Detroit Musings
The road is never what is seems, and I never seem to wind up where I think I'm going. Travel as a Naga Raja sucks. I hate having to find dead bodies on the road. The meat is always tied to trouble, and there is never time to do a meal justice. I know I will never be a Chef...but I hate gulping bloody flesh like some damn barbaric werewolf.
Not to mention the new personality in my head. Fuck I hate that. Especially a backwards ass Confederate redneck. I thought Son was bad (he was), but Sheriff is an absolute moron. The only thing that kept him from wandering out in the sun one day was his lack of humanity driving him to die before the sun came up. The only upside to his personality is that I can rifle through his memories occasionally to find things out about Chicago...not that he knows much Son didn't, except for things that have happened in the last ten years. Alexis Leblanc must have been really desperate to embrace such an idiot.
That thought leads me to watching my own new Child. She is so sweet and innocent, and here I have her tied up with the Sabbat in the cesspool that is Detroit. I love her like my daughter...and that's just weird, it must be the vaulderie influencing my emotions. That embrace is a weight on my conscience. All I can hope is that I can teach her some tools that will help her not become a complete heathen like the Forsaken.
The fucking Forsaken. What a cluster fuck in cheap suits. It's no wonder that the Sabbat wanted these miscreants to stay in Chicago, out of sight out of mind. I don't think there's a useful part of them or operational intelligence at any level. At best they are shock troops, at worst they are a traveling circus house of clowns.
Cameron is a stooge. He is wrapped up in the idea that he is some sort of leader. He leads Jack and shit, and Jack left town. Bill laughs behind his hand at Cameron, and only complies with his wishes when it would be either fun (which means killing/maiming/tearing things up) or somebody with a brain is watching. Samson likes Cameron and follows him...but I think Samson would follow a German shepherd that barked in a conversational pattern. The shovel heads don't know any better, but I notice that they are listening more to their collective Sires than Cameron. It has also not escaped my notice that Bill seems to be pushing me toward a Monomacy clash with Cameron. I am pretty sure I could kill him, but I don't think it is worth it. That's Cameron I mean...Bill might be something else.
Bill Butler...that creature is more than he lets on. Bill seems to push the others to darker and darker behavior, all the while not really doing much himself. He doesn't seem to have any skills at necromancy like myself, but he definitely at times feels like he is working ritual magic when I'm not looking. I am not sure why my gut tells me that, but it does. His childers behavior when it comes to him is also very disturbing.
Samson is a blood bath waiting to happen. Did I mention that Samson is simple? If there was ever a bad stereotype of a muscle head Samson is it. The problem is he has all the empathy of a blender. Samson needs a keeper, and or someone to teach him some Path of Enlightenment before he goes wight and we have to hunt him down.
I guess fame has it's benefits. The Androgyny has invited us into it's home, which is both refreshing and terrifying.
The Sons of Santos
Awakening in the utter darkness that is the basement below the former church Club Ishtar came in the moment when my tortured brain had been revisiting the sweating hellish darkness of the Cambodian pit. While my skin was cool, I was covered in a thin sheen of blood, my sheets sticky with the "sweat" of the undead, the curling hunger in my gut a slightly angry pit bull in a cage. I reflexively swung up, the hellish speed I had acquired coming into play, knowing that motion released means freedom...of a sort. I nearly gasped for air, though my dead lungs did not need it. If my heart beat, it would have pounded.
My Hell has already been visited, and now I carry it with me. My Hell would be that moment of awakening in a pit covered in dirt, guts, blood, and not being able to move. Somewhere not in my head but definitely not outside my consciousness I heard "I never buried anyone alive...that would have been fiiine." in a silky cold southern drawl. My will snapped into place, and I pushed that sadistic prick Balthazar out of my head. I hadn't digested his soul yet...so I needed to keep him out.
I never reached for a light, my senses became sharper, the plush of the carpet showing indentations of past footsteps. I could smell the barely clean water that came out of Detroit's taps. I smelled the tangy, metal smell of the bloody flesh in the pan nearby. I had packed the arm in ice, but now it was cool water, wrapped around in plastic. Most people think that the plastic will cover the smell of flesh, but it only adds a chemical grit to the coppery, buttery odor as the flesh begins to slowly decompose. My snarling hunger wanted to feast, my meat teeth threatening to push into my gums. The whole room stank of light mold and the musky smell that the occasional rat and mouse left behind.
I could still smell the fetid stench of the other vampires who had come to visit me in the last hour before dawn. Vampires smell like the coppery fugue of fresh blood, yet hanging with the rot of what they had consumed. On top of that was also that earthy smell of the first days decomposition. But vampires never rot right? Not so. That first day of death never goes away, and no matter what else they do, they always smell of the grave, of the death of their own body. I no longer noticed my own stench but any time I got close to other vampires, I could smell it, especially when my hunting senses are in effect. Lacreche in particular smells of some ionization, almost like he has been standing high out on the wing of an airplane at thirty thousand feet. I notice the smell mostly on those who use a lot of vicissitude, perhaps soon I too will carry that scent.
Lacreche wants the Forsaken to tell some drug dealers that they have failed to pay their due to Moneyshot, the pack that owns Club Ishtar. It (because I am not sure what sex is appropriate with that creature) is so sly about everything, I keep checking my pants to see if they are hanging open whenever I am near it. It smiles, and I feel like the fantasy meat in a strip club. While I know Lacreche doesn't want to anger me...It seems content to see what pulling my strings provides. You would think that such a predator would know it could wind up missing pieces doing that with me, but perhaps not. Many of the elders look down on me because I am so young. Though with my success's in Chicago and New York, several are watching me more carefully.
I shake those thoughts loose and take a shower. I never turn on a light, enjoying the soft solitude that the darkness gives me. In the dark I can still think of myself as more human, more normal. My heart aches, I loved showering with Susan. She was a joy under the water, her warm, satiny skin shining in the light. We often never made it out of the spray before making love, satisfying our lust as the heat ran out. Then we would kiss and touch as we prepared for our day...that is the stuff of humanity. The warm brush of sweet lips to your own, the musky freshness of your brides wet hair mingling with the shampoo. Her voice the pleasant tinkling of bells in your ears, the salve on whatever saddness's you might have in the day ahead. I whisper her name, softly, knowing that too strong an invocation would bring her shade to my side. I can never be too lax, my dead are altogether too near at hand.
Drying myself I finally bow to necessity. Turning my senses down I flip on the light. While I can tell the make up of a shirt or pants in the dark...I can't really tell what color they might be. I dressed casually in jeans and a button up shirt of a dark polyester rayon material. Satisfied I belt on my gun and secrete cutting implements around my body. I never know when fresh flesh is handy. While I have teeth that can tear off chunks, the fastidious chef in me longs for good cuts, for a well set spread to go with my pound of flesh. Which brought my hunger back, so I ate the meat I had put by last night. My meat teeth pushed down into my mouth, filling it with razor sharp blades, designed to make the meat I consumed small enough to swallow. I used my knives to cut strips, savoring each bite. It was cold, and had started to pass through rigor mortis into real decomposition. Not awful, but a long way from the freshness I craved. More like day old hamburger. The flesh filled the Void in my stomach, and now only my craving for blood haunted me.
Washing my face after eating I glanced in the mirror once more. My face was cleanly shaved, my hair rough cut but passable. While I can shave, I haven't mastered barbering my hair and the last hair cut I had before my change was in prison, at the hands of a man who was on death row with me. Ghosts swam at the edges of my vision, and for now I didn't care to know whose, mine or the dead of this place. My sense of the Other Side is stronger under the earth, but I have learned enough control to be able to choose when they bother me. For the millionth time I cursed the bastard who made me this way, hungry for flesh and blood, and stuck seeing those who had died both those I consumed both before and after my passing, he must have really hated me. At least mortals seemed to pass through me quickly, and if I didn't hold the shade would fade in a few days. Vampires seem to live on forever when you consume them hence Balthazar lounging in the back of my head.
I walked upstairs into the horny wail of saxophone laced jazz. Cigarette and pot smoke, beer, and a riot of other alcohol smells assaulted my nostrils. There was the pervasive cloying smell of the sweet living humans here. My brain saw them as people. A sexy, blond woman with long legs. A well built black man holding a giggling oriental woman. A white yuppie couple wide eyed and shocked at the decadent setting of Club Ishtar. Under it all the rank, moldy smell of vampires, like snakes in a hole. My senses saw: Food, Food, Food, and competition for food. I growled to myself and walked toward the front, squashing those urges under a metaphorical boot looking for my pack.
In a group stood my pack. The most obvious is the hulking mass of Samson, his blond hair cut into a flat table. Samson is huge. Pure muscle and fists. His face is blocky and hard, looking very much like it was chiseled out of pale, angry stone. He was pretty nasty as a human, and he has lost most of what kindness he had since then.
Next to him is the whip thin form of Bill Butler. Bill is tall, and smokes his cigarettes between his forefinger and thumb. His eyes are golden, with irises shaped like those of a cat. Tonight he was in his "best duds". He looked sharp, and I could see him looking sharply around him tasting the crowd. Bill sees himself as a good vampire. He treats his pack with some respect, kills when he feels like it, and has no love for the kine he touches. There is something else that's off about him, but as yet I don't know what that is, being close to him is like wearing a shirt that has too much starch, everything looks fine but it chafes.
My dead heart ached. I could see the four neonates we had taken all dancing in the crowd, having a good time. None of them seemed to be anything other than carefree teens. I was feeling very protective and compassionate about these four. They were here because of me. Because of the play I made in Chicago to kill that bitch Malkavian, these four had been embraced. Damn it, no matter what I did I seemed to accumulate collateral damage. The more I tried to distance those I care about the more I draw others into my personal tornado of death and destruction. Calla, Kizzie, Erik, and Thom were just college kids out for a good time before we made them shovel heads. In my minds eye Calla seemed to have a lot in common with my daughter Catherine. I suspected it was because of my recent absorption of that damn Ventrue, but I was having a hard time keeping them apart in my mind.
I approached the table where Bill and Samson stood together. They eyed me for a moment, Samson raising his pint of blood-beer to me. Both were warm, they had fed on someone recently. Bill was even slightly flushed, so I figured whoever he had drank from had been inebriated. We stood together companionably for a moment, a pocket of stillness in the sea of writhing humanity.
"The Androgyn wants us to put some fear into a gang that serves him. I thought it might give out neonates another chance to flex their abilities and learn a little." I said to Bill. He smiled a broad smile and took a long drag off of his cigarette. His golden eyes reflected the bouncing lights of the room, and for a brief moment the cherry on his cigarette lit them with a red glow, giving him a maleficent appearance.
"Sounds like a good way to start the party. Any chance we can borrow a car to go talk to these swinging hipsters?" Bill asked, smoke drifting up around his face.
"Yeah, the Androgyn was going to have his priest get us the keys." I responded.
"Duabntxoo? She seems to be an intense one. Would be fun to see her Fire Dance." Bill glanced around, looking for the little Vietnamese woman.
"Whatever. I don't care as long as she doesn't hold us up too long. I hate waiting." I said, feeling the shift of the room. Like an ice breaker moving through a sea of ice, Duabntxoo sauntered towards us. Her straight raven black hair reflecting the lights as they touched her. She seemed to almost float above the floor, the shifting dancers seeming to move away from her as she passed, never seeing her. In fact as I watcher her shadow seemed to flicker and flow, caressing this man, shoving that woman, making a path for the Vietnamese vampire. She tossed the keys to me underhanded at eight feet. The jangling keys sliced at my face, and only my preternatural speed allowed me to catch them before they would have hit my eyes.
"Thank you Priestess." I said with a giant grin. "We are anxious to help our hosts with this small favor. It will be good to keep our young learning."
She was non-plussed. I could see she caught the veiled reference to boons. Her dark eyes flicked around me. She hid it well, but I could see she was irritated that I had been fast enough to catch the keys. Her tells were small, but I could see them. The Slant had decided she didn't like me. Was I a threat to her in some way? Or was she just naturally this much of a pain in the ass?
"We will let you know how it goes. Now if you will excuse us Milady?" I said brightly. I bowed to her quickly and all of us faded towards the front door, Samson and Bill gathering in the shovel heads as we moved away. Calla glanced at me, I nodded slightly, moving my eyes from hers to the front door. She understood I wanted us all together.
Outside of the club was a flashing mix of red neon and white strobes. Ganja and cigarette smoke rolled from the line of kids waiting to get into the hip club. Whites, blacks, and Latino's waited in line, only surly comments about each other, for a few minutes in line brought together in one great melting pot. The moist Detroit night harbored the smells of rot from the river, and decades of cars and trucks. From the building the pulse of techno music, but also the cheering roar of a crowd well frenzied in alcohol and dance. In the distance there were sirens and the occasional honk of a distant horn.
The Building
A dark SUV idled at the curb, it's driver getting out as Samson approached. They exchanged glances, and the Forsaken piled into the Tundra. Even though there were seven of us, there was plenty of room. Leather seats and a high end stereo greeted us. I could tell an effort had been made to get us the top of the years tech from the owner.
Samson drove us through the mostly dark city. I was appalled at the level of abandonment and war torn appearance of the the city of Detroit. Burned out buildings and blackened hulks of cars lined the streets. People were few and far between, other than in small well lit enclaves. This is what happens when the Sabbat controls a city for years.
We pulled up in a mostly empty parking lot. Only two overhead lights burned our of 9, leaving our Tundra in deep twilight. As a group we moved out down the block, reaching the building we were searching for in just a few minutes. A high chain link fence surrounded it, and I could see an open roll up door at ground floor. Light poured out, pushing back the deep Detroit black that enveloped the rest of the block. I sent my senses out into the night, smelling the wind. I could smell canines, drug chemicals, and the stank of dirty humans. I checked all around looking for the best way in. Grabbing the fence at the ground and pulled, tearing the fence loose, so that everyone could scramble under. We broke up into two groups, Myself, Calla, and Erik. Bill, Samson, and Thom were the other group. We decided my group would go in the top of the building, while Bill and company would hit the bottom. Our hope being that the gangsters would be too split to stop us.
"I bet we get to the Boss first." Bill challenged, his grin full of fang.
"Bullshit. My group will get to him first. No killing, dead gangsters don't pay tithes." I reminded Bill, I saw him and Samson exchange a heavy glance. "Good luck!" I said.
I took my team and we ran toward the building. I made myself invisible to mortals. Calla was working on the skill, and poor Erik might never learn. I made it to the wall well ahead of the others, my experience and power making me much faster than the neonates. I jumped, grabbing the fire ladder and pulled myself up. We swarmed up the ladders, as quietly as possible.
At the top I found a man just pointing his rifle over the edge at us. I doubt he saw me. I hit him at full speed. I am strong, and my experience and speed make me fairly unstoppable by mortals. As the unconscious man fell, I caught his rifle in my hands, not letting it fall to the roof top. On the ground I could hear dogs barking, howling as they smelled the other team. I grinned, damn I hate dogs as security. That goof ball Bill could deal with them. I saw the first, largest dog hit Bill and take him down. They were making a lot of noise, which I don't like. With a sigh I stretched out on the roof, laying the gun in front of me.
The gun was a Heckler & Koch 417. I was surprised to see the battle rifle here, this is some fairly heavy shit for a bunch of nobody gangsters. I dropped the bipod down, steadying the rifle and focused in on the dog. The advantage of being dead is that I don't have to feel my heart beat and shoot between the beats. My non-breathing, non-pulsing body is already as steady as a machine. I clicked the set trigger, then squeezed the fire trigger. The heavy rifle bucked and the recoil was real. This was a gun with a kick. The dog squealed, and dropped dead. I saw Bill throw him off.
Samson was still on his feet, but two of the Rottweilers had him, one at his leg, the other on the right arm. Between the two they were keeping the big Ventrue spinning in slow circles as he fought them. I could see from the roundness in his eyes he was near frenzy. I tripped the set trigger and squeezed off the second round. The dog on his arm dropped dead like a stone, a huge chunk of his chest spraying out the other side.
Thom, like Bill, was on the ground doing his level best to keep a hundred pounds of snarling canine from ripping his throat out. Because of the angle this was a trickier shot. If I missed or the bullet passed through the dog wrong I would injure Thom badly. I changed my angle and tripped the set trigger. When the dog thrashed sideways away from Thom I put a bullet into it's back. I didn't kill the dog, but I made sure it was paralyzed from the rib-cage back. The dog howled and fell over, snapping at the wound in its side. Thom rolled away, and I put a round in the dogs head.
I stood, leaving the rifle on the rooftop. I turned instead to the skylight that had been behind me. Calla and Erik stayed at the roofs edge watching the other group. Three rounds would bring those inside down stairs to see what the Hell the sniper was shooting at. I should have left my other team to their own devices, but I have too much heart for that.
While there was a door to the inside up here on the roof. I wasn't going to use it. Once the bad guys figured out shit had gone sideways that staircase would be nice funnel for bullets. I looked at the skylight and determined it was old and weak like the rest of the roof. I called Calla and Erik over. We could see three guys doing something at a table inside. They seemed very twitchy and nervous. Huh, gunfire will do that to everyone.
At my signal we all dropped into the skylight, I landed smoothly. Calla and Erik made more of shit show of it, but they were unhurt which was good. My two compatriots took wing me, I took the guy in the middle. He looked at me, his eyes big. He was screwed the instant we made eye contact.
I sent my will out in a wave, saying "Drop the gun!" With a clatter it dropped from his nervless fingers. Calla and Erik laid their opponents down easy. I said as I kept our gaze locked "You are my friend. You know I would never do anything to hurt you. You know I can be trusted completely." He nodded dreamily, and I felt what little willpower he had against me crumple and melt like plastic in a fire.
"What's your name friend?" I asked him.
"Toma Santos" He replied, his face in rapturous awe.
"Well then Toma, how many of you are there in the building?" I asked in a soothing voice.
"There are six of us here. Who are you? I need to tell Jack that you are our friend and mean us no harm." He said, his eyes pleading. My gut sank.
"Is he going to warn somebody?" I asked
"Yeah man, he was going to tell Martin you had attacked us. He was down the hall, I am sure he has run to Martin already." Toma said.
"Is there anyone else on this floor?" I asked, moving toward him.
"Naw, it was just the four of us up here. Jack went to take a shit just before you came crashing in." Toma told me, anxious to please.
"Okay my friends are going to tie up your friends so they don't get themselves hurt." I told Toma, nodding to my neonates. They quickly tied up the two gangsters, stripping them of guns and knives while they worked. Toma and I started towards the hall, my arm around him treating him like a long lost friend.
"We been skimming our pay to Lucrèce, so Martin was real nervous here lately. He has been doing all kinds of stuff to beef up our protection. But you guys just waltzed right in." Toma told me as we walked, I looked back, Call and Erik were coming behind me. I sent Toma ahead to clear the way, I didn't want to run into a fusillade of gunfire going down the stairs. When I could hear him talking to the guys downstairs I started down.
"See guys he's here to help us." Toma was saying. He wore a big, happy smile on his face, a Judas goat if there ever was one. I concentrated and sent out an aura of kindness and gentility, trying to allay any fears they had. I saw it hit them, and they visibly relaxed. I then tapped them both on the temple with my head knocker, laying them out before they could get any fresh ideas.
Toma then lead me down the hall to an old office, where a hugely muscled, six foot tall man was coming from behind his desk with a loaded pistol in his hand. I used Toma for a shield and a shooting stand, balancing my arm on his shoulder, looking the big man in the eyes. Before I could take advantage he dropped his eyes, looking at Toma's chest and not my face. Curious.
"You should put the gun down, I'm not here to kill you, just send you a message." He glanced up, but avoided my eyes.
"You are from Lucrèce?" He asked, his shoulders slumping.
"Yes. I am a friend of his." I shoved Toma straight into him, knocking them both down. 'Martin' as Toma called him recovered quickly, but not before I had put my Glock to his temple.
Bill and Samson stormed in behind me, cursing loudly that they were second. I grinned but never took my eyes off Martin. Toma was picking himself up. "Sorry sir, not sure what I tripped on there. I sure was lucky Martin was there to break my fall."
