kendra's home. The Rosencrantz home was in a
run down building in the middle of nowhere. Some of it was urban
camoflauge, while some of it was just garbage around the building.
Coarse had seen worse, so did not mind. He knew he was strange. He
knew he was very outgoing for one of his kind, but he couldn't help it.
Silence and shadows could only keep company for so long before they
too became boring. People were so much more-
Coarse stopped, and in a rush, flattened his back against an
adjectent building to Kendra's building. Taking a few breathes, he took
another peak around the corner, across the street, hoping against hope
he had not seen what he thought he had seen standing there, in the
shadow of the old garage, the worn and faded sign of Vihn's Garage
hanging above.
Yet he had not been mistaken, just as he was not mistaken at
the power those beings exuded. Being born of a commoner among his
own people, Coarse had developed the ability of all his kin, to identify
when the nobility were in a bad mood. The beings, across the way,
were nobility in a bad mood. And they were in more than a bad mood.
They wanted to kill.
"What the fuck?" Coarse croaked out, in his soft voice. Those
were not just nobles, those were Sidhe nobles, as he penetrated beyond
their seemings! And not just nobles! That motorcycle was a lizard, that
Griffen sports car was a griffon with unfamiliar plumage and markings,
and the last was... the last was... the last was.... no, the last was
FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE!
But it was there, and the mighty wyrm coiled and flexed bat
wings as if to defy his declaration. It was not a _true_ dragon, of
course, merely a chimerical variant of a drake, but that *shouldn't be
there*! Ever since 2017, no fae had ever been able to bring over a large
creature. The Glamour just wouldn't hold. The Weaver and banality
was much too strong. Yet there it was- but how?
A new Sidhe appeared, exiting from the garage and descended,
decked out in elaborate and formal plate mail armor, the dull grey metal
seeming trite compare to the lavender and deep blue cloak and overcoat,
the cloak's broach a deep black opal. The headband was- hmmm...
something important about the headband; oh, yes, that of a foresworn
knight. Like anything Sidhe, it was elaborate and impressive, but the
overall effect was... subdued? Conservative? What the hell kind of
Sidhe were these? And what kind of Sidhe would wear sunglasses?!?
The new Sidhe, a knight, approached the other Sidhe, and all
five other Sidhe he looked at him. Three others seemed to be knights,
one female, and the two others male. All wore armor of varying degrees
of sophistication and adornment, yet all, like the first one, wore
headbands of crafted metal utterly black in color. All carried the noble's
swords, with a unique and significant styling and, Coarse realized with a
sense of awe, that none of those blade could ever have been crafted on
Earth, not how they pulsated with power and had no clinging pattern-
webs to mar their surfaces. The blades must be truly old to have such
effects. They must have come from the legendary home of all fae! Yet
why were such blades in Sidhe hands, and why were Sidhe coming to
this part of town?
The first knight knelt before the other two Sidhe, who were
clearly not knights. Those two were surrounded by the knights, and the
rest of the knights bowed to those two as well. It struck Coarse how
functional that bow had been, lacking courtly pomp and grace. It had
been like a soldier, saluting his commader. Of the two other Sidhe, one
seemed to be a courtier, dressed entirely in the somber tones they all
wore, but much more richly dressed. She stayed by the last figure.
Coarse knew what that last figure truly was, the moment he laid
eyes on the old man. Old in experience and power, though not in
youthful appearance. He stood in matchless grace, wearing a
resplendent suit of armor, the metal moving like a living creature, even
as the large gems glowed softly in the night. The workmanship was
fabulous, a product of efforts not even ten thousand mortal master
craftsmen could ever hope to match in a thousand years. The cloak,
spun of the fabric of the stars and the inky night sky of a new moon,
seemed to breathe as it fluttered, a counterpoint to the steady glow
coming from the crown the Sidhe wore, made of a whole piece of
sapphire and emerald. Not even the sword, forged with a blade of clear
diamond and with a hilt of platinum and amythest could ever hope to be
described in the simple terms of language or thought. Poets would kill
themselves just trying to entertain dreams of such magnificence.
This was a noble among the most noble of Sidhe nobles. This
was a Fae King.
A prince of a noble house.
(What was he doing here?) thought Coarse, even as a nagging
memory kept bothering him. Something about those black headbands.
And those colors- The Sidhe knight was beginning to speak. Wielding
the most subtle cantrip he knew, Coarse released the mischevious and
sneaky little whisp of wind.
"- not here, my lo.." came the voice of the knight speaking very
softly. Coarse focussed harder.
"Is th... ny.... n...?" came the even softer voice of the prince,
virbant with power.
"There was t.. eel... of Glam... ...ably a Mad One... much
Banality, sire", came the answer.
"You could still feel it?", came the sharp answer from the
prince.
A nod and a quick "Yes, sire".
A smile graced the lips of the prince, and Coarse's lips smiled
as well, entranced by the sight. "They must have recently departed. No
matter. We will deal with this later. This one cannot escape us."
"Sire!" they all said.
The courtier came up to the prince and whispered softly in his
ear. After a few moments, the prince nodded, and turned to the others.
"Three of you shall remain behind. I charge you with the task of
securing our rightful property." Two of the knights, and the courtier
who had moved over to them stiffened as if at attention. The prince
lowered his sunglasses down his nose, whispering hard, with a harsh
look on his face,
"Do not fail me."
With that, the prince and his remaining retinue climbed on the
back of the dragon, even as the beast yawned and stretched to move. It
clamored on, even though any mortal would see but a sleek, black
Rolls-Royce pulling away, down a side street. The screech of tires
came, as though turning sharply. Coarse knew better, as he felt the
sudden explosion of Glamour and the departure of the prince. He
scarcely noticed he had dropped his package, or that the other Sidhe
were leaving, or that he had dropped to his knees and he was
mindlessly whispering nonsense.
A Dragon Gate. It had to be. The only thing that could move
someone like that. Only a fae of great power could hope to command so
fickle a creature as a Dragon, let alone command one to use a Dragon
Gate.
But that is not what had Coarse gibbering, not stopping even
as Kendra and her brother Malcolm found him and guided him into their
home.
The black headbands. The sign of _that_ order of knights.
Only awarded to those most skilled and proven to their kind. The
Knights of the Obsidian Star.
The colors they had all worn. Subdued. Conservative. Yet
intricate, and ancient in style. A style this world had not seen myths of
in millenia, not since the reign of Julian the Apostate. Not since the
very *rumors* of that style had been fearfully whispered in the halls of
the returned noble fae.
Those eyes. Those eyes of utter grey, with no pupils or iris,
just grey color, like a film drawn over them. Those impossible eyes.
Those implaccable eyes. Those eyes whispered in those songs Slaugh
and Redcaps used to keep their own kin in line. A song of legends. Of
myths. Of boogey monsters hiding under the bed. For children. It
came back to him.
"Beware, beware, lest Winter come too close and sing,"
Only the most ancient of fae could command a dragon to
actually use a Dragon Gate.
"Hear me, hear them, children whisper of the Bad Thing,"
Only one of the oldest of houses who stood in the Garden of
Arcadia could do such a thing.
The swords. Of course, the swords. Only the most ancient of
Fae would have access to such weapons, untouched by Banality or
Weaver. And of the greatest of the Noble Houses who had always
remained in Arcadia, half were Unseelie. Half.
"Grey eyes, grey eyes, whirlpools of dreadful fright,"
But there was one, the one most feared, who Banality seldom
touched. The ones who never were, who clung to pools of darkness,
their eyes like their souls-
"Soulless, soulless, the Unseelie House of Shadow's Night,"
They were only myths!
They were just stories, told to the easily frightened. Told to
keep the common people in place.
"The Unnamed, the Unspoken, rapping on your windows-"
They were just stories, told to the easily frightened. Told by
Sidhe to keep the common people in place. Yeah, that was it.
"The Last Ones, Blood of Cold Iron and Hearts of Ice-"
Yet even the Sidhe feared their own stories, though they tried
to hide it. And try as he might, Coarse could not help but remember the
last lines of the childhood song, and finish it.
"They come, they come, for you, for me, for the light"
(Oh God, who I never knew before, please let it be a lie, please
make it untrue!) cried Coarse in his mind, weeping like a child.
"The Lords of Darkness, the Heralds of Winternight!"
For Coarse, the World of Darkness he knew had just became all
the more dimmer.
* * * * * * * *
Linna discretely straightened the modest length skirt on her
blue business suit as she waited in front of the massive oak wood doors
that led to the gigantic... edifice before her. There was no other word for
it. This was not a house in any conventional sense of the word. Nor
was it even a mansion; it resembled, if anything, an expansive hotel,
sprawling over several acres, the buildings laced with gardens
surrounding fountains, the immaculately trimmed green hedges set off
by hand-crafted statues of marble set to classical Greecian themes.
There, just beyond the hedge-maze, was the massive green glass panes
of the famous Kuno Botanical Preserve, and there over that hill must be
where the only three Orcas in existence to live so far inland dwelled. It
was like a miniature kingdom in a small parcel of the mountainous area of
land. Everything looked as though it were meticulously cared for, and
even Linna had heard rumors that the entire estate had been removed from
England and reassembled after modernized and expanded. Everything, from
the hand-carved doors, to the Rolls-Royce that had brought her here,
screamed money, and lots of it. And not just European.
Across the way, about an acre away, sat another equally
impressive dwelling. Though this building had not withstood the test
of time quite so well, there was good reason for that. Pre-Tokugawa era
castles and dwellings were quite rare, given their primary construction
materials were highly flammable, and the unwillingness of the heirs of
the Shogun to have any fortifications outside of their own or their allies
made such surviving constructs all the more impressive. It was, she
knew, more of a museum now, rather than a dwelling, though the Kuno
family typically enjoyed the airy expanses of the castle during the
hottest summer months.
(That), Linna reminded herself, (is why you are here). The
Kuno family was one of the last few truly great aristocratic families in
Japan. Descended from a noble samurai family rumored to have the
blood of Amateretsu flowing through their veins, the Kuno's were one
of the most powerful forces in Japanese cultures. Their commentary on
Noh and even Kabuki made them popular in social circles, and their
considerable political influence made them good friends to have, despite
their reclusiveness and eccentricity. What interested most people,
including Linna, was the 11% of MegaTokyo's total landmass that they
owned. The profits from that alone could easily keep the Kuno family in
the lap of luxury, but outside their dwellings and some modest
investments, the majority of that profit went entirely to some bank
accounts.
Some very LARGE bank accounts.
(Some very, VERY *LARGE* bank accounts), Linna reminded
herself. If she could wrangle even a fraction of that awesome wealth,
just waiting to be used, like a dragon's trove waiting to be claimed, she
would be set for life, and on the fast track to promotion in the company.
Of course, there was that faint fluttering in her stomach. Why
her? It was quite a coup to get this assignment, but she had also heard
the scuttlebutt whispered through the office. Mr. Kuno had deliberately
requested that she be assigned to the case, her personally. And then
her supervisor, that bastard Kain, had assured her with his sleazy smile
that she should use "all the considerable resources at her disposal" to
ensure she "firmly secured" the contract and money. She had wanted,
with nothing more than sheer hatred, to employ her martial arts talents
and break his neck. That explosion of murderous rage had shimmered
under the surface of her calm and collected demeanor, shocking her
almost as much as the suggestion her boss was making. She had
recently been experiencing inexplicable rushes of anger and rage. Like
some primal Beast had been reawoken deep within her.
The attitude of her superior was no surprise. Everyone had
expected her to fail in her efforts at becoming a financial player. She
didn't come from the right family or university, didn't know the right
people, and she was originally an aerobics instructor. She had heard
from jealous colleages how fit she was, and had taken a certain pride in
her physical fitness. Then she had heard the other whisperings, of how
she had concluded her hard-earned contracts and investment portfolios.
That she had earned them on her back, not from any particular skill or
effort. The fact she had briefly dated one of her clients had just added
fuel to the fire. She had tried to neglect the rumors, meeting with partial
success, but there was a certain undertone, a certain unspoken
assumption of how she had managed to make par. It was enough to
make her want to rip them apart with her bare hands.
The fact was, she did use her looks to get deals. It was a
modern fact of the business world that sex sold. If a crafted suit
garnered attention to her physical assests, or if she showed a little leg, it
was all fair, and in the rules of business. She had a naturally soft voice,
and she had developed the high-pitched high-school girl tone of voice
that Japanese men found so irresistable. All of those factors did help
her in her dealings. But she never crossed the line, never violated her
business ethic. Nor would she do so now.
Mind set, Linna calmly used the cast iron knocker on the door
before her. A dull THUMP, THUMP, THUMP resonated from each
strike. After a few moments, the door opened, and Linna looked down
at who confronted her.
The old man before her was almost a dwarf, no more than
coming up to her chest. His white hair was wispy, in tufts on the side
and top of his head. His lined face seemed oddly out of place on his
immaculately smooth black butler's uniform. He looked up at her with
beady eyes, then bowed once, which Linna returned.
"Greetings Yamazaki-san", the servant spoke in a higher
pitched voice, "I am Sasuke, Master Kuno's manservant. My master is
waiting in the common room. If you will follow me?" The servant,
Sasuke, bowed again.
Linna bowed again as well, before following the short man,
picking up the briefcase beside her. He seemed to have some sort of
limp in his left leg, which slowed him considerably. As they walked in
the slightly dim corridors, Linna could see innumerable portraits, some
of them of Japanese men and women, and some of them European men
and women.
"Friends of the Kuno family, in case you were curious, ma'am",
Sasuke spoke up, noticing her gaze.
Linna blinked down at him, "Oh yes, of course." Dead family
friends, it looked like. Some of the European men and women had on
old Germanic uniforms, and others court dresses.
"Yes, some of the people in the portraits are quite old", Sasuke
smiled briefly, as he explained, before continuing on.
The long wooden floor, carpeted by some subdued Persian
design, came to a number of doorways, before ending in a hallway at the
end. It was dark, as it was night, but the light from the city far below
reflected through the windows ahead of her. It was the common room.
The common room looked more like a hard wooden floored area
next to the kitchenette nearby. There was a simple yet finely crafted
wooden table in the middle of the room, with several chairs nearby. Yet
it was not that, in the darkness, that drew Linna's eyes. It was the
master of the house, the lord of the Kuno family. Tatewaki Kuno, who
stood almost silhouetted against the countryside beyond the windows.
"Master Kuno, Ms. Yamazaki is here to see you, sir", said
Sasuke, as he bowed.
"Thank you, Sasuke", said the deep voice of Kuno, a voice
that held both authority and a bit of sorrow in it.
The manservant bowed once more, before he turned and left
soundlessly.
Kuno turned from his examining the city far away, an easy
smile on his lips, and Linna was once again reminded of why he was
frequently in the top one hundred of GQ. He had a distinguished,
almost aristocratic air, and the custom made Gino-Armani suit only
added to the aura of power. Here was one of the more powerful men in
Japan, one who had built up Kuno Enterprises, almost from the ground
up. He had managed to also do the almost impossible, avoid having his
corporation taken over by Genom, instead entering a limited partnership
with the corporate conglomerate. He was the quintessential heir to the
Japan of today; possessing both traditional values and culture, while
adaptive and accepting of Western ways and ideas. He held a degree
from Yale, and had also been to Tokyo University, the pinnacle of
Japanese education. He was also one of the best kendoists in Japan.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice, Ms. Yamazaki. I
was just admiring the city, looking on what mankind hath wrought of
iron and stone", Kuno gestured, speaking with his odd inflections.
Better to establish professional ground, before it got too
chummy. Then she could work on him, get him to invest with her firm.
Yes, that was a good plan. Advancing to the table, she laid out her
briefcase and snapped it open. "It was no problem, sir, thank you for
taking the time to see me. I want you to know, I will do my best to-"
Linna cut off as she heard Kuno start to laugh.
Seeing the expression on her face, Kuno gave one last chuckle,
before merely smiling at her, the gray highlights in his hair making him
look like a generous older man. His eyes seemed to twinkle as he said,
"I did not bring you all the way here to discuss business." Seeing her
reaction, he held up one hand, stalling her speech, "I brought you here
to talk, nothing more, nothing less."
Linna stood there, mouth moving a little aimlessly as she tried
to speak. What to say? Was Kuno interested in her? Was this just
another one of his known eccentricities? Did he- "I am very flattered,
sir, but I-"
Again he raised the hand. The smile was gone, almost a
pensive frown. "I asked you to come here so that we may talk, where no
ears and eyes are. Here, it is relatively safe to do so. The business is
merely a pretext- ah, I see you are confused. Very well, if you would
please follow me?" And Kuno started off.
For a few moments, Linna just stood there, startled, until she
hurriedly shut and picked up her briefcase, following Kuno swiftly, only
to find his tall form waiting for her. Seeing her approach, he continued
on, silent. Linna decided to mimic him. If he was going to try
something, there was little she could do.
Their short journey took them down several winding corridors
until they came to a large, open room, with a slightly raised floor in the
center, looking like stretched white leather over a frame. On the walls
were a number of portraits, pictures, a small table with a number of
trophies including a cased gold Olympic medal. But all around, from
wall to wall, were weapons. Swords, foils, staffs, even more esoteric
devices. This was a fencing room, judging from the dummies and
marked fencing strip.
Kuno walked over to a wall, motioning for Linna to follow.
Once she stood by his side, he addressed her, still looking at the wall.
"I come here when I wish to think, and remember the days of
my youth", he smiled at the picture of a girl with a short haircut and a
boy with his hair in a pigtail.
They spent a few moments looking at the picture, before Linna
felt she should ask, "Ah, Mr. Kuno, not to offend, but I have to ask..."
Her words trailed off as she saw him shake his head.
"I suppose it was too much to hope for", he looked over at
her. She looked back at him. "Look at them", he gestured to the
pictures, "recognize either of them?"
Linna shook her head, as neither looked familiar- wait, actually,
they did have a vague resemblence to- no, that couldn't be right; they
almost resembled-
"Your grandparents, yes", Kuno said, as she looked over at
him, surprise in his eyes. "You see, I grew up with them; I knew them. I
was a rival with your grandfather for the affections of your
grandmother. And in time, I became friends with both of them. We
shared a bond, of sorts. All of us did. The Nerima crew. That is all in
the past though, now." Kuno shook his head, grinning a little, "Though
I hear the descendants of my friends still raise a little hell."
Linna was at a loss. Her grandparents had known the Kuno
family? Did this have something to do with one of the things they
would never talk about, like what happened to her grandmother's sister?
Or why there was frequently that red-haired woman in those old family
photographs?
"I don't understand. What does this have to do with the
business investments, or why I am here?" Linna was more than a little
confused.
"The business is already concluded. You will find, when you
leave, Sasuke has prepared a folder with several investments I will
procure through your firm. No, that was merely a pretext to bring you
here. I apologize for the deception, but I thought I should do this one
last duty to the descendant of some old friends." Kuno concluded
heavily.
That did surprise Linna. Bringing her all the way out to fulfill
one last obligation to her grandparents? Why? It did not make much
sense. Why would such a distinguished person bring her all the way
out here for a chat?
"Why?" Kuno smiled slightly.
Linna looked up at him, "What?"
"That is what you are wondering, is it not? Why bring you all
the way here? I shall answer that question for you. I am one of the few
people who can understand your unique situation. I am like you", Kuno
looked deeply into her eyes.
Into took a step back at the serious and probing gaze in those
eyes. "What-t-t?"
His eyes seemed to penetrate hers, spearing them fiercely.
"What is this?" he said harshly, grabbing her hand. Linna started to
fight, but then his eyes seemed to soften and his face lost its hard edge.
"You don't know, do you? How can you not-?" Kuno's voice
broke off, as he released her hand. "My apologies."
Linna backed off. This was getting very weird.
Kuno seemed to draw off, sighing deeply. "May I ask you a
question?"
Linna looked at the older man, his shoulders somewhat
slumped. "That depends."
There was a pause for a moment.
Kuno looked at her, with a firm tone of voice, "What do you
remember of your father?"
Linna, caught with scores of answers to a dozen expected
questions, was shocked by that one. "My father? Well, I- I mean, he
died when I was young, not even a teenager-"
"No." The word was sharp, commanding. "What do you
remember of him? Unusual things? Please, try to remember."
Linna blinked, then shrugged, closed her eyes, trying to
remember, her arms folded under her breasts.
Her father was tall; taller than most Japanese, but only a little
above average for Europeans. Yes, she could always remember that.
He always seemed so tall, as his serious and solemn face would break
into a smile as he would pick her up and twirl her about. He gone alot;
he had blue eyes and black hair, with lightly tanned skin. And his eyes
always seemed old.
"Do you remember more? When he seemed to be more than
human? Faster than lightning? Stronger than ten bears?"
Linna blinked furiously, her eyes clenching tight as she started
to remember that night. That night. That night in the dojo. The night
of flames. Of her mother crying out, telling her father, who held her so
tightly to him, to run. Run fast, and run hard.
-there was smoke, yes smoke all around, and it stung her eyes,
and daddy's face was so serious, yet why was he crying and
where was mommy? Why wasn't mommy coming with them?
She was moving so fast, she felt like she was flying and safe in
Daddy's arms as they passed the moving car-
Linna blinked, surprised to find tears there, as she looked into
the concerned face of Kuno. She stood away from him. "What did you
do to me?"
Kuno held out his hands, placating, his demeanor contrite, "I
am sorry. It was just some soothing words to help you remember."
"Yeah, well, I remember quite enough, thank you. My father
died trying to save me from... the fire. He tried to save me from the fire."
Kuno walked over to the side of the room, and easily dragged
out two chairs, putting them down in front of her, motioning for her to
take one. Linna looked at the chair as Kuno slid into one, before slowly
lowering herself into the proferred accomidation, all the while looking at
Kuno like one might examine a snake ready to strike.
"There was a hesitation there, wasn't there, Linna? When you
mentioned the fire, correct?" Kuno said.
Linna knew she had, but lied and said, "No. There was a fire."
A shake of the head. "Perhaps there was, but it was not the
cause you pretend it was."
Kuno paused. "How best to procede, I wonder?" He looked at
her for a long second through hooded eyes, before saying, "Perhaps
the simplest and most direct route. May I see your hand?"
Linna felt somewhat cautious about this eccentric person.
"Why?"
"Indulge me if you would, please?" Kuno said, steadily, as he
held forth his own hand.
For a few moments, Linna did nothing, before she carefully
extended her hand. Kuno caught it, looking at the palm of her hand
intently.
(Great, what is he, a palm reader?) Linna thought, before
Kuno's hand suddenly shifted to grip her wrist like a vise. Before she
could utter a word of complaint, his other hand drew out a short knife,
the blade of which he ran across her palm, blood welling up in testament
to its passage.
Linna looked in horror, then rage and anger as she tried to pull
her hand away, a growl forming in the back of her throat. Kuno's eyes
were steady on hers as he raised the knife, as though to plunge it
through her hand.
With sudden and desperate strength, she pulled her hand from
his grasp, shooting to her feet as she craddled the tingling hand, willing
the bleeding to stop. She backed away from Kuno, who just sat there,
bloody knife in hand. "What the Hell are you doing?!" she hissed at
him.
Kuno regarded her evenly, blinking twice, before he said, "I
apologize for that crude action. It was an unfortunate necessity. But
before you do anything rash, I think you should look at your hand."
Linna hissed in sarcastic humor, "Yeah, I better, especially
after you... you...." Linna's voice trailed off as she looked at the palm of
her hand. Except for a little blood, the skin was perfect. Unbroken, and
untouched.
She looked at Kuno in shock and puzzlement. "How?"
Kuno merely gestured to the seat again. "Please, sit, and I will
answer your questions."
Linna, a little numbed, sat down heavily.
Kuno began to speak after clearing his throat. "I first met your
father when your mother had come back with him to Japan. Your mother
had been on an extended tour of the world, enjoying the sights. Had I
known, I would have never given her that as a graduation present. But I
could not refuse your mother much. She knew her Uncle Kuno always
spoiled her rotten."
Kuno sighed, leaning back as Linna looked at her hands. He
handed her both his knife and a handkerchief, waiting until she was
ready before starting again. "I knew what he was, from the moment I
saw him fight. Your grandfather was always one to take a challenge, to
fight anyone that came across his path, just to try them out. And he
wasn't going to let anyone, especially some uknown Gai-jin, go and
steal the heart of his little baby girl. I, on the other hand, knew your
mother was now a young woman. Just as I knew your father was a
Revenant."
"A Revenant?" Linna asked, not familiar with the term.
"Yes, a Revenant", Kuno nodded. "I had done some studies,
though your father's kind are rather rare. But as I saw your father fight
your grandfather for the hand of your mother, I knew that nothing that
was born human could ever fight that well. Not even that rogue Hibiki
could strike that hard. Not even your grandfather's Kachu Tenshin
Amaguriken could move that fast. And no one, without the decades of
experience in fighting, could have known so much."
"What?" Linna asked, "You make it sound like my father
wasn't human!"
"He wasn't, in a certain sense of the word. He was better, in
some ways; faster, tougher, stronger, with a brilliant intellect, more
longer lived than any mortal man. He was also worse; given to a savage
temper, a dark rage that would seize him, and desires no mortal man
should know."
"I don't believe you. If this was true, why didn't you tell my
mother? Or my grandparents?" This sounded like absolute bullshit.
Why couldn't she bring herself to believe it was?
Kuno sighed again. "I did. But your grandfather only saw a
martial artist better than himself, and a good choice for their tomboy of a
daughter. Your grandmother saw the wealth and cultured manners of
your father, and tolerated him. But I most of all said nothing because I
saw the joy and love in your mother's eyes. And even more devastating
than that, I saw it in your father's eyes as well."
"Your father must have been on the run for some time. I did
not know his family. He was no Brastovich, no Zanatosa, none of the
families that are even uncommonly known. I had my suspicions his
family was nearly extinct or gone, but was never quite sure. Your father
never talked about it, and seemed to want to have a quiet life with your
mother. I helped create the identity of Yamazaki Ryu for your father."
"Ryu Yamazaki was not my father's real name?" Linna blurted
out.
"No. I never knew his family name. He seemed to want to
forget his past, seldom if ever mentioning it. He took an ordinary job,
becoming a devoted husband. The only time I ever saw mention of his
family was when you were born, and he brought a wise-woman from the
mountains in, to see if you carried a part of his heritage. You did, but it
was dormant, and he was relieved, I could tell. Until the night he and
your mother died, it was never mentioned. He told me a little about his
kind once, in the event he could not tell you, I could look after you and
tell you some day, should the worse come to pass. And now you have
come into the other side of your heritage. Thus I brought you here."
Kuno sighed once more.
This was insane. Inhuman being? Her father? Sure, he was a
little odd, but mommy had said it was only because he studied strange
things. Old books and such. Her father was no monster!
Linna stood up slowly. "Listen, this is a fascinating story, but I
don't have time to hear this nonsense-" Kuno cut her off.
"You can feel it, can't you? The rage? The hatred? The
simmering of dark emotions just beyond your control?"
Linna looked at him in shock. Kuno sighed.
"Your father knew that too. Every day of his life. He had to
deal with it since his youth. He was old, very old, but he had never
quite become accustomed to it. But he strove to have control. So too
must you, now. Your heritage is awakening, as I said, as evidenced by
your rapid healing of the wound." He gestured to the knife.
"What? How? Why? Why hasn't this happened before?
Why now?" Linna looked a little frantic, feeling it much more so.
"If I had to hazard a guess, I would say you have consumed
the blood of a child of Caine."
"A child of Caine?" asked Linna. She hadn't dranken from any
children!
"A child of Caine is a member of the undead. In other words, a
vampire." Kuno said gravely.
Linna hiccupped, covering her mouth as insane little giggles
began to bubble forth. A vampire. Yeah, right.
"Listen, my father may have been a little different than most
people, but he wasn't a vampire; neither he nor I ever drank blood!"
Linna spat out, defiantly at her host.
Kuno looked at her, then turned and walked over to one of the
few windows in the room, gazing at the city lights at the horizon. After
a few moments, he spoke.
"It is not easy to accept the existence of the supernatural.
Believe me, I know this." Kuno's voice was full of weariness and an old
pain.
Kuno stood there, looking out the window, and Linna, for
some reason, felt like walking up next to him.
Kuno glanced at her before continuing to look out, over the
city. "It- it is not easy for me to talk of this, but I think you should
know. I too, did not learn of the supernatural under pleasant
circumstances. Few do under any other sort of circumstance", he
began, hesitantly.
"My father met my mother three years before I was born, at a
social function. They fell in love, were married, and soon, I was born,
my sister Kodachi following. My family was whole and happy. Those
memories are among my most precious ever. And then, when I was six
and my sister five years old, my mother died in an accident."
Kuno took a deep breath and let it out. "So yes, I know what it
is to lose family. But in that, I am hardly unique. Many have know loss.
And my family was dealing adequately with it. My sister was in denial,
my father grief stricken, but in time, they both started to heal. As I
myself did."
Kuno paced a little. "There was much, though, that I did not
know of my mother. Of the things she had done in her youth. The
utterly dispicable things that earned her the wealth that gave her social
status. The things she had done to her rivals, and her birth family.
There are Yakuza, and then there are Yakuza. My mother was of the
latter."
"The Christian Bible teaches, that when we die, there is a
reckoning for all we have done as mortals. I doubt most Eastern sages
would understand Western sin, but in this, they are fools. For there is
always someone, *something*, watching us all. And sometimes, it
makes decisions."
"It was two years later when my mother returned."
"Returned?" Linna interjected, disbelieving.
Kuno nodded. "Yes, for her crimes, she had been sent to the
lords of hell, and cast back, reborn as the Second Breath passed by her
lips. She had become a vampire, you see."
"A vampire", Linna mouthed.
"A vampire", Kuno echoed her with sound. "Of the Eastern
variety, called the Cathayans, or Kuei-jin. She was... changed. Horrible.
She would be turns a mother and dearly love both myself and my sister.
Then she would change into something else, becoming vicious and
cruel, berating. She would use her new powers to 'help' us by killing our
childhood rivals, and then 'punish' us for some imaginary trangression.
She would use my father, and even my sister and I to feed her undead
cravings. She would couple with my terrified father, hoping to restore
the spark they had once known. And when it did not work, things
changed. We no longer loved her. We lived in terror of the creature
that haunted our house at night. Eventually, she left."
"All of our family went insane, to a certain degree. My father,
knowing the tales of vampires, fled to the sunniest place he knew, so
that he would be safe. He abandoned us, with only Sasuke and some
servants to care for us. My sister became obsessed with botany, and
winning at any cost. As for myself... I strove to be perfect, to be pure,
so that I would never become as my mother when I died."
Kuno gestured to several portraits. "It was only the efforts of
those who saved me, including your grandfather and your
grandmother", Kuno explained, "and your grandmother's sisters,
especially my beloved-"
Linna looked up as Kuno broke off, only to see a tear trickle
down his cheek. "I'm sorry", she apologized.
Kuno looked at the tear, laughed a little, and then brushed it
aside. "It is of no consequence." He looked at her, then continued to
stare at her.
He was waiting for her to say something, Linna realized. To
ridicule his story. "Your tale is quite fantastic, I must admit, and almost
certainly unbelievable..."
"But?" he prompted.
"But-", she started, then stopped. What was she to say? That
some part of her believed his crazy story of vampires and Revenants.
That some part of her suddenly seemed to recognize the truth.
"You know it is true", Kuno finished quietly.
"Yes", Linna breathed out just as softly.
They stood like that for a time, quiet, until Kuno spoke up.
"The truth is a heavy stone to bear, I know. But 'tis better the solid and
cruel truth, rather than bothersome and ephemereal illusions that are lies
and delusions. Believe me, I know this quite well." His voice seemed to
develop those old-fashioned speech habits, before lapsing back into his
normal Japanese.
"Why tell me all this?" Linna finally asked.
Kuno looked at her, "To give you an advantage, no matter how
small. I can tell you little more, without threatening both you and
myself. But I can at least shield you from the follies of ignorance-"
Shield. Yes, shield. With a body-
-the flames were red, yet not as red as the blood of her mother.
Why was mommy drooling red blood. That wasn't right!
There was fire all around. She was scared. Then the dark
shadow appeared behind her mother, even as she turned and
kicked it away with a crescent kick. Mommy was running to
her now! Then Linna turned and saw the big monster raise its
claws!
Then her daddy was there, and she heard him grunt in pain as
the claws from the monster hurt her daddy, even as daddy's
weird sword shoved all the way through the monster. Daddy
was shielding her, she realized-
"Ms. Yamazaki? Linna?" came a man's voice, as someone
grabbed her arm and began to shake her.
Linna started, dropping into a fighting crouch as she spun and
her left leg swung up, only to be blocked by the arm of her assailant,
who gave a grunt of pain. Darting back, Linna barred her teeth in a feral
grin, as she saw Kuno-san nursing his arm-
All of a sudden, what she had done came rushing in on her, as
Linna darted forward, offering apologies.
Kuno warded her off. "It is OK. Believe me, I took worse than
that in my youth. Indeed, you have your father's strength, and your
mother's fire. Of course, either of them would have done a lot more than
sprain my arm!" Kuno laughed out loud. "Really, I am quite fine."
A bell seemed to ring out loud, and Kuno's face became
serious. "Not much time", he muttered.
He turned to her, "Listen, for this is in all probability the last
time I will speak to you. I can only give you a few pieces of advice,
before you must go. The first is simple: trust no one completely,
especially the supernatural. Yet you must trust someone, or you will
fall."
"Second, if my hypothesis is correct, and it was Cainite blood
that you drank to awaken your heritage, then beware! Drink of Cainite
blood on three seperate nights any one vampire's blood, and you will be
enslaved by a force called the Blood Bond. Be wary of this. For the one
who holds your Bond will become the center of your attention."
"And lastly, this is a world of darkness. Do not delude
yourself otherwise. But the truth is hidden from most normal mortal
people, by beings of awesome power who desire to keep it that-"
Awesome powers. Strange powers. Yes, like when her father-
-was running, carrying her under his arm, constantly looking
over his shoulder for the monsters and people following them.
Linna tried to be brave, and not cry, but they had hurt mommy!
Suddenly, her father saw some old friends, the Hasegawas, and
suddenly, all was silent but for the huff of her father's breath.
All around, everything was motionless, as she glided forward
with her father. When they reached the inside of the house
gate, time started again.
"Linna-chan, listen to me carefully. I am going to have to go
now. Be a big girl, and don't cry. I want you to keep this", her
father took off the necklace he always wore, placing it around
her own neck, and handed her a daddy's special box. "Keep
them safe, tell no one of their existence, and keep quiet, no
matter happens to me. And never doubt, both your mother
and I love you very much, Linna", her father whispered,
kissing her softly on the forehead. He cupped her face in his
hand, looking at her one last time, as though searching.
Then his grip hardened, almost painful, as his eyes became
cruel and harsh, as they reached deep within her-
"Now, you must *F-O-R-G-E-T* Linna", before he released her,
and flickered away, only to reappear across the street, leaping
at his pursuers in fire and shadow.
Alone, in the yard as Mrs. Hasegawa tried to gather her up,
Linna could only watch and hear as she clutched the box tight,
seeing the nightmares war amongst her father's flickering form.
No matter what daddy said, she would remember, she would-
"-I will remember!" Linna said fiercely, startling.
"Starting to remember, eh? You seemed a little out of it, for a
time", Kuno looked at her, her briefcase in his hands.
Linna blinked, then looked at him, "I was remembering-"
"Yes", Kuno said brusquely, giving her her briefcase, "I do not
doubt your father took precautions. He was a sorceror, among other
things. You will remember. But you must leave. NOW. Sasuke has
your papers. Good luck, Linna Yamazaki." And with that Kuno spun
and left, even as Linna realized she was somehow at the front door of
the Kuno mansion.
"Here, Ms. Yamazaki", offered the old dwarf, Sasuke. He held a
sealed folder, while at the same time opening the mansion door and
bowing to her, "we have to hurry."
Nodding, Linna took one last look back, feeling dazed and
confused, as she was led to the Rolls-Royce and sent on her journey
back to MegaTokyo.
- - - - - - - -
Kuno Tatewaki looked out the window, as the car became a
faint spot in the distance. It was then he felt the familiar presence.
"You told her, didn't you?" came the voice.
"Yes", he acknowledged.
"You shouldn't have done that", insisted the voice.
Kuno compressed his lips in a thin line, "I chose to; she has a
right to know."
"Perhaps...", pondered the voice. "It will make no difference in
the end, you know", the voice mocked, "she will share the fate of her
entire family. They may be our enemy, but those of that sect are quite
thorough."
Kuno sighed, closing his eyes, before whispering, "I know."
The voice was silent for a time. "That is alright. As long as
you have no interest in her."
"Beyond that? None", Kuno assured the voice.
"You had better not, young man", the voice said, angrily, "I
have warned you about improper and disobediant young women."
"Yes, mother", Kuno whispered, his eyes wet.
"They are all sluts, all of them. Just like that young tramp that
caught your eye, that more gaijin than Japanese slut", insisted the
voice.
"I loved her, mother", Kuno whispered, too softly to be heard,
tears pouring down his face.
"Well, that is done with. You should go to bed, now", the
voice became almost nursing.
"Of course, mother", said Kuno as he walked up the stairs,
once more returning to the hell that was his life.
* * * * * * * *
The Ginko Mall was in many ways typical of modern malls. It
was a structure with numerous levels, eight stories high, and six stories
underground. The stores were located in moderate booths, with
elevators and stairs reaching the various levels, along with freight
elevators used for moving product from storage and cargo trucks. It
was cutting edge technology about twenty years ago, with a location
that had been sure to attract many customers. Then the earthquake had
hit, ravaging all of Tokyo, transforming the city into MegaTokyo, and
turning formerly valuable property nearly worthless, and squallid land
priceless. It had been one of the events in history that had propelled
Genom into success. But for Ginko Mall, the consequences had become
devastating.
Fire had swept through the surrouding area, fires so hot that in
many cases, steel girders would burn. It had turned a medium income
district into a squatter's paradise. Then had come the rains, only a few
weeks after the fire, which had flooded the lower levels. The designers
of Ginko had never planned on such events occurring. As a result, the
damage to the foundation of the mall, and the damage from the fire that
caused warping in the structure, made Ginko a danger zone. No one
would go to such a mall, especially one where the floors were tilted as
much as seven degrees.
But business went on, though now only low scale and local
businesses flourished. Gangers and low income brackets were those
who shopped at Ginko Mall now. At Ginko Mall, one could find cheap
clothes, second hand computers, pawn shops, and, it was whispered in
certain ears, other things: firearms, both legal and not; boomers,
whether in components or fully operational; drugs, and other illegal
substances. It was also a place one could fulfill odd requests, and find
both information and people, as both fixers and prostitutes could be
found.
Which was exactly why Toshiro Hagesawa was visiting Ginko
Mall. There were resource to be found in this sagging excuse for a
building. Here, there were remarkable gems in the rough, if only one had
a keen enough eye to catch them. Not so long ago, he had managed to
find an old klaive listed incorrectly as "exotic silverware". For a price of
sixty thousand yen, Toshiro knew he had walked away with a deal. And
then, just a few months ago, he had managed to uncover some "creative
fiction"; a diary kept by a member of the Sabbat, taken from her body by
some gangers. That little gem had earned him much esteem in the ice-
cold eyes of Director Madigan. He had later learned it had been used to
blackmail Director Jamison, that Black Spiral cur. How he had ever made
Director of External Security was beyond Toshiro. And then there had
been that screw up with the encoder. That one, he still had hidden, at
the orders of Director Madigan. With that misplaced encoder, even
though it was only a series 4, they could put some serious pressure on
Director von Ruthaven and those too-smug bastards in Media Affairs.
Now, Toshiro hoped for another break. This was only one of a
number of places he knew, but this one was a regular du Beers; coal
turned out to be diamonds. And recently, one of his informants had
given him a hot tip to talk to Old Helga. Still, Toshiro was not ignorant
of the dangers. Once, before he had arrived, a boomer had gone rogue
and gunned down thirteen people, before the Mall patrons had taken
care of it. It wasn't near as bad as the infamous Paradise Loop, which
had been closed down quite a while ago. But it was still a place one
stayed sharp in case of unpleasant complications. Especially in the
lower levels.
Of course, Toshiro had many aces up his sleeve. While many
humans no doubt saw themselves as being quite tough, even with
cyberware, there was little that could match the ravening fury of a Garou
in Crinos form. And even if they weren't incapacitated by the Delerium,
as many humans were increasingly succeeding at, he still had his little
gun. In exchange for the daunting task of imprisoning a Paradox Spirit
in a talen for his mage allies, he had received a number of favors, one of
which was his gun, an ex-Iteration X weapon, one that could expand it's
grip to accept even the massive paw of his Crinos hands. And beyond
that, of course, he was a child of Grandfather Thunder, one of the true
nobles of the Garou, in Western parlance, a Shadow Lord. That was
more than enough advantage.
But Toshiro worked for Genom now, and had stayed alive, and
he knew now that he would never have enough advantages to make
himself truly safe. Even with all his precautions, and his ability to slip
into the Umbra, he still was not sure he could be sure.
The lower levels were where the real value was. Down here,
hidden by obscurity and several stories of cement, were the merchants
willing to deal in curiousos. In rare things. In boomers, and in
weapons. But above all, in information, the true currence of the modern
age.
The familiar whistle and sudden hisses of the ventilation
shafts, more often expelling dust than air, made the area an eerie
contrast of sounds and silence. Toshiro was a little reassured as he saw
a ganger of some sorts, looking to be a Halloweener by his gang colors,
slowly edge by him, hand in jacket. Toshiro did likewise, backing away.
Soon enough, the ganger was on his way, convinced Toshiro meant him
no harm. Which meant he only kept looking back as he walked away.
A little distracted, Toshiro missed noticing the next burst of air
as it sprayed all over him. Ignoring the bad taste of cleaning chemicals,
coughing slightly, he continued on his way, senses alert.
Something wasn't quite right here. He could tell that somehow.
The usual information dealers weren't coming out from their piles of
rubble used to block up the shattered store fronts, as he carefully
stepped down the corridor. No obvious signs of traps though. Sniffing,
ignoring the chemical aftertaste on his nose, he sensed that there was
no one around. And a brief use of a Gift he detected no active electrical
sources of a magnatude strong enough to be weapons. Another Gift
sensed no living creatures around. No smell of chemical explosives
either; hmmm, perhaps there was a meeting going on down below. Yes,
just down stairs up ahead, he could hear the faintest of mortal voices.
Keeping his cool, Toshiro advanced among the spurts in the
ventilation system, keeping one hand in his pocket, on the bullet-
resistant material of his mirror. If worse came to worse, he could always
slip into the Umbra. So carefully, he continued to advance, and then it
happened, and Toshiro knew that this was, in fact, a trap.
The ventilation system coughed again, but this time it was not
cleaning chemicals or just air it brought. It brought air, true, but it also
brought dust.
A lot of dust.
A lot of _silver_ dust.
Immediately, Toshiro went for his gun, cursing himself a fool.
In his human Homid form, he was immune to the typically detrimental
effects of silver on his biology. But if he shifted into any of his other,
more combat effective forms, he would burn in argenum fury. What to
do?
He barely had time to notice the red dots of laser sights
settling on his chest before his ancestral Rage moved him to action. His
weapon snapped out as he dodged to the side, the stream of
ammunition missing him. But simply dodging was not Toshiro's intent
as he fired.
The gunshots hit the water main, spouting a stream of slightly
stagnant water in his direction. Sure the silver dust was gone, he
shifted into Crinos, ready to do battle or flee, gun in one hand, the
mirror in the other.
Except for one small problem.
The dust was still there.
Even as he changed, Toshiro could feel it on his skin. In his
eyes. Across his fur. Down his throat and into his lungs. The silver
dust was somehow stuck to his flesh, and each particle in every pore
was like a small universe of pain.
Now, blinded and enraged, howling in anger and pain, the two
gunmen he could no longer see emerged. They were both clad in Ninja-
like outfits, ones seeming to be made of some sort of thin rubber.
Goggles covered their eyes, allowing them to see, as the same goggles
had cords leading to their weapons. Both people opened fire.
To Toshiro's credit, he did last nearly thirty seconds and near
eight hundred rounds of ammunition, many of them misses. But in his
pain, cut off from Gaia by the silver, he could not use his Gifts to help
him. The spirits could not hear his faltering pleas, and he could not see
his own reflection so as to step sideways into the Umbra. Raging futily,
knowing only red pain and black despair, Toshiro descended into the
sleep from which few escaped after thirteen seconds of gunfire.
The other seventeen seconds were just so the assassins were
sure.
Finally, the two black-clad figures approached the enemy
warily, occasional firing a round or two, trying to get a reaction. After a
few seconds of this, the one which the sub-machine gun nodded to the
other killer, who nodded back, stepping away so as to cover his
companion. The first let his gun fall to his side, supported by the the
shoulder strap, and reached back, to the sheathed blade strapped to his
back, and drew forth the vampire-forged sword. Once, twice, then three
times the blade fell, cutting into the werewolf's neck, severing the head
as it rapidly began to turn back into the body of a man.
Confidant now, the sword wielder reached to a side pocket in
the skin-tight suit, and pulled out an aerosol can, rapidly spraying it
across his head. A few seconds later, the encasing black glove of
material began sag and then fall off, like molten wax. A few seconds
later, aided by his hand and a few more sprays of the aerosol, Mackie
Stingray had loosened the black material enough to pull back the white
hood under it, that covered his hair and part of his face like a ski mask.
He then pulled up the goggles to look at the defeated form of his foe,
absently wiping away the stray streaks of black liquid, looking nothing
more than like thin oil.
"God I hate this stuff", said Thomas, as he also removed his
covering, freeing his head. "Good thing we don't need to breath. I
heard one of the problems with synth-skin was that once the wearer
stopped breathing and started to rely on the oxygen in the 'skin, they
had trouble remembering how to breath when they needed to."
"I heard that too", muttered Mackie, looking at the body, as he
tried twice to sheath his sword, before finally succeeding.
<Hey, boss, we through?> came the voice of Rene in the ears
of both Mackie and Thomas.
"Yeah, we are", said Mackie, the subvocal mike strapped to his
throat and covered with a patch of synthiflesh picking up his words and
transmitting them on their short-band frequency.
"Confirm Bravo 3", said Thomas at the same time.
There was a rumbling above, as suddenly a grating popped
open and Rene tumbled out, doing three rolls before doing a flip four
feet in the air, landing perfectly with his feet together as he called out
"Ta-da!", his voice was muffled by the black synth-skin.
Both Mackie and Thomas looked unimpressed.
Rene's synth-skin was not quite normal. In addition to the flat
black of the rubbery material, Rene had apparantly written and drawn on
himself with diluted solvent and powdered silver. Phrases like "Rene
was here" and "THE BLACK HAND RULES" adorned his body, along
with swirls, sworls, what appeared to be a poorly drawn bunny rabbit,
and a smiley face.
Rene sprayed his head with aerosol can, acting like some prima
dona using hairpspray, singing, "La-de-da, la-de-da!"
Thomas started to douse the body in accelerant and fuel. "Not
that I mind, but why all the precautions?" he asked, his professional
interest raised.
Mackie smiled at Thomas, "I like better killing through
chemistry, in any event."
Then Mackie looked at the body, still thinking, "Well, first, the
Garou have heightened senses, including hearing and smell. The synth-
skin helps muffle that. I found that out when I became True Sabbat."
"Second", he continued, "we had to get him down below,
where his emergency transmitter can't penetrate the thick mass in the
way." So saying, Mackie extracted the tiny button sized object from the
clothes of the dead Garou.
"Third, even if we used a thousand rounds of ammunition, the
Garou can regenerate almost any injury. We used the firearms mostly as
distraction, to keep him off guard." Mackie paced the body in circles.
"And?" Thomas asked, as he finished his task, and Rene
sealed the water off. "Why the silver?"
"Because it tastes so good", crowed Rene.
Thomas spared the Malkavian a withering glance. "I mean,
why use it in such a round about way?"
"_Because_, silly, Garou are only affected by silver in their
nature-related forms, such as Glabro, Crinos, Hispo, and Lupus", Rene
explained, as though an exasperated mother talking to a slow child.
"On top of which, the silver dust can be watched off. I needed
to have him invested with in. That is why the earlier blast of the
bonding agent in the ventilation shaft. By the way, good job Rene. He
didn't even notice." Mackie nodded to Rene, who gave a bow.
"All this for one Garou?" Thomas asked.
"This particular Garou was one of the intelligence assets for
Genom's Department of Internal Security. A while ago, he discovered
the location of the Doombringer pack. They were soon extinguished."
"And the last reason... the last reason", Mackie repeated, as he
searched the body, "the last reason... the last reason... ah-ha! The last
reason is this!" Mackie triumphantly lifted up his prize. The other two
Black Hand agents leaned forward.
It looked like nothing more than an amulet made of a series of
computer chips in a gold casing.
"What is that?" Thomas asked.
"Ooohhh, what is it! Let me see, let me seeee!" Rene eagerly
pushed forward.
"A Correspondence Passkey", Mackie said with finality,
turning his head away from the others, hoping they wouldn't notice the
sudden play of many colored glow on his cheeks. The Blood-Shadow
Link was coming into effect.
"What is a Correspondence Passkey?" Thomas asked.
Mackie turned back to them, the memory and knowledge now
his, the glow gone. "It is a mage device. A kind of teleporter, if you
will."
"A mage device? What the heck are Mages doing with
Garou?" Thomas asked.
"This is Genom, Mr. Washington", Mackie said, and Thomas
knew he was being reprimanded. "A place where you will see Mages
with vampiric disciplines, and Garou artifacts. Take another look at his
hands."
Rene darted down to the deceased Garou's hands, and a few
moments later, came up with a prize, only to have it snatched by
Thomas.
"Hey, that's mine", Rene protested.
Thomas ignored him, looking at the wooden ring he held in his
hand. It took him only a second to identify the symbol of a Camarilla
Archon. "A Rowan Ring!"
Mackie nodded distractedly. "Yes."
Thomas thought on that one, allowing the insistent Malkavian
to take the ring, as he realized something. "Shit. How are we going to
knock off some of Genom's best, if this guy was only middle
management?"
"That is what I am trying to discern", Mackie said, even as he
absently looked around. He casually struck a flare, standing well away
from the body, then tossed it. Even at this distance, he could feel the
unreasoning fear of his Beast urging him to run away.
Looking at his companions, he could see it in their eyes. Well,
in Thomas' eyes, in any case. Rene seemed almost mesmerized by the
fire, grinning wide, and leaning forward.
Thomas knelt and picked up the dropped weapon of the Garou,
putting in the pack he pulled out from under the rubble. "Who are we
hitting next again?"
"A Genom employee, a Mr. Garrison, employed in the Genom
Department of Media Affairs", Mackie said.
"Jeremiah Garrison?" Rene said increduously. "You didn't
mention that! Garrison lives in a fucking fortress! God himself couldn't
get in there!"
"I know", said Mackie, "I was thinking of a way to get in
there."
"Have you thought of anything, yet?" Thomas asked.
Mackie gave a wan smile, "I'll let you know."
The sound of movement behind them startled the Black Hand
members.
"We better take off, hoseheads", Rene said, with a Canadian
accent, sounding as though he were a little drunk on some strange
brew.
"Yes. Let us get going", Mackie said, as they turned and
Obfuscated, leaving as the formerly Dominated people started to once
more enter the mall.
It was about that time the sprinklers finally kicked on, a
testament to the skill of the designers and the craftsmen of a lost dream.
* * * * * * * *
"So, fearless leader, like what do we do now, eh?", asked Rene
as he looked over his shoulder at the huddle of Thomas and Mackie,
both of them looking over the large portable computer that both of them
were examining.
The dull brown van they were travelling in, an old model that
was a boxy affair, signature of the old early 10's style vehicles. It was
not a modern vehicle, as it had a fuel cell. But it had been easy enough
to acquire, and served as the Black Hand's current mobile command
center in this leg of their adventure.
"Most of this is useless", Thomas complained.
Mackie had to agree with him. If they didn't find a weakness
soon, they would have to forgo hitting all twelve targets, and instead
move on to the next target. And that was something that Mackie, as a
follower of the Path of Power and the Inner Voice, simply could not
accept. No, there had to be a way.
"Circle around again, Rene, but use an alternate route to the
last three", Mackie ordered, never taking his eyes from the computer
screen.
"Like, okay, eh", said Rene.
Mackie discounted him, looking down at the computer
printout. It wasn't very encouraging. Rene hadn't been kidding when
he referred to this place as a fortress. The "house" was more like a
complex, with clearly defined pathways and search parameters. Just a
quick scan of the basic outlay of the complex and a sensor sweep had
revealed a plethora of defenses. Cameras, ultra-violet sensors, infra-red
sensors, concealed boomer dugouts, hidden weapon systems, guards,
silent guards, an adundance of mystical defenses and offenses, what
appeared to a electric fence wired on the _ground_ through cybernetic
facsimile blades of grass, a triple layered outer casing on the dwelling,
and airlock type doors at every station.
"Christ, what is this guy expecting, Desert Wars 8 to be fought
at his place", Thomas commented.
"Looks like it", Mackie answered back. If he had to, there was
always the option of using another FAE to take out this one. But given
the magical defense, that might not be enough. And two, or even three
FAEs would mean the Black Hand would be exposed. The sniper's first
rule was simple: location, location, location. That would be violated if
they resulted to such a tactic. And- Mackie checked his watch- they
only had another forty two minutes and thirty one seconds at mark to
solve this one. Wonderful.
"You got me on this one", said Thomas, as he looked over the
selection in the back. This Mr. Garrison was mortal, even though he
was a mage, which gave them a lot more options. But none of those
options was particularily viable. The back of the spacious van held a
Stinger, a Ranger sniper rifle, the Firebug missile launcher, a bunch of
assorted small arms, some electronic equipment, another computer
array, a toxin and poison kit, a small and portable chemical lab, and a
wide assortment of clothing. They even had Mackie's small collection
of magical items, which had surprised Thomas. He had thought more
highly of Mackie then to dabble in a Tremere discipline.
"So, what now, eh?" asked Rene, turned the van again.
"Maybe we should just use an FAE?" Thomas suggested.
"Take off! No way! That is the stupidest thing you have
suggested", Rene disagreed.
"I must agree with Rene", Mackie said, still looking at the
computer. "Using an FAE is not an option, unfortunately."
They were all quiet after that. Mackie despaired as he went
over the security for the twenty third time. He needed a miracle from
God to pull this one off-
"Hey, what is that?" Thomas cut in on Mackie's thoughts.
"Huh?" Mackie inquired focussing on one of the sub-windows
on the screen. "Another phone call. Encrypted, as usual", Mackie
dismissed. Trying to crack a Genom cypher was like trying to drink
water with fork; you got a lot of exercise, but were left unsatisfied.
Genom used cyphers on things as simple as one co-worker calling
another to say "hi".
"Our program seems to be hacking it, though", Thomas stated.
(What?) Mackie thought, even as he confirmed what Thomas
had said. The caller was using a F3304-44G series cypher, one that most
syndicates had broken nearly a week ago. What kind of fool would be
using such an outdated code.
"It's finishing decoding", Mackie muttered, as he watched the
indicators swiftly run down in the decryption window. Mackie hit the
playback.
The quality was poor, as the decryption program wasn't
perfect, and they were splicing a fiber-optic line without incurring signal
delay. Still, it was understandable.
"Yes, I have a request for a maintenance team at Mr. Garrison's
dwelling. His darned automated toilet, with all its bells and whistles,
seems to have broken down again. Could you send someone out?"
"Sure, ma'am, we'll send a team over."
"How about a team from the Katsu Station? They usually have
everything there."
"Of course. We'll send them right away."
"They should be here in five minutes then. Thank you."
"No problem. Good night, ma'am."
The playback ended.
Thomas looked up at the slight smile on Mackie's face. "No
way. You have _got_ to be kidding."
Up front, Rene started laughing to himself.
Despite that, Mackie felt a small worm of self doubt. This
seemed almost too easy.
Banishing that thought, Mackie began to give out his orders.
- - - - - - - -
Thus it was that Thomas and Rene found themselves
approaching the Garrison residence. It was an impressive building, a
genuine design by Harold Gomez, if he was not mistaken. Of course, all
the best architects came out of Mexico, but this was still very well done.
Yet even as he approached the five story structure, Thomas
could already see all the extensive security. The path to the main
enterance was clearly delineated, and with his heightened senses, he
could almost see the infra-red and ultra-violet bands. He _could_ see
the blades of grass that were part of the security system, as the differed
just slightly in color from the other grass.
They were wearing the uniforms of a Genom maintance team,
the kahki color lost in many places due to stains and other, less
identifiable encounters. They had the baseball caps all maintence
workers seemed to favor, and Rene was doing his best to look
impressed as he rubbernecked, looking around in feigned wonder at the
sights about him. He was also chewing some bubble gum like a cow
chewed its cud, occasionally snapping off bubbles as he masticated the
substance. As Thomas could no longer eat, he found the practice a
little disgusting and annoying.
It might actually be that Rene _was_ impressed. Though
Mackie had tried to talk to the Malkavian, he seemed to be in one of his
moods, answering with "Ok, eh" and "No problem, hoser". Thomas
himself had no idea where that had come from. He could only hope for
the best, as only he and Rene could carry out this operation. Mackie
suffered from his clan curse, and couldn't be seen in mirrors. That also
meant he would appear indistinctly in cameras, which would raise
unfortunate questions. Besides, Mackie didn't trust Rene to watch the
sleeping Genom workers, and not "have fun".
They approached the large single door of the main enterance.
This was it. The buzzer sounded.
"State your business."
"Umm.." Thomas put just enough inflection in the
performance, drawing on the Japanese bias of black people all being
slow and stupid, as well as dirty, "we are here to fix someones toilet- I
mean, uh, fulfill maintenance request 112-12."
The voice came back again. "Enter your cards."
Both Thomas and Rene scanned their cards. Of course, they
had been cleverly doctored to match their own appearance.
"You may enter."
Both vampires moved into the now open room beyond, a small
alcove with another door just beyond. Rene just slouched in one
corner, chomping on his gum.
"Stand by to be scanned."
"Yeah, yeah", Rene muttered.
Thomas just yawned, ignoring the nervous tremor of fear. If
their scanners actually sniffed out the items hidden in the repair
equipment.
Several machines on the wall moved, performing their
functions, then stopped as they completed their task.
"You're clear. Move along." A harsh buzzer sounded as the
door ahead unlocked.
Thomas and Rene both hefted their bags of equipment, moving
in through the door.
Beyond was a nicely furnished building, the kind that rich, old
men who enjoyed wallowing in their own crapulence had built for
themselves. It was a bizaree mismatch of Japanese and English styles
that must have given several interior decorators coronaries trying to
match.
Rene gave a low whistle, "Will you look at that, eh?"
Thomas spared his associate a glance, "Yeah, well we got a job
to do."
"Cleanin' toilets", Rene muttered.
A man approached them, followed by another. Both had the
immense build of a football athlete, both had sunglasses, but only the
man behind the first had the heavy step that identified as a boomer to
the keen senses of both Rene and Thomas.
"Wow", said Rene, as he moved towards the boomer, "must be
a 55e."
The other man simply looked at Rene, commenting, "Quite
astute. If you will follow me, this way, Mr. Mackenzie?"
"Of course, sir", Thomas replied, moving forward, grabbing
Rene who was snapping his fingers in front of the boomer.
"Forgive my partner. He has a fascination with boomers",
Thomas tried to apologize.
"It's quite all right. If we can continue?" the man with the
blond hair said.
"Uh, sure thing, sir", Thomas said.
They followed a maze-like pattern of corridors. Along the way,
the man spoke up again.
"You aren't our usual crew for repairs. Can I ask why?" the
man inquired, too casually.
Thomas floundered for a bit, before Rene spoke up.
"Oh, you mean Tatsu and Jeena? They are handling a job over
at the Genom Financial Building. Apparantly, the explosion took out
part of the piping. Glad I don't have that job" Rene shuddered.
Thomas almost looked over at Rene, before he just dismissed
his sudden knowledge as either being Malkavian quirk or excellent mind
reading job.
They continued on, before taking an elevator to the top floor.
As they got off, the man with the sunglasses gestured, urging them
forward. "Sorry, one more scan."
Thomas and Rene stepped forward as the scanners, most likely
hidden in the walls, presumably began to scan them.
"If this is what it takes to fix a toilet, I hate to see what would
happen if they needed to fix a computer", joked Rene.
"Shut up", Thomas whispered.
Rene continued on, irregardless, "I mean, I'll betcha that for a
computer, they give you a strip search and a body cavity search, eh?"
he nudged Thomas with his elbow, snorting and laughing a little,
"betcha'd like that one, eh?"
"Will you shut up?" Thomas whispered.
The blond man came back. "Mr. Mackenzie?"
"I'm Bob Mackenzie, and this is my brother Doug Mackenzie"
Rene jerked a thumb at Thomas.
The blond man raised an eyebrow at this, noting the difference
in their skin coloration.
(Coincidence), Thomas mouthed at the man, who nodded.
"I see. The restroom is down the hall, to the right", said the
man, shaking their hands, "I am Tom. If you have any problems, just
alert me."
Thomas involuntarily tensed as the man shook his hand hard.
He knew, from the pressure and searching look behind the sunglasses,
that the man was searching for a pulse and body temp, as well as for
indications he or Rene might be boomer assassins, the endoskeleton
type.
Fortunately, it seemed that the Thaumaturgical spell his CO
and Rene knew worked well enough. It was still odd to have a pulse
and body warmth again, but Thomas dealt with it.
Next to him, Rene winced, "Hey, shake my hand, don't break
it."
"Sorry, I sometimes forget my own strength. If you will excuse
me?" Tom bowed and left.
"Alright, let's get this over with", Rene said, moving up the
stairs that led up to the hall that Tom had gestured to. Thomas picked
up his own gear, and followed, only to run into the back of Rene.
"What is wrong with you?" Thomas hissed at Rene, angry.
"Look", Rene whispered back.
Thomas looked around Rene's shoulder, at the corridor ahead.
He saw only a woman in a nice black skirt and suit, typing at a computer
terminal in the wall. "What?" he whispered again to Rene.
"_Look_", Rene hissed, angry himself.
Realizing what Rene meant, Thomas allowed himself to slip into
his Auspex's higher functions. The woman was mortal but-
"Shit", he muttered, understanding what had stopped the
Malkavian.
Ahead of them, stretching across the corridor of the hallway,
was a shimmering curtain of mystical energy invisible to mortals. What
it was was beyond Thomas. Probably some sort of magical scanner, or
maybe a barrier against supernatural beings. Either way, it was bad
news for the Black Hand team.
"What now?" Rene asked.
Thomas suddenly remembered that he had been put in
command of this operation by Mackie. It was up to him.
Thomas decided after only the briefest hesitation. Damned if
they did, damned if they didn't. "Come on", he said to Rene in a normal
tone of voice.
"I thought I was supposed to be the crazy one", Rene muttered
to himself, under his breath.
Twenty steps to go. Fifteen steps. Then ten.
Eight steps. Thomas tried to stop himself from sweating.
Six steps. Rene was whistling a funeral dirge.
Five steps. Thomas reminded himself to tear off Rene's lips
after this was over.
Four steps. They passed the woman, apparantly in her early
twenties, with strong Italian features.
Three steps. The curtain of magic was directly ahead of them.
Two steps. No turning back.
One more step. Thomas felt himself tense, ready to make a
futile break for it as they stepped into the sparking magical force.
And then they were through, and that was that.
Disbelieving, Thomas stopped, straining his ears for an alarm,
for some cry of alert, but none came. He looked over at Rene, who just
shrugged, and opened the door to the right, which led into an expansive
bathroom.
Thomas took a look back, only to see the field still there,
crackling with energy. The woman who been working on the computer
walked right through it, not caring, sparing only a single evaluative
glance at both him and Rene before continuing onward.
(That was odd), he thought, as he joined Rene in the bathroom.
- - - - - - - -
"Thank you for seeing me, Rosa", commented Garrison to the
woman seated across from him.
Rosa ignored the contemptuous look behind his eyes. The
mage was like most of his kind, arrogant and self-important. She had
dealt with mages, undead, and worse in her years. None of them had
ever come close to comparing to her master, so she ignored the
contempt. Her master held this one in a certain amout of respect, and
thus so would she. Not too much, of course, but a farthing perhaps.
"No problem at all. The Director has been most pleased with
your work to date, and thus is happy to assist you." Let him make of
that what he would.
"Ah, excellent, excellent. I aim to please", the slightly
overweight mage said.
He was a former Son of Ether, Rosa knew, but he had been
expelled from that order long before that Convention had, for all intents
and purposes, disintegrated.
A slight chill in the metal of the amulet she wore told her he
was attempting to read her mind. It was doubtful he could penetrate her
defenses without going vulgar. No, this was a probe; he expected to be
deflected. Genom social protocols.
"I am curious what you needed, though", Rosa asked, adding a
slight edge to her voice. Just right, she decided.
Garrison chuckled slightly, "Just some clerical matters. The
Gubrowski case, and how our spindoctors are handling the acquisition
of Gruber, Inc. As the Director's personal secretary, I thought that,
none-the-less, you might need some intimate awareness with these
situations."
Rosa put a slight flush and outward frown at the insinuation
that Garrison had made with his slight emphasis on the words "personal
secretary" and "intimate". She knew what most people thought of
herself and what sort of relationship her unusual master had with her.
"I see", she said cooly. Really, she was getting to old for this.
This man was barely eighty years to her almost eight centuries of
experience. "Was there anything else?"
"Oh, not really. The Director did mention your interest in
seeing my abode, so I thought to kill two birds with one stone",
Garrison spread his hands with a disarming smile.
Rosa allowed a slight smoothing of her features, as though she
appreciating his offer. "Yes, your dwelling is quite impressive", she
said, as though slowly giving up the compliment.
"Yes, I thought it best to indulge our Director, especially since
he thought tonight would be such an excellent night for your visit",
commented Garrison as he turned his chair slightly.
For the first time in their conversation, Garrison had scored a
point, and Rosa had to fight the slight flash of anger and jealousy.
Unlike Garrison, she knew full well where her master actually would be
doing tonight. Smothering her emotions, she still allowed a sudden
flush and set her mouth into a firm line. That should be enough to allow
him to errantly confirm his suspicions.
Garrison leaned forward, smelling opportunity. "Indeed, it is
rumored that Internal Security and Meda Affairs have been having..
'talks' about a possible pooling of resources."
Rosa allowed herself to raise an eyebrow and deepen her flush
slightly. "Really? I hadn't heard anything."
"I understand, the Director has obviously been handling his
important business. If he or you should ever need any help, don't
hesitate to ask", Garrison said, almost pulling off looking sincere.
Rosa had to excerise her self-control and draw on her willpower
to avoid laughing in his face. He almost reminded her of the fumbling
efforts of the Tremere in their earliest nights. Pathetic.
Still, she put allowed a slight look of calculation to cross her
features, before becoming impassive. "Thank you, but I will not be
needing any assistance."
"I understand, I do. It was just an offer. My capabilities are
wide ranging, and can be used in everything from media affairs to
finances, such as dealing with trusts, redeeming bank notes, or even
dissolving bonds", Garrison said, putting a very slight emphasis on the
last.
Rosa shook her head mentally. Really, he was predictable.
Almost everything he had said and implied had been exactly as her
master had anticipated. Sad. Still, he had promise, like her master had
said. Too bad he had used it in the incorrect manner.
Staying still for a few seconds, Rosa suddenly stood up, acting
slightly flustered, playing on the misogynistic tendencies of the mage.
As she expected, she could see the superior haunteur shine behind his
eyes.
"I would like to finish my tour of your home, if you don't
mind", Rosa said, adding the slightest quaver in her voice.
"Of course. Please, enjoy all that is mine. And I apologize for
the incident in the bathroom", he said, sincerely.
"No problem", Rosa said, "I already took steps as to fixing the
problems here."
"My thanks. Now, go and enjoy my bounty. And please,
think on what I said", Garrison said, voice dripping honey and sincerity.
Rosa gave a sharp nod, as though it took her quite a bit of
effort to do so, then quietly left the room.
Yes, he had potential. It was too bad that he was a traitor to
her master. Now, all she had to do was one last thing to make her
business here complete.
- - - - - - - -
Thomas stared in shock down at the construct before, trying to
equate it with the porcelain bowl he had utilized when mortal, and
worshipped during his high school days, after parties, but failed. The
technological terror before him was like nothing he had seen before.
He had known that the Japanese had peculiar fascinations with
technology, but this was too much. This wasn't even a toilet; it was a
stationary boomer.
Maybe it was the reactive toilet seat cover that adjusted itself
to the contours of the posterior placed upon it. Maybe it was the
phermone sensors, that immediately determined if it was a man or a
woman using the toilet. In could have been the fact that the AI in the
_toilet_ would also cheerfully carry on a conversation with whoever
squatted upon it. But then, there was also the health monitor hooked
up to the toilet, which calculated the blood pressure, body fat, weight,
height, and general well being of the occupant. And who could forget
the computer and device which took the feces of the user, analyzed, and
fed the results to the computer so the AI could comment on the dietary
habits of whoever used it. It also did the same with the urine. But then
again, the bottom washer, the backside baby powderer, the butt buffer,
and the ass massager were just too much for Thomas. To say the least
of the 'other' features for the personal pleasure of the user.
"What the hell is this thing?" he asked Rene.
"A toilet, you hosehead", Rene said, as he squatted by it.
"That isn't a toilet; it is a ex-Pentex product disguised as a
recepticle", Thomas declared.
"No way. This is a top-of-the-line Deficator 5000", Rene
announced.
"And how do you know that?" Thomas muttered.
"Because it says so, on the side", Rene pointed it out.
Thomas took a long look a the toilet. "This thing has got to
have fifty thousand moving parts. How in the hell are we supposed to
fix something like this, let alone do like the CO said?"
"Actually, it has 1,563 moving parts, to be precise. And I can
fix it, and alter it", Rene firmly claimed, as he began to lay out his tools.
"How?" Thomas dreaded to ask.
In response, Rene handed Thomas a card. Looking at it,
Thomas discovered it had Rene's picture and read:
Rene Descartes is hereby certified by the Omnitech
Corporation as a Class AAA servicer and technician of all
series of sanitation devices.
Signed,
Robert Guillmene
Training Program Director
It took Thomas a second to find his voice. "You mean, you
actually have a toilet technician license!?!" he strangled out.
Rene took back his card, commenting, "Of course I do. Doesn't
everybody?"
Thomas just kept silent as Rene continued at his work.
- - - - - - - -
A little less than a half-hour later, Thomas and Rene staggered
out of the bathroom. A few less than fortunate accidents had left new
stains on their coveralls, but they were victorious. They passed by the
Italian woman at the computer once more as they left the building, their
job done, only stopping to get a signature on the work order from Tom.
- - - - - - - -
Rosa sighed as it was done. Really, she was getting too old for
this.
Turning her attention back to the system menu, she reactivated
the detection/resistance field, before erasing all record of her actions.
That done, she headed down the short flight of stairs, to the elevators,
nodding to the golem, Tom.
A short elevator trip later, free of the restrictions of the
Garrison complex in the back seat of her limo, Rosa reached up to her
earring, squeezing it three times, with a warming of the earring occurring
for each squeeze. After that, she leaned back to enjoy the ride back to
Genom tower.
Her master would get the message. It had taken a bit of
impromptu ad-libbing to create the necessary opening, but it had
worked out just fine. She had deactivated the field, and set things back
on course.
Everything was proceeding exactly as planned.
- - - - - - - -
Mackie looked up as Rene and Thomas parked the borrowed
van and approached their van, which held the unconscious forms of the
three Genom maintenance workers in the back. Mackei had just
finished, with the help of his shadowy mentors, the task of altering the
memories of the workers to suit the purposes of the Black Hand, as well
as using the medical kit to heal the minor injuries the workers had
sustained in their abduction.
Mackie, of course, said nothing until both Thomas and Rene
entered the brown van, where they stripped off their overalls and
procceeded to dress the two overall-less workers present.
"How did it go?" Mackie asked. He had been worried sick,
waiting for them to come back.
"No real problems, sir", Thomas reported, "the plan was good,
and we set up everything."
"So you put the package into place?" Mackie asked.
"Yes, sir", Thomas asked, looking a little uneasy.
"What is it, Thomas?" Mackie inquired.
Thomas looked to the side before meeting Mackie's eyes and
asking, "I know some of your plans are odd, but this one is just queer.
Are you sure it will work?"
Mackie shook his head, "This one was on the fly, and nothing
is certain. But to answer your question; yes, I do believe this will
work."
"Good thing we got that lucky break on the maintenance
request", Rene said, as he began to carry the unconcious workers over
to the Genom van. Mackie grabbed one as well, even as Thomas kept a
vigil over them, weapon concealed under one arm, wrapped in a bundle
of newpaper.
"Yeah, lucky break", Mackie answered, worried. There was no
such thing as luck in the Jyhad.
Soon enough, they had the workers strapped in the Genom
van, and no one the wiser due to a judicious use of Obfuscate. The
Black Hand piled into their own van, and pulled away, honking their
horn three times, sharply.
This condition activated the mental trigger Mackie had
implanted in their subconcious, and the Genom workers immediately
went on to their next call, never wondering why they all had felt so
drowsy at the same time.
The van containing the Black Hand went in the opposite
direction, towards another section of the city. They had a job of their
own to do.
- - - - - - - -
It wasn't actually until over two hours later that Jeremiah
Garrison felt the urge to use the restroom. Several other of his
household had used it before retiring for the evening. But Jeremiah had
been feeling restless that night, and knowing his bladder problem,
deciding to make one trip rather than wake up in a wet bed. Of course,
his bed wouldn't actually be wet, but the blue collaration in the
absorbant sheets was embarrassing.
Thus he went to use the restroom, tired to the bone. His
slippers slapped on the smooth tiles, their surface coated with a
SureGrip coating to prevent himself from slipping. He removed his
bathrobe and did his business.
The AI in the toilet detected the user, correctly identifying him
as Jeremiah Garrison. Used to such night uses of the facilities, the AI
decided that music would not be necessary, but instead offered a night
cap from the autobar located on its side. It also noted from fecal
analysis that Jeremiah had not been eating enough vegetables, and
overindulging in meat. But again, the AI decided that it was best to
keep silent on that as well. It did, however, offer a novel from one of its
storage bins.
After ten minutes of relaxing and obeying nature's call,
Garrison finally felt ready to retire. He hit the third handle, ready for the
autowash.
The AI, realizing this, deployed its washing jets in an
ergometrical setup so as to provide maximum coverage; not that there
was much need.
Then, much to the curiousity of the AI, driven by new
directives installed recently, a new series of orders flashed into being
with regards to one Jeremiah Garrison. The AI set the autowashers to
"severe scrub" and selected wash cartridge "Lavender Paradise #3".
And as it engaged, Jeremiah Garrison died.
Molecular acid is a particularily nasty compound, difficult to
produce and possessing a short shelf life. It had an even short active
life, as it tended to react with the air around it. But it could eat through
almost anything with remarkable speed and ruthlessness. And though
almost 30% of the molecular acid had reacted with the piping in the
toilet, the rest was directed in a fine spray.
Jeremiah Garrison lost a significant portion of the weight he
had hoped to lose, for the blast ate away the bottom, and then middle
layers of his thighs, even as some of the acid was carried by the
bloodstream through his system. His scream at the sheer agony was
silenced by the severing of his tongue by his own teeth as the mandible
and maxila came together with shocking force, reducing him to a mute
bleating.
The coroners report would later conclude that death from
shock occurred only moments after the acid ravaged him. But just in
case, another compound had also been ejected from air vents that blew
warm air across the buttocks as they were washed. That other
compound made it a mute point.
Australia is home to some of the most deadly species in the
world, whether natural or genengineered. And among them, the
Australian Black Snake is the most deadly of the deadly. Only a drop of
its venom was enough to kill ten fully grown adult males. A small vial of
the venom had been sprayed through the air vents.
Still, Garrison's nanotech enhancements might have saved
him... had it not been for the powdered Primium mixed in with the acid
that destroyed those enhancements.
It took several minutes for the household staff to realized what
had happened, and even longer for the poor AI to realize why Mr.
Garrison had so much bloody feces, but by then it was far, far too late.
And, as Thomas had told Mackie, there was nothing worse
than that fate:
Dying on the shitter.
* * * * * * * *
The Black Hand, once again covered in the skin tight and sleek
synth-skin, found themselves huddled atop the Tinsel City Building, the
evidence from the previous attacks by Largo's superboomers long since
smoothed over. Some judicious use of Dominate and Obfuscate, along
with a little Presence, had allowed the assassins to reach the top of the
immense structure.
Now they all squatted, the clothes they had worn up to the
observation lounge now residing in the small bags they had brought
with them, the vestments of their former appearance piled within the oily
confines of the synthetic bags. Thomas was on one knee, spooling out
the spidersilk rope very carefully, pooling it in sequencial and periodic
piles, his hunched over shape seeming like a patient mother bear, but for
the evastic shivers that occasionally sang across his taut muscles, like
the artful fingers of a master cello player. Thomas was tense, and
worried, a little cold, and knew full well how high they were. While
supernatural claws and teeth, fire, sunlight, and beheading were the
only things that could kill a vampire, a fall from this height would turn
the vampire in question into a fine spray, an effective beheading if there
ever was one. Knowing this, Thomas had just concluded that their
commander was very insane, or merely insanely confidant, sparing a
glance at him. Given the fact they had already made the one-third mark
on their quota of killings, Thomas was just beginning to believe they
might succeed. Not that he was a doubting Thomas, but he fully
expected them to make a strategic retreat, and execute their attacks in
time. Now that they were committed, he was extra vigilant in scanning
the skies for anyone who might spot them.
Rene was laying out the equipment, ever so carefully. Like
Thomas, he seemed to be concentrated on his efforts, like the careful
weaver at his loom, spinning the wool into yarn, then spinning it into
cloth. Thus was he with the small devices, carefully constructing the
frameworks that would be necessary. At the same time, he remained
hidden, like the rest, between the panels of the antenna and solar
accumulators. He was the one who was going to remain at point, and
thus he also had, laid beside him, a Narcojet pulse rifle, in case any
security appeared. It shouldn't be necessary, but if it became an issue,
he would simply shoot them, then wake them up and dominate them.
That is, if everything in _that_ plan went according to plan.
Mackie was currently nearest to the edge, thankful for the fact
that he was in no way acrophobic. Even as a child, he had felt no fear in
walking along the girders of a building yet under construction, though
his sister had felt fear enough of him falling for the both of them. No, he
liked heights, for they made him feel more... right. It was a twinkling of
sorrow, like the flashing lights of a passing heli, but soon it was gone.
He had a job to do, and he intended to do so. His legs were swung over
the edge of the building, even as he balanced the pile of fiber-optic cord
in his hand, letting it down gently, with his eyes constantly on the
computer next to him, though it was not necessary. His goggles were
displaying all the information in his field of vision, in which was
contained a vid-feed from the padded sensor pod at end of the cord. He
occasionally fingered a palm controller, using the myomer cables flush
against the head to manuever the sensor how he desired.
Eventually, the sensor Mackie was lowering reached his
destination: the 87th floor of Tinsel City Building. He scanned the view
from the sensor pod, insuring that the visual interpretation software's
probability drafting program was in synch with the floor plans he had
acquired through some Net scanning. Mackie was not terribly surprised
that the two did not exactly correspond; there was furniture, movement in
some terminals, but that was not important as the other considerations.
Throughout the room were a number of security measures, made
apparant by the fact they were _not_ on the public plans. Officially,
this was listed as an office space, though Mackie knew that was not it's
current use. Setting aside the controller, Mackie typed in the commands
to execute the programs he had installed in the laptop computer, then
picked up the controller, commanding the sensor pod to activate a
series of additional sensors: UV light, IR beams, sonic analyzers, and
even a simple photo flash. All this and more was conveyed up to the
laptop, which began to compile the information. His task done, Mackie
began to carefully hoist up the sensor pod, so as not to bang anything
on the way up, before pulling the plug, bundling it up and putting it in
the bag. With that, he slowly pushed himself away from the ledge; he
was not afraid of heights, but very aware of what could happen if he
made one false move in the raging winds that blew across the top of the
building. Extracting himself, he closed the computer, grabbed it and the
bag, and with a combination duck/run, made his way back to the small
shelter of the panels and dish.
<Everything clear, Bravo 1?> Thomas inquired, using their
short-range radios.
<No, problems yet, at any rate>, Mackie responded, already
setting up the computer again. <You both almost done?> he asked.
<Got the rope strung out just right for rappelling>, said
Thomas, as he waved his hands in the general direction of the piles.
<Mmmmh-mhuhhmh-mhuummmph>, was Rene's garbled
comment.
Both Thomas and Mackie looked over at Rene sharply. He had
been silent ever since they donned their synth-skins. Mackie settled for
a questioning look, while Thomas demanded <What's wrong with
you?>
<Mmmummmfff-mummph>, Rene spit back sounding angry at
having to explain himself.
Mackie took one insightful look at Rene, then spotted the
problem. Taking the aersol can from one of the bags, Mackie tossed it
to Rene, ordering with a sigh, <Get rid of the gum, Rene.>
Thomas groaned a little, realizing what the problem was. Rene
took the spray can to his lips, wiping off the synth-skin, at took out the
gum.
And continued to take out the gum.
And then some more.
And even a little extra.
Before Mackie and Thomas' astonished eyes, Rene removed a fist
sized chunk of bubblegum, pulling it from deep down his throat. That
explained why the throat mike didn't work. Finished extracting the mass,
Rene proudly held it aloft.
"Wow, looks I had a bubblegum crisis", he said.
Thomas started to bat the disgusting mass out of Rene's
hands, only to be stopped by a gesture from Mackie.
<No. We leave behind no evidence. Rene, store that in some
cloth and put it in your bag. Now.> Mackie firmed his tone, seeing the
petulant expression on the face of Rene.
Mackie's computer gave a beep in his earbug, and he looked at
the screen as Rene took care of the substance. <Rene> Mackie said, as
Rene began to spray fresh synth-skin on, <I've got the readings on the
chromatics. Start the mixing.>
<No problem. Shaken, not stirred, of course>, Rene said in an
English accent, as he linked one of his devices to Mackie's computer
through a cable.
<Good>, Mackie said, before turning to Thomas.
<Here is the layout>, Mackie began.
<What am I looking at?> Thomas inquired.
<A basic layout of the room, and it's security systems> began
Mackie, the computer obediantly answering his commands and
expanding the images. <There are a number of intrusion
countermeasures, but fortunately, this avenue, via the window, is one of
the least guard. These> Mackie pointed out, <are the supernatural
defenses; anti-Correspondence sigils, Umbral blockers, etc. We don't
have to worry about them. What he do have to worry about is this.>
Thomas leaned forward.
<There are several defenses on the glass. A monomolecular
wiring grid prevents cutting, but there is an easy way around that one>
Mackie said, patting a small bag beside him. <The biggest problem are
these motion sensors, both by beam and air pressure. The room is also
filled with a gas of some sort, but hopefully it is unaffective on
Kindred. The more likely problem from the gas is the use of the gas as
an air indicator. Too much purity of the gas lost, and, well, we're
screwed.>
<So what's the plan?> Thomas asked.
Mackie grimaced, not noticeable through the synth-skin,
<Pretty simple. Cut, intrude, neutralize the sensors with Thaumaturgy,
and try to get our business done before the ritual wears off. If we can't
finish, we go to plans B or C.>
<I hope it doesn't come to that>, Thomas said sincerely.
Mackie grimaced even deeper, <Me neither.>
<I have complete my assigned task, M>, Rene announced,
suave even through the synth-skin and radio, <Though I really think I
should be going with Moneypenny.>
<Just coat the ropes, and then us, Rene>, Mackie said,
suddenly feeling tired. He still had a lot more to do. More people to kill.
More lives to snuff out.
Rene did as he was told, taking the applicator provided by the
mixing kit, and began to coat the ropes. This took quite a while, but
luckily, Mackie had done some pre-reconaissance, and knew the general
two colors. Thus, he had brough along plenty of the coloration
compound. After a few minutes, Rene finished with the ropes, and
brought the kit over to Mackie and Thomas. Adding an extra solution,
synth-skin base, which was a kakhi color, and after allowing the
computer to compensate, Rene began to spray both Mackie and
Thomas with the color, taking care to avoid their goggles.
<Picasso himself would be jealous>, commented Rene. <I just
can't get over it>, he said, one finger under his chin as though
examining the artistic merit of a thing, <you're just both so- BLUE.>
It was true. Both Mackie and Thomas now resembled two
glossy medium blue manniquens in their current getup. Of course, the blue
coloration was a near-perfect match for the opaquicity of the windows
on Tinsel City Building, a fact Mackie confirmed as he brought his scanner
over sections of both his and Thomas' outer sheathings. They had close
enough indexes that they should appear as bumps in the glass, should
someone see through their Obfuscate. If they were seeing through the
Obfuscate, the most likely culprit would be television monitors. But the
big problem with video was presentation; video images were static, with
much dimension, especially in perspective. With the shadows and light
on the building, it should only make things that much easier.
<The smurf master race!> Rene proclaimed, singing, <La-la la-
la-la-la, la-la-la-lah.>
Mackie and Thomas just looked at each other, checking one
another's backs and fronts, making sure no black showed through and
could be seen. That done, Mackie turned to one of the bags that they
had brought with them, taking out the two small winches. They had a
maximum load bearing of 300 kg, and were small enough to maintain their
body weights plus equipment. Both Thomas and Mackie moved the heavy
little devices over to near the edge of the building, but somewhat under
the cover of the panels. Mackie nodded to Thomas, who suddenly extended
his Quietus to deaden sound. Mackie grabbed the bolt gun, bracing his
feet, and put one into the hole. Eight bolts for each winch, and then
they were firmly in place in the thick concrete of the top floor. At the
same time, Rene, still singing and chuckling, began to attach the blue
colored ropes to the winch with a triple knot and bonding agent. That
accomplished, he slowly began to reel in the rope.
<Communications?> Mackie inquired.
<Check>, Thomas came back.
<Visuals?> Mackie asked.
<Check>, Thomas replied.
<Tools?> Mackie checked his own supplies.
Thomas did likewise. <Check.>
<Weapons?>, Mackie popped the clip on his submachine gun,
before replacing and cocking it. He also checked his link to his goggles.
It was good.
<Check>, Thomas replied, already done with his check.
<Ready?> Mackie said wryly.
<Check>, Thomas said quietly.
<MATE!> Rene broke in.
Both vampires looked at Rene, who just shrugged and finished
his task of coating their bags, equipment, and backpacks as well.
<We'll be using parachutes; they are only small models, but
they will slow us enough to prevent serious injury>, Mackie held up
one of the backpacks. <If it should happen that this happens,
everybody should bail out in Theta 4, you especially Rene. We only
have one shot at this operation, so if we blow it, we'll have to abort.>
Rene just nodded, but Thomas asked, <Why not just blow it
with a FAE?>
<Ignoring the fact we can't afford _that_ much negative
publicity right now, the target is too well armored for the force of an
FAE. The FAE's need to be in sufficient enclosed space for the
secondary, high kinetic force to take place>, Mackie explained.
<Everything is ready>, Rene cheerfully announced.
Mackie looked at Thomas, who merely nodded.
They equipped themselves first in the rappling harnesses, an
eight strap spider web harness, with a black painted D clamp and a dual
gimbal cinch for the rope. Mackie helped Thomas strap on his chute
next, and Thomas returned the favor. After that, it was a simple matter
of strapping on the equipment parcels, the thick pouches hanging from
their waist and tied down to their thighs. All-in-all, looking at Thomas,
Mackie knew he too must look like a circus clown dressed entirely in a
skin-tight blue elastic sheathing plus equipment.
Thomas also grabbed his mission payload packages, slinging
them over one shoulder as he had Rene help him set them. The shiny
silver cylinders occasionally peeped out from the bag, until Rene
fastened down the straps.
Mackie also check his mission payload packages, each one
strapped to a wrist. Just to check, he triggered the right arm cutter, glad
to see the thin arm extend outward from the housing. The left arm
ejector seemed to work okay. He would have to be very careful with
that one, as he dry-fired it.
<Ready?> Thomas asked Mackie.
Mackie nodded. <Let's do this.>
With that, the two Black Hand members tied the cords to their
clamps, checking the tension while Rene hovered nearby, pulling them
to make sure they were firmly anchored.
Carefully, Rene moved to the edge of the building, and
proceeded to carefully lower both Mackie and Thomas' lines down the
side of the building. He was using his own goggles, picking up on the
"tag" he had mixed into the color he had sprayed on the cords, as
without the "tag", his goggles and own vision would not be able to
distinguish between the rope and the windows.
<We're clear down>, Rene announced, staggering back,
against the wind. <I'll monitor your situation. Good luck!>
Mackie gave a thumbs up to Rene as Thomas said <Wilco.>
Mackie and Thomas gave each other one last look as they
backed towards the edge, ropes held taut as they moved away from
Rene, squatting near the winches. Grabbing the cinch with one hand
and the rope with the other, they gave Rene the sign, who reversed the
winch, giving them a pool of slack rope. That done, Rene grabbed a
threader and clinched both ropes, so that on their descent, the rope
would not fray and snap. At last, all was ready. Their heels on the
edge, Mackie and Thomas took one last breath of air, and leapt
backwards, into the gulf.
The sudden sense of freefall hit them, just as quickly as the
rope became tense and braked their sudden drop. Mackie found himself
suddenly swinging towards one of the windows, and only sheer instinct
made him throw his legs out to brace himself. His feet struck the glass
and he twisted, beginning to spin about before he managed to find
purchase. Stabilizing his bow-legged stance, Mackie turned his head
over to Thomas, who was looking at him, patiently. <How are you
doing, Thomas?>
<Doing fine>, came back Thomas' terse reply.
Mackie nodded to the area down below, the beautiful expanse
of emptiness that was a mulititude of openess. <Ready to continue?>
<Sure>, Thomas replied.
Rappeling is more an art than a science, though science can
easily explain how it works. The rappeller uses their legs to push out
from the perpendicular surface, temporarily suspending them in freefall.
Of course, the sideways motion and the tension of the rope actually
uses the centripedal motion to cancel part of this gravitational force.
At which point, the rappeller releases the grip of the clamp, allowing
themselves to fall a short distance, before clamping down hard again.
This sudden arresting of downward motion causes the rope to lose the
temporary slack, making the rappeller suddenly propelled to the
perpendicular surface. Then, once again, the process began anew.
Mackie was a new hand at this, but he was, as always, a fast
learner. Thomas, on the other hand, was a pro, always letting the right
amount of slack out before pulling it in. He fairly skipped across the
glass on the way down, whereas Mackie only barely managed to avoid
thumping loudly into the glass. Still, they made good progress, despite
the slow speed of Mackie. Soon enough, Mackie found himself
counting the floors as they appeared in his goggles, the little numbers
flickering.
92.
91.
90.
89.
88.
It was there Mackie nodded over to Thomas, who nodded
back. <Slow and easy>, Mackie cautioned.
Rather than pushing off with their feet, Mackie and Thomas
just ever so slowly slid down the rope, floating. The windows on the
87th floor had motion sensors, as well as vibration sensors. Too strong
an impact, and it would set the security into a heightened state. It did
have a fairly high tolerance; after all, the air pressure of passing
helicopters was pretty significant. But better to be safe, rather than
sorry.
Mackie carefully lowered himself, finding his body floating
milimeters from the glass. Ever so carefully, his arms akimbo, Mackie
activated a tag on the surface of the glass. Thomas did likewise.
<Rene, we have contact. How is it going up there?> Mackie
asked, even as he began to remove the components for his ritual, calling
on the Blood-Shadow Link for greater power and knowledge.
<I read you. I am setting up the arm and cord, and tying it off
on the loop>, said Rene.
<How long?> Mackie asked.
<ETC is three minutes>, Rene replied.
<Make it fast, but make yourself sure, Rene>, Mackie said.
<Yes, sir>, Rene replied.
That task taken care off, Mackie spoke to Thomas, <Thomas,
this is Mackie. I am going to start the ritual.>
<I read you>, said Thomas, <Good luck, sir.>
Grunting in reply, Mackie allowed the arcane spell and formula
run through his mind, the spell designed nearly five decades ago.
Briefly, Mackie wondered where his shadowy mentors had learned the
spell, as his only memories, whether his own or not, was that it was a
closely guarded Tremere ritual, but he dismissed that. He allowed the
power to build, before he released it on the glass.
It worked, he could tell, though he only had perhaps a half an
hour. The security system thought that the glass was unaffected, the
magic of the ritual creating a loop in spatial perception, effective
convincing the thousands of tiny wires that there was no difference in
distance, no matter what there actually might be.
<We have twenty minutes, people>, Mackie announced. <I am
starting to cut.>
With that, Mackie popped the cutter out of his right arm
sheath and started to go to work. It was slow work, as he wasn't using a
plasma torch, but rather a hypersonic vibroblade cutter. The tiny blade
on the end of the probe arm cut into the glass like butter. Slowly,
spinning in his harness, Mackie began to cut the oval shape into the
glass.
<Rene?> he inquired when he was a third of the way finished.
<Almost done-there! I will be sending down the rope now!>
Rene triumphantly announced.
<Thomas?> Mackie said.
<I'll catch it when it comes down. I have the clamps and
bonding agent ready.> Thomas said, already busy attatching the
devices.
<Good. I'll continue>, said Mackie. He activated the left arm
ejector, and began to secrete a sealing agent. He cut while he sealed,
slowly making the predicted oval cut a reality.
<I've got the rope and the clamps attached>, Thomas tersely
announced.
Indeed, it was so, as Mackie finished his cutting a sealing. If
the oval was quartered, there was now a clamp attached to the center of
each quarter. The upper right clamp had the rope Rene had sent down
attached to it. The oval cut was obvious, as the sealing agent clearly
outlined it.
<The setup is ready. Rene, stand by. We are going to go for
the first quarter.> Mackie stated.
Setting his goggles to detect thermal differences in the air, so
as to be able to see escaping atmosphere from the room beyond, Mackie
allowed Thomas to move near him.
Thomas carefully removed a sticky membrane from his sack as
Mackie cut the upper right quarter of the oval out in a section, his left
arm adding the sealant to the cuts. After about a forty seconds, Mackie
finished the cut and sealing and nodded to Thomas.
Thomas carefully covered the newly cut quarter of the glass
oval with the sticky membrane. Where the membrane stuck the sealant,
it chemically bonded. Mackie cleared the ejector and loaded the
catalyst tank. With that payload selected, Mackie slowly moved the
spray over where the membrane met the outer edge of the oval.
That done, Mackie turned to Thomas. <The seal is good, the
membrane secure. We are going to move the glass>, Mackie
announced on the radio.
<Just give the signal>, Rene came back.
<Thomas?>, Mackie asked.
<Ready>, he said.
Carefully, Rene and Thomas began to move the glass from
under the membrane. The sealant kept air out, though it was maleable
enough to move solid objects slowly through, a case in point as the glass
began to peak out. Moving very slowly, Mackie and Thomas removed
the quarter of the glass oval, the seal keeping the air from rushing out.
<OK, Rene, move it up _very_ slowly>, Mackie commanded.
<Roger>, Rene came back.
Slowly, at milimeters per second, the glass quarter of the oval
cut in the window began rise, until it was far above the heads of Mackie
and Thomas, leaving behind only the membrane in it's place.
<That's enough, Rene>, Mackie said.
Moving quickly, Thomas moved the still dangling rope that
had the first section of the glass hanging far above them over to the
next clamp, attaching the clamp to the rope. Once that was done,
Mackie once more moved the cutter to cut out the upper left quarter of
the glass oval, adding sealant where he passed over with the cutter. At
the same time, Thomas moved another membrane over the quarter of the
glass oval. Mackie once more used the bonding agent to anchor the
sealant.
Carefully again, Mackie and Thomas began to move the glass
out, when there was a cry from Thomas.
<We are losing air!> Thomas cried.
Focussing his attention on the seal, his thermal vision brought
up the thin red streamers of air moving out from the room beyond.
Cursing mentally, Mackie brought his left arm up.
<Hold on, I'm sealing it!> Mackie cried out, the liquid spurting
out.
After a few minutes of waiting, Mackie gave the go ahead to
begin removing the glass piece again. It smoothly came out, and Rene
raised it along with the others.
The next two quarters of glass were removed as well, leaving a
shimmering membrane stretched across where there was formerly a
piece of glass.
<OK, we have the entrance portal established. Rene, you
reading?> Mackie asked.
<Gotcha>, came back the reply.
<OK, here is the plan. I am going to use my Thaumaturgical
ritual to blank the entire security system. The only problem is that the
spell duration is going to exponentially wear off. We will only have a
few mimutes to get to the target, and then get out of here. We'll ascend
back up quick, pack it up, tie off the glass hanging there in four
sections, and then use Plan 4. Understood?> Mackie laid out the plan.
<Understood>, sang out Rene and Thomas.
<Good. Here I go!> Mackie said, as he pressed himself into the
portal, allowing himself to slowly move through the sealant that held the
four membrane sections together. It was an unpleasant feeling, like
pushing through something tight and unpleasant, constant force being
required to move himself forward. Mackie thought it something like
what he had imagined being born was like, though he had no such
experience to draw upon.
Under the synth-skin, Mackie's skin was crawling with eldritch
symbols and sigils as the Blood-Shadow Link came into full force. A
magical ritual he could never hope to perform alone sang from his lips in
ten different voices.
The entire experience was unreal, even as he whispered out the
last of the words of the ritual, and as he stepped into the room. It was
so sudden, finding himself in a room that should have hundreds of
alarms screaming at him.
<Commander, did it work?> came Thomas' eager voice.
It took Mackie a second to realize that the voice was asking
him a question, so he took a few more seconds to compose himself as
he said, <Yes. Come on through, Thomas.>
As Thomas slowly began to osmosis through the entrance
portal, Mackie was already moving over to the painting on the wall,
where the vault was hidden. The room was decorated as an office,
though the nerve gas and dust floating about told the story of how long
it had been since the room had been used as an office. Careless, Mackie
deployed the other cutting device on his right arm, a plasma torch, and
began cutting.
Thomas entered as Mackie was cutting, the brilliant shower of
sparks indicating Mackie was having a little difficulty burning through
the steel supports of the vault. Immediately, Thomas began to lay out
on the carpet the items he had brought for this task.
<How long do we have?> Thomas asked.
<I don't know>, came back Mackie's quick reply.
Grunting, Thomas pulled out his own torch, and began burning
the wall.
A minute later, the two Black Hand agents had revealed the
boxy form of the safe, a solid design, with nearly twenty millimeters of
molecularily aligned Class AAA armor.
<Shit, now I know why we brought this stuff>, Thomas said he
caught sight of the safe, motioning to the cylinders he had laid out next
to his explosives.
<Yeah. Give me a hand, will you?> Mackie said.
<Sure-OOMPH!>, Thomas was cut off as the weight of the safe
became apparant.
Only through their combined strength, Potence, use of blood
to increase lifting capability, and some Thaumaturgical telekinesis on
the part of Mackie, did they move it to the edge of the window, where
the entrance portal now was.
<We don't have much time>, Mackie stated.
<Agreed>, Thomas shot back.
<Molecular acid first>, Mackie instructed, gesturing to the
three shiny cylinders laying on the ground, <I'll handle that. You grab
the database CPU and move it over here.>
<Roger>, said Thomas, as he moved to execute his orders.
The problem was, Mackie actually _didn't_ know how long the
ritual would last. He had to get at the innards of the safe quick, as the
owner would undoubtably be returning as quickly as possible.
Back, just after the Meiji Restoration in Japan, there had been
this odd case of a mass murderer in England. It was the case of a
woman name Elizabeth Burgess, who the press had dubbed "the
Grandmother". The reason for the title was the grandmotherly air the
old woman had affected.
The reason she was of interest to the press in London was the
odd habit of collecting "the Grandmother" had. She collected rare
objects, such as art, and paintings, and other antiques. But she also
collected things such as the tongues of little girls, and the penis of
little boys she lured to her home. The mass murderer and child rapist
Elizabeth Burgess, the "Grandmother", had been found out and
sentenced to death by the court, but not before outraged family
members and crowds had brought their own brand of justice on the woman.
They had looted her house, destroyed her precious possessions, and
then tortured her to death. It was said that the London police had
found something... interesting in the other side of the city, even though
cynics muttered that the police knew full well what would happen.
The dead woman, evil and consumed by her passions, had
been reborn into the Underworld as a Wraith, a being who now called
herself the "Grandmother." She would, in time, become the one of the
greatest assassins and spies the Giovanni vampire clan would possess.
And possess her they did, for they had one thing she couldn't live
without. Quite literally, enforced by Necromantic rituals. That object
was her fetter.
Her fetter, a fine China tea set, which lay nestled in the center
of the vault that Mackie and Thomas had just extracted. It was amply
guarded, by both the outercasing, and an extraordinary cushioning
system in the safe itself. On top of which, there were numerous magical
effects inscribed as glyphs on the inside of the safe that strengthened
the outer metal and was an inertia damper. Her sole remaining precious
thing from her collection of rarities, and her sole remaining tether to the
physical world, saving her from the darkness of Oblivion. She was the
one who had wreaked havoc on so many Sabbat efforts. She would
now pay the final price for her actions. As would her accomplice.
Rene brought the AI over, still nestled within the mainframe
casing. It was only a level 5 AI; the equivalent of a very dim human.
The Grandmother used the AI to communicate with the human world, as
taking posession of a body apparantly drained her, as did telekinetically
moving things. The AI had special Kirlian sensors, and a subroutine
which could interprete those signals. Thomas was now stripping those
sensors from the AI, and the outer casing.
<Hey, Boss, how's it going?> Rene broke in on the radio,
sounding eager.
<Not now Rene!> hissed Mackie as he slowly unscrewed the
cap of the first cylinder, then pulled the plug on the acid container.
Mackie quickly held away the silver device, as even the fumes could be
deadly. Carefully, slowly, Mackie began to pour the molecular acid onto
the safe.
<Ne, ne, Thomas! What is going on!> insisted Rene.
Anxious to divert the pestering of Mackie by Rene, Thomas
spoke into the radio. <Right now, I am removing the shell on the AI,
where I am going to put the thermite>, he explained.
<Oh, yeah!> Rene sounded enthused, <Tell me, AI, can you
fly little AI? Can you fly?>
<Shut up Rene!> commented Thomas as he broke through the
outer casing.
Mackie started on the second cylinder of molecular acid. The
armor on the safe looked pitted and melted, but it was still thick. (Well,
here goes another one), he thought, as he dumped yet more acid down
on the safe.
They worked as fast as possible, knowing time would soon
catch up with them. Thomas soon had the AI free, and with one swift
motion, shattered the CPU. That completed, he set up the next phase of
the plan, the plastic explosives that would serve once Mackie was done
with the acid.
<I'm done, boss>, Thomas informed Mackie, the small doughy
packets of solid explosives now in place.
<Understood. I am just finishing up the last of the acid>,
replied Mackie, as he continued to pour. Not much was left, yet there
was still so much armor left. He could only pray the acid had weakened
it enough. He couldn't pour too fast, as the acid would dribble down to
the floor, and that would blow their cover. As well as causing the floor
to weaken enough that they would be riding a elevator straight down.
Finally, the acid was done, and the last wisps of acrid smoke
began to disperse. The largest disadvantage of the synth-skin was the
loss of taste and smell. But that wasn't important in this op, so Mackie
didn't pay any attention to the fact, just as he ignored the cocktail of
nerve gases swirling about him. There was enough oxygen for their
work, so that wasn't much of a problem. Rather, Mackie was just
nervous. They were so close, and almost out of time.
<Is it cool, enough?> Thomas asked.
<Yeah, there is enough reaction>, Mackie replied, testing the
metal with a probe. <Start planting the explosives.>
Thomas did just that, wiring the entire setup to the transmitter,
while at the same time Mackie went around the room, picking up
anything that might incriminate them.
<Rene>, Mackie spoke under his breath.
<Here boss>, came the reply back, quickly.
<Rene, get ready to move. We are going to be coming up
quick. Set up the rest of Plan 4, and be ready to move. Everything
needs to stowed in bags for quick transport. Abandon spotter duties>,
Mackie commanded.
<On it>, Rene spoke, before he cut his link.
Mackie looked over at Thomas, handing the older vampire his
bundle of gear. Thomas took it, slinging it over shoulder.
<No need for stealth now. Is it wired?> Mackie asked.
Thomas held up the small remote, pushing the top button,
which started to glow green. On one side of the safe, and at locations
around the room, five other green lights winked on. <It's hot>
<Good>, Mackie nodded, before he cinched his rope to the
clinch. He held up his left arm at the billowing membrane, clearing the
ejector. <The decompression will be sudden. You ready?>
Thomas secured the trigger mechanism in a pouch, and
clinched his own rope. <Ready as I will ever be.>
Mackie nodded again, aiming for the center of the membrane.
This cartridge, unlike all the others, was only programmed for one large
and continuous spray. <Rene?>
<Ready!> he called out.
<Three, two, one, MARK!> Mackie cried, as he trigger the
wash of brown liquid.
Almost immediately, the effects were apparant. The membrane
seemed to just disintigrate, the difference in air pressure from the room
and the outside world accerbating the numerous holes that appeared.
With a startling suddeness, Mackie and Thomas were blown out nearly
fourteen meters from the side of building.
Shaking his head, trying to orient himself, Mackie saw the side
of the Tinsel City building he was heading towards with startling speed.
In his ears, Mackie could hear the voice of Thomas shouting <Bravo 3,
activate winches! You hear me, you Malkavian psycho!>
Mackie found his voice, <Rene, activate!>
Rene's voice came back, teasing, <What's the magic word?>
<Asshole!> Thomas shouted.
<Please!> Mackie barked.
Immediately, they began to ascend with startling speed, the
windows becoming a sheet of mirror brightness as they approached the
top. Their speed began to slow, as Rene said, <Now all you had to do
was saw 'please'.>
<I'll give you please, you fucking, pig-screwing, inbred, half-
ass cracker!> Thomas shouted.
Mackie just kept silent, but promised Rene a dressing down he
wouldn't forget.
Soon enough, they were at the top, and both Mackie and
Thomas pulled themselves up. Even before Thomas was free of his
harness, he was charging the Malkavian.
<Thomas, hold!> Mackie ordered, then repeated with more
force, <Thomas Jefferson Washington, stand down!> Mackie barked.
Thomas slowed to turn his glare on Mackie, felt if not seen
through the solid black goggles.
<We have to get packed> Mackie explained.
Thomas took one last look at Rene, before he started to
dissasemble the winches and outward rig. Rene hung back, before
Mackie barked out, <Rene! Get working on putting our stuff in the
duffels!> as he waved an arm towards the three huge army surplus
duffel bags.
<Yes, sir>, came Rene's subdued voice.
Mackie started to strip down, placing all his equipment in one
of the bags before he took a can of the synth-skin solvent, removing the
outer layer on his face and neck. With a quick wipe of a towel, he had
cleaned himself enough to putting on the bulky clothes Rene offered
him.
That done, running a hand through his wind-whipped hair,
Mackie releaved Thomas, jerking his head some the Assamite antitribu
could change as well.
While Thomas removed the synth-skin from his head and neck
and stored his gear, Mackie finished packing the winches and other
equipment in the duffel. Soon enough, Mackie had finished the task
started by Thomas. It was made considerably easier by the fact their
spidersilk ropes had a reactive compound in them. With one touch of a
catalyst stick, the ropes were transformed into a pile of oily ash. That
task done, Mackie looked over at Thomas and Rene to see Rene and
Thomas were getting dressed in their own pre-selected clothes. Soon
enough, Thomas came up to Mackie as Rene stored guns and held the
trigger.
Mackie was standing at the edge of the building, looking at the
last rope hanging there, the glass sections from the portal they had cut
out still hanging, stretched out, one after the other down the rope. The
small crane assembly Rene had constructed to support the glass
remained, though Rene had long since removed the winch and instead
tied the rope off on the crane.
<Sir, you ready to go?> Thomas asked, his voice ragged on the
wind, while at the same time the voice whispered in Mackie's earbug.
Mackie looked at the rope one last time, before he made a
choice. <Thomas, grab the nail gun, and an incenidary with the
pressure trigger.>
<Sir?> Thomas asked.
<Just do it>, Mackie ordered without looking at Thomas.
Thomas complied with his order, and came back with the small
grenade and the nail gun.
Mackie took the nail gun, set it to low power, then churned his
blood, drawing on his skill in Quietus just as Thomas was beginning to
speak.
<Respectfully sir, we shoul->, the rest lost as the Quietus took
effect.
Ignoring him, Mackie fired a spike in the edge, near where the
crane assembly was. Testing the spike, Mackie then began to untie the
rope on the crane, motioning for Thomas to take it. Thomas grabbed
the rope, his muscles and Potence straining to hold the weight as
Mackie systematically began to disassemble the crane assembly,
handing the pieces to a curious Rene who had approached. Rene
stored the pieces in the last duffel bag.
Motioning to Thomas, Mackie directed that he tie the rope off
on the spike Mackie had just imbedded in the stone. While Thomas
went about that, Mackie calmly pulled the pin to the 'Lil Devil flame
grenade, and set the spool under the rope that Thomas was tying off.
The overall effect was, when the rope was gone, the spool would flip,
and the grenade go off after the standard three second delay.
While Thomas and Rene just looked at their leader like he was
crazy, Mackie nodded to his two subordinates as he bent to grab one duffel
bag, before he headed for the elevator, his two subordinates following,
Rene's cloak of Obfuscate drawing about them as they followed, confused.
Mackie was beyond caring, for he was in the grasp of the
pleasures of Heaven. For the first time since they had begun, the
Changes hadn't been painful. He could feel it, like a tingling, along his
muscles. Deep within his bones. Resonating through his frame, like
some forgotten song only half-remembered in the subconcious, the last
cry of a banshee weeping and wailing. It was a good feeling, a change
for the first time, like re-discovering something that had always been
there for him. Like a parent waiting. Like a birthright being held for you.
Like coming home.
And for all the pain and changes the Changes had brought, the
only thing he had noticed this time was the strong tingling of his ears.
The sudden clarity of his vision.
And the sudden perfection of his mind, which had altered in a
way he would not understand until much later.
- - - - - - - -
She felt it from the moment her Precious was touched, from the
first moment the intruders had bumped it. At first she had thought it
was the Giovanni, once more returning to place more restrictions on her
through her Fetter.
But then she realized; why would they want to do that? She
was already investigating an incredibly sensitive subject, one most of
Genom was unaware of. Even the Giovanni were in the dark about it, for
the most part. Which is why she had been sent, their most trusted
agent.
She had spent months working on this project, as even to a
Wraith with her skills and experience, this one was a hard nut to crack.
She had just been making progress when she had felt her Fetter
threatened.
But then she had realized that the Giovanni would never take
such a risk. Adding additional ritual Necromancy to her Fetter would
briefly link her to her Fetter, which could be traced. They would not do
that. Not now. Not when she was so close to the elusive prize.
But now her Fetter was threatened, and Grandmother knew
strangers threatened her. So she took the only option available, and
abandoned her work, fleeing to the Tinsel City building, hoping to save
her existence. That was most important to her.
This OMS business could wait and be damned.
- - - - - - - -
The Black Hand shuffled into the elevator, one of those glass
models that offered a beautiful view of the city as it descended. It was
like being in the chariot of God, ascending to heaven, the small twinkle
of the city lights like the stars of the kingdom of eternity.
Thomas and Rene looked at each other as their commander, the
Power Mackie Stingray, fumbled in his bag, any speech they would use
silenced by their commander's Quietus. They instead paid attention to
what he was doing, as he pulled out Thomas' sword/longknife.
Which he unsheathed with lightning quickness, drawing the
blade and lunging forward, running Rene through.
The vampire had just a second to look incredulous at the
sword blade sticking in his chest, before his features twisted and he
threw out his back, howling in muted agony as Thomas looked on in
horror.
Mackie regarded the Malkavian evenly, as he twisted the
blade, increasing the agony. He saw the blood tears in Rene's eyes, and
knew his blow to be as painful as he hoped.
"I hope that got your attention", Mackie spoke, as his Quietus
dropped, and sound began to become apparant around him. Mackie
continued, "Since you are new to my style of command, this is only a
warning. I do not tolerate my commands being defied, or my operations
being endangered. Do so again, and I will teach you the meaning of the
word pain in a way that would make a Tzimisce wince. Make a grave
mistake a third time, and you will know Final Death."
Mackie twisted the blade a hair, not raising his voice at all,
"Understood?"
Rene looked as though he was about to complain, but then
saw something in Mackie's eyes that made genuine caution and fear
appear in his own. He merely nodded slowly, gasping slightly as
Mackie removed the blade.
"Good", was Mackie's only comment.
Thomas looked in shock at his commander. He had seen some
things, but seldom had he seen such cold blooded actions. Only the
most detached Tzimisce or a Lasombra would be that- of course, his CO
_was_ Lasombra, though it was easy to forget sometimes. But he was a
good XO, and he knew it was he duty to inform his CO if he found any
flaws in the command. Looking at Rene, who was clutching his side,
Thomas moved into Mackie's field of vision, intending to protest his
actions as being unnecessarily harsh.
And stopped, the words dying in his throat, as he saw what
Rene had seen. He just took a small step back, and moved to the side.
Mackie did not care. He did not care much about anything. It
was as if, in one perfect moment, all thoughts of conscience had
vanished into an ice cold winter's day. He knew not why, but he
luxurated in it. It just felt... right.
Thus, Mackie never noticed how his eyes had become flat orbs
of gray, seeming to burn with dark power as they tracked the 87th floor
as they elevator descended. How they seemed so cold. Impersonal.
As though they were windows to the soul, and there was nothing
behind them. For his eyes and mind screamed the ancient wisdom he
held, the forbidden knowledge he was aware of. Of the bleakness in his
eyes that was a mirror to himself.
Mackie held out one hand to Thomas, and it took Thomas only
a second to realize he wanted the detonator switch. Thomas slapped it
into Mackie's hand, and in spite of himself, both he and Rene leaned
forward to join their commander in looking at the 87th floor.
Narrowing his pupil-less eyes, Mackie briefly called on the
Blood-Shadow Link, allowing the power to increase his Thaumaturgical
expertise. With a sudden flare, his telekinesis jerked the small spike
from the concrete, sending the grenade, spike, rope, and hanging sheets
of glass falling.
They fell, gaining speed, and as the grenade started to explode
in a sheet of flame, the hurtling mass passed by the 87th floor.
Mackie's thumb pushed the button, turning it green, before he
flipped the cover on the bottom half of the device, stabbing for the red
button beneath.
A new star blossomed on the side of the 87th floor of Tinsel
City Building.
- - - - - - - -
She had just reached Tinsel City when she felt and saw it. The
sudden explosion. She screamed.
Thomas had become quite an expert in demoltions during his
tour of duty in Vietnam. He was skilled enough to set it up so that the
force of the plastic explosive he had set up would be directed at the
safe, great enough to shred even more armor from the outer shell.
And push the safe over the ledge it had been on.
The flaming mass almost caught the attention of those on the
ground, the angry orange of the napalm solution in the 'Lil Devil making
an amoebae-like blob of fire that burned bright enough to light up the
rooms it passed on the way down. Long before the deadly sheets of
glass began to fall, the people below had already abandoned the streets.
Not so the frantic and desperate Grandmother. Like a stooping
falcon, she swept down towards the falling safe that held the last of her
collection. Her Precious. Her last link to her old life.
Her last link to existence.
Beyond care, she brought every Arcanoi she knew to bear.
But all her Pandemonia, and all of her Outrage could not stop the falling
object. She could only watch as the ectoplasmic hands she hand
created splashed uselessly through the falling safe.
The safe impacted with awesome force. After all, kinetic
energy was equal to mass multiplied by the velocity of the falling object
squared. Thus, when the armored safe struck the comparitably soft
pavement, it burrowed like a mole into the grey mass.
But beneath the concrete of the ground level of Tinsel City,
beyond even the parking garage, were the monolithic foundations of the
immense edifice. These were solid, tough, made to withstand the titanic
forces that the hundred floor plus building brought to bear with the help
of gravity.
The safe struck with all that awesome force, it's armor already
having been eaten away by the acid, the explosion that had ejected the
safe from the 87th floor having done even more damage. This new
assault was simply too much, and the armor buckled. And with it the
precious cargo it held.
The sound of the shattering tea set was lost along with the
scream of the Grandmother admist the cacophony of noise generated by
the impact.
Though perhaps that was not true. Perhaps there was a brief
sigh of contentment from all those the vindictive and evil woman had
hurt. Perhaps their was a brief moment of joy in the agonized scream of
the Grandmother.
But if there was, it was lost as she was cast adrift, lost and
alone, as the Oblivion swallowed her.
- - - - - - - -
Yet there actually _was_ someone who watched the death of
the Grandmother. A being who stood, leaning against a building across
the street, his flesh the color and texture of the concrete behind him.
Nestled in his power of Obfuscate, he watched the Wraith die with a
contented sigh, letting the amulet drop to his chest, his vision returning
to the Skinlands, abandoning the black and white of the Deadlands.
His task complete, he stood and then leapt into the openess
below, before his wings bit the wind, and he was gone.
* * * * * * * *
In one of the seamier sections of MegaTokyo, several ghouls
and vampires sat and laughed on their motorbikes. They varied in
appearance, from the coarse features of the Gangrel leaning over the
handlebars of her bike, lightly furred breasts spilling out of the loose
blouse, to the immaculate leathers of the Lasombra pack leader, hair and
clothes making a careful balance of anarch punk and quiet power. There
were other vampires, two more, one a Serpent of Light and the other a
Tremere antitribu, your average drug-pushers in appearance, long khaki
trenchcoats swirling about. And there were the five ghouls, uniform in
appearance only in the assorted cast-offs the former gutter people
enjoyed, thinking the rags treasure and the vitae that coarsed through
their veins the finest gift ever. Most did not even mind the Blood Bond.
Compare to what they had once had, or more critically, _never_ had, the
loss of freedom was a small price to pay. Two of them were currently
shoving a savaged body behind a disposal vestibule.
Of course, having ghouls without proper consent of the
Archbishop was forbidden, but given the life expectancy of Sabbat
vampires, there was a lot of slap-dashing with the rules.
The leader, one particularily young boy no more than 15 years
in appearance named Touji, looked over at one of the pushers, "Hey
Kensuke, how much did we rake in tonight?"
The equally young Tremere antitribu, looked over at him, still
counting the cash in his hands as he absently pushed his square
glasses up the bridge of his nose. Kensuke turned to his friend and
muttered, "Only about ten, Touji!"
"Shit, what the fuck are we supposed to do with this?"
exclaimed Touji.
"Maybe we should just ditch the entire thing and go back to
the haven?" suggested the Serpent of Light, Hikari.
"I'm _bored_!" claimed Misato, the lounging Gangrel antitribu.
"Stuff it!" snapped Touji.
This was getting ridiculous. Touji was the leader of their pack
and he was barely six months in the grave, only 11th generation, and
here he was, the one supposed to make the decisions for his pack! He
had no idea what to do. The Sabbat had given them the barest of
training in being a vampire. And now they were supposed to fight the
enemies of the Sabbat. And how the Hell were they supposed to do
that? They were selling drugs like some damn mortals just so they
could afford the weapons to hurt Genom!
"Hey Touji, lets go drain some bums and have a little fun,
neh?" whispered Hikari, his girlfirend, pressing up against him.
He shrugged her off with thrust and a twist of his shoulders,
growling a little at her.
Hiraki hissed at Touji, her fangs extending, "Fine, enjoy
sleeping alone in the communal haven tonight!"
Touji ignored her. He still cared for her, but power had become
more and more important to him, her presence now only a close second.
But looking back, he wondered why he had allowed power to become so
important to him. He hadn't gained much.
Shifting his gaze over to Misato, he sourly remembered how
their former teacher had seduced and tricked them into becoming
vampires, becoming members of her pack. Which was now _his_ pack.
Which was a joke.
He was the fourth pack leader in as many months. The pack
had already gone through nearly thirty "recruits" in its history; he had
only been the latest leader in a string of individuals meeting with an
unfortunate fate. (Pack?) Touji snorted. Of the original pack, none
remained! Misato had been Embraced in the second wave of
recruitment. And even though the bitch was three years old as a
vampire, she wasn't pack leader. All she ever did when he brought up
the subject was to laugh and smile, saying "I'd rather not end up dead."
Touji was beginning to see the wisdom of that.
(What to do, what to do?) thought Touji, trying to rack his
brain in an attempt to come up with some solution. Was the Black Hand
Power correct? Was Genom really preparing for a purge of all
supernaturals not allied with Genom? He hoped not. Because, if so,
there was little he could do.
Well, he had to do something. Even though it violated the
laws of the Sabbat, he had defied the will of the Archbishop and created
nearly a dozen ghouls, Blood Bonding them to the group. They had
already paid off, both literally and figuratively. Now if only-
"What the FUCK!" cried out Kensuke and one of the ghouls.
Touji spun on the seat of his bike, looking at where everyone
else in his pack was staring.
In the alley they were currently staying, electrical currents were
beginning to play. But they were not the harsh jagged roughness of arc
lightning. No, these were more like lazy serpents of energy, hissing and
coiling about, sparks dancing, as though summoned by the aggitation
of the ophedian creatures. They began to form into a frenzy of motion
and energy, transforming into living lightning bolts. Just as suddenly, a
perfect sphere of inky blackness jumped into being, before vanishing
just as suddenly, arctic blue bolts of static electricity still playing about
in the sudden silence.
"What... what is this, Terminator 5?" quipped Kensuke, a little
uneasily, hand already moving for his gun.
"I don't-" Touji started forward, before he stopped at what he
saw before him.
The dust and refuse that had been kicked up by the sudden
anomaly was now beginning to disappate. In the last whisps of
wayward breezes, a new shape began to emerge.
It was apparantly a man, still seeming shrouded in darkness
now that the lightning that preceded the sphere was gone. Unlike the
movie Kensuke had just quoted, there was in fact a man, but not one
naked. Crouched down, the stranger looked like a pimple of the
concrete, his long trenchcoat hiding all features, the shapeless rock of
his body crowned with the mushroom that was the leather cowboy hat
he wore.
"What the fuck?" muttered Touji, not taking his eyes from the
figure. Definitely supernatural. Probably not Sabbat. And given almost
all supernaturals were enemies of the Sabbat, this was probably an
enemy.
"What should we do?" asked one of the ghouls, already
unlimbering the crude mass-produced, press-molded shotgun. It was
one of those cheap, blackmarket factory models, crude and mass-
produced until the factory was shut down. Perfect for gutter scum, and
even more often used by the vultures that preyed on the people who
did not yet realize they were dead to the world. The weapons would be
good for a few shots, just like the ghouls.
"Keep 'em hot", ordered Touji in a confident voice, never
taking his eyes off the intruder.
The ghouls unlimbered their weapons, the clacking of metal on
metal reassuring to Touji. Behind him, the other vampires in his pack
were getting hot as well. Touji had to restrain the urge to suddenly
drain and Embrace the ghouls, for added power. No time.
"Look sir, he's moving" one the ghouls called out, one who
would have been handsome but for the mismatch of teeth that were
arranged in his grin.
Touji backed away, behind the wall of ghouls moving up. The
stranger *was* indeed moving, his hands flexing and unflexing, as
though assuring himself they still worked. The wrists circled in lazy
motions.
"Hey you!" called out Touji, hoping to provoke a response.
One of the most important lessons that he had learned about being a
vampire was when to pick your fights. Especially after what his friend
Shinji had become- best not to think on that. He wasn't going to
become a hero for the Sabbat by dying. If they could talk their way
around this stranger, so much the better.
"Yeah, we're talking to you!" came Misato's voice, taunting.
This time, the stranger seemed to have heard. Like a cobra
uncoiling to flare its hood, like a wolf raising its hackles, like a man in a
strip club, the stranger rose to his full height, all in one smooth motion,
as though his body were disjointed, the bones not put together quite
right. At the end of that impossible movement, he stood and spun to
face the Sabbat pack with a suddeness that snapped the sound barrier
and caused wind gust to form around him, the trenchcoat just catching
up.
They stayed in that frozen tableau, the stranger five foot four
inches, the assembled pack with guns. The stranger seemed almost
unafraid as he stepped forward. A mistake.
*BLAM*
*BLAM*
*BLAM*
Touji's Colt Manhunter coughed three times, spitting out
lougenzes of lead at the intruder, the screams of their emergence into
the air calling from beyond the sound barrier. The stranger took it well,
moving an arm as though to shield himself.
"Stay back, and tell us who you are!" Touji cried out, a little
unnerved the man had made no grunt of pain. Those were rounds
designed to hurt someone pretty bad. Even if a supernatural-
"Holy shit!" moaned one of the ghouls.
The stranger was shaking his head, almost as if in
dissappointment, his hand mirroring the action. From that hand fell one,
then two, and finally the third of the slugs along with a little blood.
Touji felt his blood go cold. (No way, no fucking way!) No
matter what the movies said about vampires or werewolves or mages,
they *did not* go around catching bullets with their bare hands. A
mage would be fried from Paradox, and a werewolf would have gotten
the hand blown off before it regenerated. Which meant-
(Are you Sabbat?) came a dry, rasping voice, echoing through
his mind and the minds of his pack, like something out of a cheezy sci-fi
movie.
"Uhhh, yes?" answered Touji, who figured that if the man
could speak with his mind, he could probably read minds as well.
"Touji, you idiot, you never say that in the movies!" hissed
Kensuke.
Touji would have held his breath if he still breathed, his eyes
focussed on the being ahead of him, its head cocked as though it was
considering.
"Touji?", whispered Hikari, coming up behind him.
(Then-) spoke the voice in a dry tone again, head returning to
its normal upright position as it considered him passively.
Touji would have sighed in relief.
(*DIE!*) the voice roared.
"Great, just great. Next time, Touji, sometime someone asks
you if you are Sabbat, you say NO!" scorned Misato.
- - - - - - - -
Derek looked at the gathered Sabbat before him, his fears
confirmed, making him concerned. They were the only supernaturals
around for a few hundred feet, yet they had seen him, as evidenced by
their gunfire. (Hmmm... guns. Such interesting weapons.) He was still a
little disappointed in how weak the weapons were, despite the
assurances of his fellows that with many, they were effective against his
kind. His Lord had ordered him to be careful. He had been cautious.
No more. He would have to deal with them.
Deep within himself, he called to his inner heart, willing the
pain and the Change.
- - - - - - - -
Touji was more than a little scared. The fucker had just
grabbed several lead projectiles moving at hypersonic speeds from the
_air_. And at best, he looked disappointed! What was he supposed to
do? Still try to talk it out?
(Hell no!) he decided. "Everybody, Plan 9!" he called, his
voice distant to his ears, as though from outer space.
Everyone in the pack knew what that meant. One was not long
for unlife unless one had a plan, especially in MegaTokyo. Almost as
one, still disjointed because they did not yet have years of familiarity,
they drew weapons. Both Hikari and Kensuke stepped to the back of
the group, Kensuke's hands already beginning to glow, Hikari extending
fangs as she focussed her will on the stranger.
Touji himself focussed his will on the shadows in the alley,
calling arms from the abyss, the long tentacles of shadow stretching out
from the pools of night. It was almost reassuring to feel his birthright
return to his control and command. Ever since the incident with the
Black Hand commander, he had caught himself looking to shadows.
"What is THAT?!", cried out Misato.
Touji looked at the stranger in amazement.
The stranger was beginning to change.
- - - - - - - -
It started as it always did, slowly simmering under the surface
of memory and sensation. The smokey feel of the sheer power that
existed within him. Like a dragon barely chained, ready to break free
and devour.
It started with the bones. Always the bones. The hatred and
Rage seemed to suffuse them, as the osseus force shifted, moving like
molten lead, expanding and reforming. It was then the fine line between
ecstasy and agony blurred.
Within his dead frame, the hips expanded, the spine dropping
into a new posture as he grew larger and larger, at first in spurts, then
with a cracking of his frame.
With an inner fire, his muscles stretched and expanded,
seeming to burn like flaming rubber, before hardening to iron tenstile.
His clothes vanished, attuned, as his entire expanse of skin prickled,
thick tufts of oily black fur covering his body.
The knees reversed, becoming inversed, a chicken walker. He
now stood well over two and a half meters tall now, as his nose and jaw
extended into a muzzle and Derek growled as he finished the change to
Crinos, dropping to his haunches.
- - - - - - - -
"Stand ready" Touji barked, as some of the ghouls began to be
affected by the Delerium. One started to scream endlessly, the other
collapsing into a ball, weeping frantically.
Well then, they could deal with a sole Garou.
- - - - - - - -
Derek grinned, his lips pulling back as his fangs grew in size to
being the same size of those of the sabertooth tiger's canines. He was
just getting started.
He called on his Cainite heritage, his undead frame with it's
raging vitae. He felt it twist his frame anew, his Vicissitude changing his
form. His skin became even slicker with oil as his skin hardened, his
hands growing an additional two fingers each as a long row of spines
sprouted from his vertebrate.
His head distended, growing flatter, and his ears even more
tufted, as he assumed the horrid _zulo_ form of peasant myth.
- - - - - - - -
In a parody of a commander of a firing line, Touji raised his free
hand up to his jacket, to the heavy pistol, the Ares Predator, as he cried
out "Aim!" The ghouls and his pack did just that.
But was it him, or did that Garou suddenly grow a slick pelt?
- - - - - - - -
And now for the last.
Once, so long ago, he had been visited by a particular spirit,
one that had marked him, in exchange for a Gift it had taught him. Years
later, when the Bane had been critically wounded, it had fled to his form,
hoping to possess it.
Not aware of the fact he was now a Tzimisce childe. And when
it had entered him, it had found itself chained by the power of Caine's
blood. And not alone.
The Souleater and the Bane had warred over his soul, leaving
him free when they destroyed each other. Not that he could remember.
In addition to taking both of them from him, their war had taken all of his
memory and the burden of sins he had once known.
But it left one, final "gift" for him, which he called upon now.
It was unlike the others, as this was only pain, no pleasure.
Dark energies warping him as parts of his skin became chitinous plates.
As his ribs shivered and four nodules formed into oozing zits on his
back, he screamed, biting it back, as the nodules exploded outward, the
long projections like spider legs emerging, tipped with claws, making it
look as though an arachnid had merged with his back. He screamed,
whimpering as the extra two pairs of eyes burst out above and below his
normal pair. Hissing, he grew the Valeren third eye, bringing his ocular
total to seven. His blood literally burned as an angry red aura cloaked
him.
Fully changed, he looked at his foes, the darkness vanishing
as, via Protean, his eyes changed to become witnesses to the dark.
- - - - - - - -
"Fire?" Touji whispered, looking in true horror at the... *thing*
that stared back at him him with _seven_ glowing red eyes, spider legs
waving over its back, claws dripping black acid, mouth drooling green
poison. It seemed to gather itself. "FIRE!" Touji cried.
The monster came at them.
- - - - - - - -
Some have said that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Those people have obviously never met an Abomination-
Fomori, a creature that knew only rage and sorrow for the rejection its
mother, Gaia, gave it.
Such a being now charged the Sabbat pack.
- - - - - - - -
Derek's vision narrowed as time seemed to slow down. He
swiftly checked his options as the hammers on the guns began to
descend with painfully slow langiudness.
He watched as the clouds of smoke puffed from the barrels,
pushing forth the spinning pieces of lead, their passage warping the air
around them.
He made his decision.
And moved.
- - - - - - - -
The stranger vanished just as Touji pulled the trigger on his
gun. Desperately, his tentacles of darkness groped at empty air.
Frantically, he swung about, trying to target the monster that seemed to
have teleported behind his ghouls.
"Oh-", he began, never noticing the Quietus of the monster
had made all sound silence.
- - - - - - - -
From Derek's perspective, he had merely strolled over to the
ghouls before turning, coming at them with Rage and Celerity induced
speed. He felt a brief surge of pity, before he remembered his duty.
The claws rose and fell.
- - - - - - - -
Moving too fast to see, the Garou-monster literally turned the
ghouls to pieces no larger than coin-sized in a split second, his blows
seeming to be a hundred strikes at super-fast speed on a VCD.
"-fuck-", continued Touji, trying to turn about, blood flaring
into Celerity.
- - - - - - - -
The ghouls dead, his claws and fangs having gone through
them like a blade through water, Derek now turned to the vampires.
He leap at the two to the back, seemed frozen to his time
dilation of speed. His left paw swung out to take off the Tremere
antitribu's head, even as he spun midair and the blades on the tips of
two of his spindly appendages removed the head of the girl, his
gymnastics taking him to the furry female.
She seemed to be faster then the others, getting off one shot
that struck the plates that were now his skin, causing a brief flare of pain
and annoyance before skipping off.
Derek snarled as his hand plunged forward and deep into the
chest of the Gangrel, the acid burning the vampire's heart, the seat of all
Cainite vitae. He was just withdrawing his hand as she began to burn,
inside moving out.
- - - - - - - -
Touji saw Hikari and Kensuke die, heads flying though the air,
even as Mistao was burning. He only had an instant to feel sorrow and
grief before the air shimmered before him and the monster was there.
"-m-" he tried to finish, denied even that as he saw the world
spin about him. He wondered why, as the grayness set in suddenly.
No, it was only his head spinning. He had been decapitated. It was
over right now-
Blackness took him and whatever thoughts he had, remained
unknown.
- - - - - - - -
3.23 seconds had passed.
Derek felt time resume as the headless body of the Lasombra
collapsed before him. Suddenly, he was aware, more casually, of the
scents about him. The dead bodies.
As always he felt the stab of remorse, but he had a job to do.
But what to do? He couldn't leave the bodies here. Too many
questions might be raised or asked of the spirits of his defeated foes.
What then should he do?
Deciding quickly, Derek summoned a tiny spirit of fire, which
appeared, dancing in the alleyway, itself only a spark of light. But it was
enough, as he savagely kicked a motorcycle and shattered it in half,
leaving two pieces of twisted metal and an expanding pool of hydro-
carbon fuel.
Derek was already out of the alleyway, Obfuscated, in his
homid form, as the fire began. He had to find his contact.
- - - - - - - -
It didn't take long to find the handsome Eurasian. Just as he
had been told, he concentrated of *feeling* the Dai'Shar rather than
*finding* him. And withing minutes, he could feel the aura of the
vampire.
He couldn't trust him. At least, that is what he felt, even
though he knew it to be incorrect logically.
The vampire was going to kill him. Even though that was
extremely unlikely.
You couldn't trust him. Derek ignored that. After all, he had
had time to get used to the strange warrior vampires of the Five, and
their bizarre aura of hostility.
The vampire spotted him first, suddenly appearing in front of
him.
"You Derek?" asked the Dai'Shar, his eyes shifting about.
Derek realized he was Obfuscated just like himself.
"I am, if you are James Woodsworth", Derek agreed.
The vampire sighed in relief, and Derek was once again
fascinated with the idea of the Five, of living vampires. Ones who
breathed air, and whose hearts pumped blood. All cosmetic, he knew,
but still impressive.
"Thank God. Come on, we have to move to a safe location.
There is no way Genom will miss a Transport spike in Quintessence",
James said, his English sharply accented with British pronounciations.
Derek nodded, as they turned to leave.
"So, any problems?" asked James.
Derek looked back at from whence he had came. "Nah", he
muttered, turning back to James, "no problems. I just stumbled on some
trash."
Together, the two Conclave vampires turned to the street,
keeping Obfuscated as they went, becoming unseen to all except other
hunters such as themselves.
And as they walk, Derek looked to the horizon, to the East,
where no doubt his lord and his fellow were just beginning to sleep.
(Fear not, my Lord), thought Derek, as he no longer used the
name he had been given centuries ago, before the long sleep, (I shall
not fail you, nor shall I fail you, my brothers and sisters. I will succeed
in this. For us. For the Ethereal.)
And into the welcome embrace of obscurity they went, as
Derek and his kin had done for millenia.
End Part 7b of Night Sabers, the second section of Part 7.
All comments and criticisms are welcome. In fact, I enjoy them. Please
respond to Curtiss Nelson, curtiss@seattleu.edu. Please also be aware
that this account may soon be closing, and if your message should bounce,
please be patient and wait until I post my new address on the FFML, with
another story.
Sorry about the potential confusion.
As to the promised character sheet; sorry, not this section. Perhaps the
next.
Curtiss Nelson
curtiss@seattleu.edu