***Hello persons!***
Though late, as usual, I have once more returned with another part of
Night Sabers, Part 7c! And as usual, it is very long, nearly 200K. What
can I say? I take forever to write 'fics, but I also write forever, thus
they are long!
Like I said in the previous paragraph, I do take quite a while, so I must
apologize to those who waited patiently for this fic. I also wish to thank
the readers of my other fic, "It's A Kind of Magic: Dark Powers Saga"
for their patience. They have been waiting quite a while, so I just want
to take the time to explain why I have been taking so long. Due to the
overwhelming response and approval, I have decided to work extra hard
on making Chapter Two of "It's A Kind of Magic" special. I am also
trying to integrate the comments of the readers into the fabric of the
story. To everyone who wrote me: Thank you, and I apologize if I did
not write you back. After the posting of this fic, I will dedicate my
efforts to finishing the second chapter of "It's A Kind of Magic." I will
also be posting teasers. I hope to have the second chapter done soon,
but "soon", for me, is a relative term that can mean from 3 days to three
months. Sorry about that.
As usual, this is rough, probably with numerous speeeling and, gramar-type
errrors, but O well. :) I had to get _something_ out.
Before anything else, I would like to thank:
The Apprentice (who helps me look a little less incompetent :)
Elsa Bibat (Get well soon, OK?)
for pre-reading, as well as Piter ZHP, JD Farber, skywise skychan?,
Micah Potasnik, Jusenkyo Guide, and everyone else who wrote me, or
read Night Sabers. Thank you!
Second, there are a number of cameo appearances in Night Sabers, some
subtle, others blatant. Did you catch those in Night Sabers Part 7b?
Some of them were:
-In the opening scene, Rene and Thomas are sitting, waiting for Mackie
to arrive. Rene's attitude and actions with the bottle are directly taken
from one of my favorite villains, Dilandou Albatou, from Escaflowne,
specifically episodes 6 and 7. (Medium).
-Rene is dressed like a Anne Rice vampire, specifically Lestat.
(Easy/Med).
-Alfonso Giovanni mentions "income tax evasion" as being the slayer of
great men. These words, and the fact Mr. Giovanni is Italian, hint at the
means by which infamous mobster Al Capone was imprisoned.
(Easy/Med).
-Natsume, the cop who kept trying to ticket Alfonso Giovanni, is a
reference to one of the main characters from Your Under Arrest! (Med.).
-"55 saves lives" is, for all of you living outside the United States, was
the catchphrase for an old anti-speeding campaign in the US. (Easy).
-When Rene and Thomas are chasing down Simon Gerard, Rene is
playing Wagners "Ride of the Valkyries". This is a tribute to
Apocalypse Now (Easy/Med).
-Monowire, the thing used to decapitate Simon Gerard, can be found in
any decent science fiction show. (Easy.)
-Desert Wars 7, mentioned in the weapons the Black Hand uses, are
from the RPG Shadowrun. (Med.)
-Captain ADP merchandising, like the toys Coarse brings for Kendra
Rosencrantz, are another reference to the TV show Captain ADP and
the Police Rangers, itself a parody of bad sentai. (Med.)
-Kendra's family are the Rosencrantz's. This is somewhat of an in-joke,
as in the new BGC TV show, Bubblegum Crisis: MegaTokyo 2040,
Quincy is named Quincy Rosencrantz. (Med/Hard).
-The Griffin sports car Coarse spots as a chimerical illusion is the same
type of vehicle J. B. Gibson uses as the vessel of his revenge in BGC
OAV Eps. 4: Revenge Road. (Easy)
-The Kuno Botanical Gardens and the Orcas in the vast inland tanks are
a tribute to Kodachi Kuno of Ranma 1/2. (Easy).
-Likewise, Tatewaki Kuno and Sasuke, his servant, are from Ranma 1/2.
(You're joking, right?)
-Yes, Linna's maternal grandparents are Ranma and Akane, from Ranma
1/2. (....)
-That Mrs. Kuno turned into a Kuei-jin vampire is just my attempt to
explain how the Kuno family became so unbalanced.
-The ganger that Toshiro spots in Ginko mall is a Halloweener, a gang
from the RPG Shadowrun. (Med).
-Synthskin, a malleable,spray-on artificial respiration and environmental
sealant suit that the Black Hand frequently uses, is from the miniature
game Warhammer 40,000, and is used by Imperial Assassins. (Hard).
-Bob and Doug MacKenzie, who Rene and Thomas pretend to be, and
Rene has a personality of, are from the skit about two funny Canadians
first aired on Saturday Night Live, later made into the movie Strange
Brew, itself a parody of Hamlet, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are
Dead. (Med/Hard).
-The Deficator 3000; sorry, I couldn't help myself from taking a jab at the
odd fascination the Japanese have with toilets, and improving them.
You may think it a joke, but there really *are* toilets in Japan like this,
though nowhere near as advanced.
-When Rene gets a wad of gum stuck in his throat, pulls it out, and
comments that he has had "a bubblegum crisis", this is the author
punning the title of the Bubblegum Crisis anime. (Duh!).
-Touji, Kensuke, Hikari, and Misato, from the Sabbat pack that Derek
the Abomination-Fomori of the Ethereal massacres, are also all from
Neon Genesis Evangelion. (Easy).
-Kensuke quotes it, so it shouldn't be hard to figure out that Derek's
arrival in MegaTokyo is exactly like the temporal translocation that the
Terminator from the Terminator series uses to travel through time.
(Easy).
-When Touji orders his pack to use "Plan 9!", this is a hint at Ed
Wood's feature, "Plan 9 from Outer Space", the worst movie ever made.
This is also a bit of foreshadowing by the author, hinting that Touji's
pack's chances for survival are about as great as one of Mr. Wood's
films. (Med/Hard.)
Third, a bit of a warning. Night Sabers is not for the faint of heart, or
people expecting a WAFF fic. Expect some [Dark] tones, with the
occasional [Lime] or even [Lemon].
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!
I have also included a rough character sheet of one of the charcters in
Night Sabers, suitable for use in a White Wolf game, as a couple of people
made requests for stuff like this a while ago. Should I dump this
feature, or continue it?
Okay, okay, enough of me talking, on with the 'fic!
Night Sabers Part 7c
Written by Me (aka Curtiss Nelson)
"Ashes, ashes, we all fall down"
Something was not quite right in a certain part of MegaTokyo.
Perhaps it was the weather, for it was a little chilly, an odd contrast to
much of the city still languishing under the heat turgid in the concrete,
left by the solar carress of illuminate radiation. Perhaps instead it was
the lack of violence or newsworthy events, the kind of time loathed by
both the average citizen watching trideo or television, and by the media
personnel. The latter, as usual, responded to the announcement of
poorer ratings by descending into an abrasive, drug-laced, alcohol
intoxicated frenzy of "motivational techniques". Most people,
exhausted from a long day, simply went to sleep. Yet perhaps it was
just how... quiet it was, merely a few blocks from one of the busiest
places in MegaTokyo, the ADPolice building.
The usual bustle of MegaTokyo life seemed to have fled like a
startled doe from the intrusion of an unknown into the forest of
possibilities, leaving a small sector in the formatted electro-magnetic
disk of MegaTokyo life alone for a time. The fateful electronic reader
would return, of course, intent on reading or writing the fates of those
who happened to be there. But not here. Not now. At least, not
significantly, but for two individuals, it was as if the Fates themselves
were looking down at what would be the catalyst.
On a rickety stool made from genuine wood, Sylia Stingray sat,
looking like nothing more than a businesswoman taking a load off of her
shoulders by getting something to eat at a local eating establishment.
Except, seldom was a businesswoman dressed so finely, or when
dressed so, located in a district like the one Sylia was in.
It was chilly and despite the cloak drapped around her
shoulders, Sylia felt a little cold. The dress she wore, obscured by the
fabric around her shoulders, was insulated, but not nearly enough
protection from the elements. Huddling a little more, refusing for the
third time the offer of service from the polite middle-aged woman and
her younger husband, Sylia waited, even as indecision and uncertainty
began to worm into her confidence. Resu had said 2000 hours, and she
had arrived at 2002 hours, a few minutes later. Glancing at her watch,
Sylia confirmed it was 2011. Resu was clearly late. She hoped that
hadn't spooked him, but it seemed unlikely, given how Resu was. He
had also been late in their on-line meeting. More intuition, but it told
her that Resu was not the type to be spooked by something so minor.
No, she felt sure that he would be here.
Sylia wasn't sure if she wanted him to show up, or never
appear at all.
The atmosphere of the area was suddenly shattered, subtly, as
a sound began. A rhythmic tapping, a slight sound, just out of ones
hearing, but still recognizable as being there.
With a suddeness that would have been startling had anyone
been watching, a figure appeared, walking forward with a smooth and
easy step. No one noticed the arrival of this man, but as he walked
forward, every eye who saw him became aware of who it was that had
stepped into their sight.
He seemed as a corporate prince, dressed in a respectable dark
gray overcoat, with a subdued red scarf wrapped around his throat. He
wasn't particularily handsome, though more than a few would call the
slightly tousled hair cute. And his face did have the solid lines of a
person of Eastern European descent. But it was more than that, more
than the clothes or appearance of the man that had the investigator from
the Watchful Eye Detective Agency turn her camera to the man, only to
find it was malfunctioning.
It was the power. The sheer authority and sureness that
radiated from the man, as though he owned the entire street he walked
across, with confidence and aura of power that only people like Genom
executives, heads of state of foreign nations, or five year old children
possessed. It marked such people.
Sylia heard the measured pace, heard the impact of the shoes
on concrete becoming more and more audible, the sound reaching her
ears with the finality of the executioner raising the axe. She knew,
somehow she knew, that this was Resu, whoever he might truly be. She
saw the cook, Urameshi Keiko, suddenly gasp, as her eyes were rivetted
to some point over Sylia's head. She saw the young man, Urameshi
Yuusuke, stop, glaring with an appraising glance. At *him*, Sylia knew.
Despite the fact she had known what this meeting would entail,
despite all her preparations, Sylia sat there, doing nothing. A terrible
lethargy had seeped into her limbs, even as her pulse and breath
quickened slightly. She just sat there, doing nothing, feeling pinned, as
though destiny was holding her firm.
Closer and closer the steps came, each one sounding louder
and louder in her ears, a tiny burst of thunder to her hearing. All other
sounds faded into the background, as Sylia's world became those
footsteps. Finally, they stopped, right behind her. Sylia could almost
feel phantom fingers reach out and lightly rest on her shoulders.
A male voice she knew would be there broke the noise of night
silence, "Do you mind if I join you?"
Sylia felt herself involuntarily startle and her muscles clench as
that voice reached her. A voice, so soft, yet carrying with it a hundred
different tonalities. Like an elegant symphony, each component of
sound making the greater whole possible. And the effect was just as
stunning as Beethoven's Fifth, as it made small ripples of sensation
crawl across her skin and down her nerves. The effect was quite
astonishing, as Sylia attempted to hide her reaction. (Dear God, how
can someone's *voice* have such an effect?) she thought to herself.
"There are several seats available", Sylia said, trying to as
casual as she could, taking another drag on her cigarette, allowing the
nicotine and smoke passing through her teeth to calm herself. It wasn't
particularily working.
"Yes," the voice came again, as Sylia had to restrain herself
from shivering again, just as she fought to keep her lips straight at the
slightly mocking amusement that flavored that deliciously expressive
voice. "Yet there is only one flower before my eyes, growing there in
the blackest darkness, and blossoming in barren soil."
In spite of herself, intoxicated a fraction by the voice of the
unknown man behind her, Sylia grinned a tiny amount, as a little levity
filled her own voice. His uniqueness, Resu had said. Sylia was fairly
certain she was getting an earful of that right now. Turning her torso
slightly, she moved to face the man she knew to be Resu.
"I am no nightshade, Mr.-?" Sylia began, as she finished her
twist, and stopped when it happened, something that made the world
fall away.
Contact.
It was those eyes, Sylia decided, those orbs of chained
intensity that seemed to peer straight into her soul. Eyes that held her
own, like the eyes of the serpent, watching their prey, entrapping it.
Eyes that were like lasers, burning through her defenses, reaching
down, deep within her. Pulling out her secrets with a calm firmness, like
diamond-hard steel covered in common cotton, all the more
unbelievable. Sylia had to resist the urge to pull her shoulders forward,
move her arms across her body, as before those eyes she felt naked,
helpless as a girl before an appraising eye.
Frederick looked into those eyes, and saw something that no
vampiric Discipline could ever grant him awareness of, something that
no knowledge of biology or psychology could teach him. Before, for all
his power, it had been like watching a movie or looking at a painting;
both but a pale imitation to the creature before him. Just looking in
those eyes, he understood on some primordial level, like a cat can tell
time, exactly what he was seeing. He saw strength, determination, the
hidden fear she hoped to disguise. He knew the willpower, the desire
for control. But these were strengths he himself had in abundance, and
so many, too many, of his kind did as well. No, it was beyond that. He
was looking into the eyes of a woman who had been emotionally
scarred as a child, forced to raise a brother not much younger than
herself, have to deal with an insane and crudely Awakened Avatar, and
then form an elite mercenary group that managed to operate under the
noses of those who would destroy them and her. But beyond all, there
was the spark of life, of _hope_, burning bright. Frederick had known
sacrafice, known pain as she did even now, but above all, he saw that
she was different. She was still... pure. She was good, for all she had
suffered, and deep inside, there was.. something, for all the pain she had
known. It was dazzling, it was enticing, it was divine. Frederick wanted
nothing more than to drown in that uniqueness, fall forever. He wanted
to drink it in, like the vitae that burned in her veins.
All this went through his mind in an instant. Long since used
to hiding his emotions and thoughts, his face nothing more than an
instrument of his will, Frederick smiled lightly, commenting, "Indeed.
Only the noblest of flowers would suit thee, not one laced with
belledona."
With a slight smile, he held up his hand. The gloved hand
blurred into motion, the turn of the wrist revealing a freshly cut, red
rose, the petals the deep color of freshly spilt blood. Dew still seemed
to dot the petals, as the slight aroma of the rose became apparant. It
was a beautiful expression of nature's flora that was offered to Sylia.
Sylia was a little shocked at the rose. Not by the cheap magic
trick of conjuring the rose, but rather what it signified. While she knew
what this might look like, it was nothing more than an appearance, one
of convenience. Sylia might use an weapon in her arsenal, sex appeal
being an effective one against the male sex, but this was just too much
out of the blue. The presumptuous attitude, the calm and arrogant
certainty in those eyes, that slight curling of the lip on that sensuous
mouth! Her former insecurity vanished in the shock, to be reborn in
anger and confidence as she gave Resu a cold glance.
A raised eyebrow conveyed her contempt, as she commented,
"A simple trick, but I am not impressed", as she looked away a little,
motioning with her head for him to take a seat.
She was pleased by the flash of surprise and chagrin that
appeared on his face, to be replaced by that half-smile he turned
towards her. But she was also a little surprised herself, at his reaction.
Surely he expected nothing less from her?
"You seem surprised", Sylia commented, digging for a
response, anything she could use to help prepare her for the upcoming
battle of wills. He had an advantage on her, in how much he knew.
Resu leaned over the counter as he placed the rose in the vase
of water there, the white lilies surrounding the red flower. He was not
very tall, Sylia noticed, surprised and a little disappointed for some
reason. No more than 190cm, not even 20cm greater than her own
height of 179cm. His face was definitely European, probably Eastern
European, but of a nationality she had never seen. Resu's eyes seemed
to be a little too big for his face, wide and expressive, like pools of
emotion. His hair was a little curly, something she never particularily
cared for, but it looked natural, not styled. His clothes were of
exceptionally fine make; Sylia could see a fortune in them. They were
not designer clothes, yet a designer had to have made them. The fabric
of the overcoat was apparantly wool, but cut in such a way as to be,
well, perfect. The material was also waterproof without looking gauche,
and Sylia was willing to bet it was also bulletproof. As he leaned
forward with the rose, Sylia could see a Gino-Armani suit; one crafted
by the master Mazzul himself, if she was not mistaken on the cut.
Everything except the scarf radiated an image of "quiet power". The
scarf threw the image off, being of subdued color, but clearly a
Nudelman. He was handsome, and well dressed, like so many
executives. His attitude and clothes, and his level of Genom security
access told Sylia all she needed to know. This Resu was one of the
Genom Directors. She wasn't sure of it, but reasonably confidant in her
estimation.
Resu turned to her. "Well, I am surprised, to a certain extent.
My presence tends" his lips twitched, "to have a majestic effect on
many people." He looked into her eyes again, and she felt a slight lack
of focus as she looked at those eyes. Her gaze was drawn away, as she
noticed an odd scar that seemed to run down the right side of face,
beginning just above and in front of his ear, continuing down the
jawline. It looked intricate, almost deliberate, however slight it might be.
"You must have seen too many like myself, to be so blase to it."
He seemed to have hidden meanings in his words, and
suspicions or questions spoken in a way she couldn't quite understand.
His Japanese seemed flawless, and it was doubtful the error was it
translation. Sylia had met several social sharks in her time as owner and
CEO of Silky Doll Enterprises, and their double meanings and word
plays had left her feeling lost. Resu was the same, if of a different
flavor. His manipulation of simple words seemed to be more of an
inquisitive nature, not designed to embarass or anger her. "I am not
quite sure how to take such a backhand compliment."
Resu seemed to be relieved, or at least have had his question
answered, as he shrugged as he sat on a stool he pulled up. "A
compliment, I can assure you. So few are able to ignore such social
pressures and the dictates of protocol and presence." Resu leaned back
a little. "All too common in Japan, and among family."
That one she caught, the intent and minute tightness of the
tonal inflections, if not the veiled meaning. Something about Japan?
Being too common? Family? Did he mean Mackie? Perhaps even her
father? Though his eyes were not on her directly, Sylia could sense his
attention focussing on her like a bug under a magnifying glass.
They sat there, in silence, as Resu settled his clothes, opening
his jacket, making certain everything fell comfortably on his body. At
the same time, she realized, Resu was allowing her to see that he had no
obvious weapons. Of course, he could have a needle weapon, or
crawling pad, or any other of a variety of discrete alternatives.
(Well, here he is, like you wanted), Sylia berated herself, as she
sat in silence beside the mysterious computer ghost given flesh that she
had made contact with. A person who had surprised her. He was
young, for one thing, and seemed to have come alone. There was no
proof of that, but she had a feeling that he was truly alone, which
displayed a shocking amount of trust for someone he had never met. Or
else he thought he knew her well enough to make such a judgement.
Sylia knew that she would kill him if she had to, but maybe it wasn't that
he _thought_ he knew her well enough, but more that he _did_ know
her well enough. Which begged the question of-
No. Enough. Enough stalling. She had to take the iniative.
She had to ask the questions. Resu wanted to play a romance game?
Fine. She would be like ice. Cold, and crystal perfect. Taking an
imperceptable breath to steady her nerves, Sylia gathered her thoughts.
Keep things in perspective. This bastard had something over Mackie,
something _she_ had given him, and she had no intention of leaving
this meeting without knowing what she had foolishly given up, and a
method to counteract the influence he held. Sylia was too jaded, and
too wise to this one to think he didn't intend to do anything with the
information. Like all corporate climbers, he was willing to give favors,
but each debt and tidbit of information would be stored in his little chest
of treasures, waiting to be used. On top of which, it was clear he knew
more about *her* than she felt comfortable. She might have to deal
with him in a indiscrete fashion. But that was for later.
"You seem in quiet, lost in thought", commented Resu, the
executive, as he looked at a menu in front of himself, not quite looking at
her. "Perhaps I can offer you some tea?"
Sylia mulled over his words and actions. She may have
offended him, but that didn't seem likely. Scratch that, it didn't seem
likely that Resu would be significantly affected by a rebuke. He might
still sting over it, but it would not cause him to distance himself like
some teenage boy who was rejected while asking for a date. No;
(Focus, Sylia, focus!), Sylia reminded herself. His words: quiet.
Hmmm... well yes, she was quiet. Probably nothing more than that.
Lost in thought? That had numerous possibilities. Perhaps he meant
she was "lost"? Lacking information? Lost in *thought* though.
Perhaps he thought her own thoughts were- offer some *tea*! Of
course! This was his roundabout of asking if wanted more information.
Like a person finding a house; one always, if one was invited, found a
cup of tea waiting. But cup of what? Or what cup? The cup of
knowledge? The Holy Grail? There were a number of famous cups, if
Resu had a double meaning.
She selected her words and response carefully, thankful again
for the clarity and alacrity that her father's modifications gave her.
Something to indicate her position, while not sounding weak. "I believe
I can accept that." There, that was satisfactory.
Resu seemed to think so as well, as his eyes darted briefly over
to her own, and Sylia saw his appraisal. "Of course", his voice purred,
even though it was no louder or different than before. He turned to the
young man behind the counter, who looked at him. "Two teas, please",
was Resu's order.
As the chef turned to fulfill the request, Resu again turned to
Sylia and asked, in a low and quiet voice, "Should we use our real
names?" His tone made it simple, almost matter-of-fact, like the answer,
whatever it would be, was more to serve his curiousity than any sincere
desire for validity.
And after she thought about it, Sylia realized it was a rhetorical
question. Resu undoubtably knew who she was, a fact which was
assured when he had sent her the missive leading to this meeting. Sylia
also had a twisting feeling in the bottom of her gut that Resu knew
about her other obligations and associations. He knew, at least, that the
Silky Doll computer system was very advanced. And he knew much
about Mackie. Too much. More than even she knew.
Aware of the server filling the cups of tea, Sylia still delayed
her answer, making Resu wait. It was silly, it was pointless, but that was
how it was in these small games of dominance.
"I don't see why not... Resu", Sylia responded, glancing over
at Resu as he regarded her. Not hungrily, or viciously, simply patiently.
Resu blinked, and smiled a small smile. "Of course. Touche.
My name is Frederick. Frederick Gustovich von Ruthaven." His accent
made the name "Frederick" sound more like "Frederitch", the hard
consonant at the end softening slightly. "May I know the pleasure of
your name?"
Sylia heard the emotion bleed through his tight control, though
she had little idea why giving her his real name was such a significant
event. Apparantly it was. Or perhaps it had something to do with the
conspiracy he kept hinting at. By giving his real name, he was tying
himself to her. And all he had done to give her was his name. No title.
No ranking. No accolades or accomplishment meant to impress her. A
statement of his name and who he was.
Fine. Two could play it that way. She gave him a quick and
slight glare as she answered, "Stingray. Sylia Stingray."
Resu- no, Frederick-, nodded, and Sylia could sense she had
scored some points, passing some test of his. How this would play out
remained to be seen.
Frederick seemed to be on the verge of shaking her hand when
the waiter reappeared, the two steaming ceramic mugs in his hands.
Instead, Frederick merely nodded to her and softly commented "A
pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise", Sylia answered, equally quiet. The introductions
were done. Sylia could tell from the finality of Frederick's voice that this
was the case. Just as she had expected.
Frederick raised the cup before him to his lips, taking a small
sip of the liquid, before sighing and exhaling steam into the air. Despite
the apparant pleasure he took in the consumption of the beverage, he
still remained attentive, though he did not look at her.
Sylia mentally went over her options on how to handle this.
Given the wordplay by Res; _Frederick_, he expected this meeting to be
discrete; no obvious or open references. Probably to save himself in
case any of his mysterious "kind" caught hint of the fact he was
divulging secrets. He seemed to think they were significant. Perhaps
they were. But she needed to know them. Like why, with Mackie a
Lasombra antitribu, this was such a bad thing. How many other
antitribu were there? How big was this "conspiracy"? Did Genom have
something to do with it? Sylia wished she had more time to think it
over. She needed a conversation breaker, something to lead into the
information she needed. But how did she discretely say "What is the
relevance of a Lasombra antitribu?" Or "How in the hell do you know
so much about me?" (Or seem to know), Sylia reminded herself. She
was far too stressed about this. Then again, it was her family that was
involved. Both Mackie, and possibly her "other" family. Damn, she
needed a cigarette. More importantly, she needed-
Frederick made a movement, and suddenly Sylia saw a gloved
hand before her, the leather almost gleaming. Her eyes met Frederick's
once more, his lips in a small, amused smile.
Sylia looked at his open hand, unsure of what to expect.
Unable to determine the purpose in his action, she asked, "What?"
"What do I know about smoking?" Resu smiled, cutting her
off, apparantly pleased by the brief flash of surprise that had crossed
her face. "A little", he answered his own question, a probing look in his
eyes. "Enough to know things. You want to smoke, correct?"
His tonal inflections, and that voice had an insinuating
element, almost as though he was confident in an imaginary ability to
read her mind. Or perhaps just her expression or body language. She
had heard of people being able to do so. She had some small skill in
that. Perhaps Frederick had more. Or perhaps some casual observation
on his part had revealed she smoked cigarettes, and he had taken a stab
in the dark. What it meant, she didn't know.
Sylia found herself briefly floundering, so she opted to remain
voiceless, instead just looking at Frederick evenly.
A brief smile, with some humor, but mostly cold calculation. "I
have seen that look too many times." He spread his hands slightly, with
the barest of shrugs. His muscular control was absolute. "Go ahead."
His head nodded, echoing his words. "I don't mind". His expressive
voice and her own sudden and intense craving for nicotine made it
sound like the most seductive offer imaginable.
Sylia kept her eyes on Frederick, silently debating in her head
as to whether or not to accept his encouragement. This might be a test.
This might be part of his plan. This could be any number of things. It
could be a sincere offer to allow her to smoke.
Glancing at Frederick, Sylia saw him looking at her out of the
corner of his eye.
Sylia finally succumbed to the sudden urge for nicotine she
felt. Her eyes still on the face of Frederick, she none-the-less found the
desire for a cigarette getting stronger and stronger. Judging the act to
be harmless, Sylia made her decision, even as she removed her cigarette
holder and an Issaquah cigarette. She kept her eyes on the purse, but
her attention on Frederick. He had already demonstrated that he had
deft hands.
After a few frustrating moments searching through her purse,
Sylia finally found what she was looking for. She affixed the paper to
the lacquered wood, and started to reach for her lighter.
"Allow me", the melodic voice carressed her ears again, and
she almost felt the leather fingertips as they swam beneath her chin,
guiding her face up.
She looked up, and saw him remove his left glove, a glint in his
eyes promising a new trick. Three twists of his wrist, and above his
extended index finger, he directed her eyes through showmanship and
force of will.
Sylia watched the space above the index finger, noting an
oddly familiar ring on his middle finger, one emblazzoned with a crest
she was sure she had seen before, a dragon etched in gold, before it
was illuminated by the green light from the single tongue of flame, like a
lighter, that had appeared above Resu's finger. She watched, inwardly
complimenting Resu on his trick, as the flame changed colors, first
yellow, then blue, violet, orange, and finally a vivid red. It was
smoothly done, and she could see no obvious method. She doubted it
was cybertics. Most likely just a very good amateur magician. She
leaned forward to accept the light.
Frederick's hand pulled back, the flame flickering briefly. She
looked at him. "I have to remind you that smoking, like many other
activities, can ultimately be fatal", Frederick said, his head turning to the
side slightly.
Suddenly, Sylia understood. He was warning her. One last
chance to back out. Sylia didn't even hesitate, though she gave the
appearance of thinking about it briefly. She lit the cigarette, and held
the holder just milimeters from her lips, saying, "There are risks in
everything."
Frederick nodded, pulling back, as he watched her take a puff
on the cigarette, sheathing his hand once more in leather. He made a
fist, creaking the leather, before he brought his hand back to his cup,
raising it for another sip. He nodded again as he drank another sip, his
gaze turning to contemplation of the liquid pooled in the bottom of the
earthenware container.
Sylia enjoyed the particle matter sucked into her lungs, the
nicotine transfering through the aveoli into her bloodstream. The
chemical dribbled into the blood vessels of her brain, providing the
artificial feeling she sought. At the same time, the smell of the smoke,
the feeling of the smoke flowing into her lungs brought to her mind a...
memory?... Yes, of smoke, and fire, as the ash crumbled off the tip of her
cigarette, sparking briefly before fading away into vanishing wisps, like
her half-remembered memory.
"Yes, but smoking can be quiet dangerous, especially when
one is ignorant of the true danger", Frederick again cautioned.
Sylia briefly smiled, outwardly cold as ice now that she had her
fix. Taking another slow inhalation, Sylia responded, "Perhaps once,
but no longer. Now", she smiled again, "everything is carefully
regulated. Carcinogens and tar are removed before they come near the
lungs. Even the nicotine is regulated, except in the best, such as
American brands. Of course, only a rare few of those are even real
tobacco." Sylia trailed off, realizing she was starting to ramble.
To her surprise, Frederick was not smiling, and his expression
was serious, almost withdrawn. Sylia found herself wishing he was still
smiling, or joking. As he looked at her, there was again that intensity,
that passion and hardness that brought to her attention once more that
she was sitting next to a Genom Director. But she also felt a sudden
sense of recognition, almost like deja-vu; sudden, and unpleasant.
Almost as though she should know him, but just couldn't remember.
"Indeed. That is how it is, in these modern times. Everything
pre-packaged, processed...", Frederick's gaze turned to the surrounding
area, voice distant, "_sanatized_." The voice had become soft and
hard, as his gaze lowered, "but in doing so, the true flavor and meaning
of the act is lost. All that remains is the deception of carrying out the
act, the delusion of knowing the sensation." His eyes raised, before
returning to her face, eyes serious, face relaxed.
"You seem to prefer the purer variety", Frederick said, lazily
looking over at her, "a greater rush of nicotine, but there is also the
danger of tar."
He seemed to be taking the metaphor to an extreme. What was
it that he was trying to get at? The symbolism, she understood. Sylia
realized immediately where this was going, what she should say next.
What was it? That with- of course. With the knowledge came the
danger inherent in having such knowledge. So she looked over at
Frederick, and stated, "I don't mind. What is life without a little danger."
Resu looked at the countertop. "Indeed. But it would be a
shame to see one so young, and full of promise, cut down by any
number of ailments." There was an unmistakable threat and cautioning
in his voice, if one knew what to listen for.
Sylia understood the symbolism, and why he was saying such
things. He was trying to scare her off. Perhaps with good reason. But
she had to know. So Sylia met his eyes with a challenge and fierceness
of her own, and responded in kind, "I can control my addiction."
Frederick's lips twitched, a little sad, "So you say. And though
you might regulate how often you smoke, how deeply you inhale, you
can never tell how much, or what, you might take in."
Sylia finished the quick-burning cigarette, putting it out in the
tray. "I'll take my chances."
"Indeed you will", Resu said, and this time, there was no
mistaking the steel in his voice.
Sylia glanced at him, and their eyes met in a contest of wills
that spanned only two seconds. None-the-less, it was she who broke
first, looking away from those two pools of liquid intensity. Dear God,
how could someone have such strength of will? She had been in
staredowns before, with Priss and other business leaders in her
community. But this one, this Genom Director... she now understood
why this one was a Genom Director. Had to be. He was like Brian J.
Mason, only ten times the intensity. This was someone who was close
to Quincy, if for the simple fact Frederick would undoubtably be willing
to contradict or argue with a man who could crush countries. Once
again, Sylia was reminded of the power of the man she sat next to. This
conspiracy, if it was real, and she was beginning to think it was, was
big. Big enough, with enough powerful players, that even this one, and,
Sylia suspected, Quincy, feared it, and played by the shadowy rules
Frederick seemed to be implying.
No doubt about it. She, Sylia Stingray, was truly stepping into
the big leagues.
Still, she had achieved her objective, and this was proven as
she heard, in Frederick's next words, a hint of acceptance.
"Very well", Frederick said.
In the background, they could both hear the whispered words
of the two owners of the shop.
"Are they gonna sit there all night?" Yuusuke complained,
clearly annoyed and bored.
"Shhh!" Keiko admonished, barely restrained glee in her voice,
"can't you see this is a 'Chance Meeting'?" Just thinking about it
brought her back to her teenage years.
"What's that?" Yuusuke asked.
"You know, you idiot!" Keiko hissed.
"Know what, you stupid woman?" Yuusuke barked back.
"Yuusuke no BAKA!" Keiko growled, as the loud CLANG of a
metal pan hitting the back of someones head rang out.
"Owww!" Yuusuke complained.
Sylia looked over at Frederick , who merely looked amused, his
large eyes rolling as he gave a tight grin. In spite of herself, Sylia gave a
slight chuckle, as she felt a strange bond, as she knew Resu held the
same amusement as she did at the errant assumption the two
shopkeepers were making. On how ignorant the two were.
"I am glad you understand the dangers of smoking. I would
never offer a cigarette to someone ignorant of the dangers, nor invite
them to have a cup of tea", Frederick stated, his eyes distant, as though
thinking about something.
Something in his tone and expression made Sylia suddenly pay
extreme attention to him.
Frederick stopped looking at her with humor, his gaze and
demeanor hardening, becoming like a predator watching a mouse. The
transformation, the quicksilver mercury that was his expression caused
a small quiver of fear in her heart. His voice, that sensuous voice, one
that seemed to have been crafted to sing, or engage in public speaking,
reached her ears a hardness and solidity like stone chips. "You see,
there is a tradition amongst us. One that we are all expected to uphold."
Sylia stopped what she was doing, unable to look away from
his eyes. For an instant, with that intense expression, she had another
feeling of deja-vu, seeing, for an instant, Resu dressed in far more
archaic garb, with a backdrop of flame and smoke behind him. Then it
was gone, as he continued.
"You see, we have a tradition among my people, one held
sacred", Frederick looked at her with cold eyes, "one you should be
aware of. It is not unlike your first rule. And unlike you, we religiously
enforce our eleventh rule."
The statement hung in the air, not moving, and Sylia was
suddenly aware of several things. How her heart was starting to race,
each beat pumping hot blood through her veins, each beat making her
live. How cold it was, how her legs had goosebumps all along them,
how her nipples were involuntarily hardening in the chill climate. How
her mouth was suddenly dry, and the pipe still in her hands. How those
eyes and mouth seemed to be ready and waiting to engulf her. How she
could no longer see his hands, in the greatcoat, and suddenly Sylia
realized how much could be hidden in Resu's expensive clothing.
Mentally, she could hear dozens of responses. Bluff her way out of
this. Dare him to carry out his threat. Go for her gun. Walk away. Just
sit there. Use the BB2E. Instead, she realized something.
Rule Eleven. The final rule in the code of the Knight Sabers
Organization. A simple rule, unlike the others. One rule only she, Priss,
Linna, Nene, and Mackie knew.
Rule One stated: "Do not divulge any information concerning
to this organization."
But even more significant was Rule Eleven.
Rule Eleven stated: "The penalty for violating any of the
previous regulations is death."
Death.
And somehow, Sylia knew, in her heart of hearts, deep in her
soul, that Frederick meant it.
And that he could and would carry it out.
Because somehow, despite all her precautions, Frederick knew
about the Knight Sabers. It wasn't just a chance reference on his part.
He knew about her. Knew about the organization. And knew things he
never should have been able to know.
Because Sylia had never written down the rules. Never entered
them in any computer, like she had so much more. She had never told
anyone outside her inner circle about the rules.
They had mentioned numerous other rules, both in jest and
seriousness. Not acting on personal grudges. No solo actions.
But never, outside the time when she had inducted the various
members into the Knight Sabers, had Sylia or the others ever mentioned
Rule Eleven.
Frederick Gustovich von Ruthaven somehow knew.
Which meant she had a traitor.
But even after a moment of thought, Sylia dismissed that
option. A traitor? Who? Mackie? Unlikely, to say the least. Though
Sylia wasn't sure, she had the feeling that the "groups" Frederick and
Mackie belonged to were at odds with each other. Beside which,
Mackie would be more likely to tell her of the conspiracy if he was being
coerced or blackmailed. Linna? Perhaps, for money, but outright
betrayal went against her nature. On top of which, Linna should be
aware that Sylia had her occasionally surveillanced. Linna was aware,
more than the others, that Sylia had damaging knowledge on all of the
Knight Sabers. Priss? Work for Genom? Hah! Priss was all for the
Knight Sabers. Nene? Despite her bubbly personality, Sylia was well
aware of the fact Nene was far more intelligent than that. The Knight
Sabers might have limited resources, but any betrayer would be tracked
down and killed, no matter what the cost, something Nene would be
able to figure out. And herself? Sylia could not recall anything of the
sort. Which left...
Suddenly, Frederick's talk of grand conspiracies and secret
masters didn't seem so childish or foolish.
Frederick knew, with no logical or reasonable way of knowing.
Sylia was suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was, how
small. Despite her best preparations, despite all her planning and
knowledge, she was clearly outmatched. She had been outmatched,
outclassed by this young man sitting next to her, all with apparantly
effortless ease. He held all the cards, knew it, and had never let his
poker face slip.
"Lose your appetite?" Frederick's voice broke in, calm,
questioning, with only the very slightest hint of contempt or humor.
Sylia's eyes rose to meet his face, as he looked at her with
those eyes that seemed to swallow all they saw. She found herself
blushing as a sense of shame and humiliation flooded through her.
Why did he do this? What would he want with a foolish girl like her-
Yes, _what did he want with her_? He was taking a risk even
being here! Let alone what he had told her! Why would he risk so
much, with so little gain? What...
Of course. She had something he wanted. Something he
wanted bad enough to take such risks.. She wasn't sure what it was,
what he wanted. Money? That was a laugh! Technology? Perhaps,
but unlikely. There were easier and more sure methods, given that he
had accessed her mainframe with ease. The Knight Sabers? He had
been dropping hints about them, but never had he shown any particular
interest in the Knight Sabers Organization itself. Rather, his questions
had been directed at her. Her?
Sylia flushed a little at the thought. It seemed ridiculous, but
also the most likely answer. Probably the incorrect answer, but the best
she could come up with. Despite the flowers and the meeting place, it
did not seem like any romantic interest. Someone like him did not take
such risks to create a personal relationship. She had noted, with some
pleasure, that his eyes remained on her face when he looked at her, not
her breasts or butt. It had given him some points, but it also seemed to
negate physical attraction. Contrary to what many men said, it was the
body that males tended to examine first when interested in a woman, not
the mind. None of those cues had been tripped.
Perhaps some secret she had? In the end, it did not matter.
Frederick had most of the advantages, but she had something he
wanted. She only needed to discover it.
Sylia realized Frederick was waiting for an answer, his eyes
calm, judging her, weighing her, patient. Resisting the urge to fall into
those eyes, Sylia made her decision.
Still staring Frederick in the eyes, Sylia brought her cigarette
up to her lips with a calm arm and hand that belied her own inner
turmoil. Holding it there, she took a deep, long drag on the nicotine
stick, before exhaling.
"I am still hungry."
For the first time in their meeting, Frederick's face gained some
real animation, as he smiled. Not a cold smile, not a humorous one, but
a smile of honest pleasure. It relaxed the lines of his face, making the
handsome profile more approachable, more open. Though his eyes
were the same, dark and mysterious, Sylia could almost sense a small
measure of tension, something she had never noticed until now, drain
away from him. Sylia realized she had passed a significant test, perhaps
the only real one so far.
"Then I believe this will be an interesting dinner", Frederick
smiled. The sound of the voice, with the cocktail of emotions and hints
of things too many to be listed or identified, made Sylia softly gasp as it
washed over her like a wave of the sea. As it was, she could not avoid
the sudden flash of goosebumps across her body.
Frederick raised his cup of tea, still steaming, holding it up
before her.
Hesitatingly at first, then with confidence, Sylia raised her own
cup, answering him.
"Indeed."
The two earthware cups clicked together with a note of sound
soon swallowed by the noise of the people of Megatokyo, as
somewhere in the city, far in the distance, far, far away, a single bell rang
out with a crystalline note of silver clarity, loud and strong.
* * * * * * * *
The Bolo Stock Corporation was like many corporations that
dealt in the hectic world of modern business. It was rather interesting,
given that most people had predicted that computers and AIs would
free up more people from jobs, allowing a higher degree of automation.
Indeed, given the need for stock brokers to make decisions regarding
the movement of stocks and various financial instruments, the creation
of reliable Artificial Intelligence systems (though many argue that the
AIs of today were not totally reliable in and of themselves) had been
seen as the call to dismiss yet another unnecessary labor class. And
thus had companies done so.
Only to frantically rehire their dismissed employees with
substantial pay increases, and in tremendous numbers. For the sad fact
was, for all the amazing processing power of AIs, for all of their
awesome and prodigious programs designed to analyze information,
they lack the one critical function that seemed to be uniquely human.
Intuition. The ability to take several megabytes of calculations
on several stoocks, and determine on a 'hunch' which option would be
the best 'bet'. AIs set to such a loose program paradigm typically made
gross errors, unable to think in consistent non-linear pseudo logic. And
if the AI actually was set to utilize established and reliable linear logic
pathways, it tended to be a miser, taking the option with the least risk,
least chance of deviation, and ulimately, the least chance for a big profit.
Thus, like most information technology, *more* people became
necessary, not less people. And to this requirement, both old hands at
the business and new fresh faces in the office had begun to appear.
Which explained the appearance of the Bolo Corporation's
main office. It was, in all respects, nothing more than an office building
six stories high, constructed a mere six years ago, fairly modern. The
massive air-conditioning vents, air purifiers, and atmosphere filters gave
hints towards how many people must inhabit the building during the
day. Yet it was night, and the MegaTokyo Stock Exchange had long
since closed down, leaving only a fraction of the usual level of
inhabitation in the building. A few brokers remained, tiredly going over
files, as security personnel settled in for a long night.
The Bolo Corporation had exploded onto the business scene
only a few years after Genom had appeared, thus nearly 12 years ago. It
had quickly accelerated into becoming one of the major players in the
stock market. But the Bolo Corporation was not famed for its brokers,
though they were very good, nor the level of the AIs and their
programming, thought both aspects of their computers were very
advanced. Rather, Bolo had hit on an aspect of the stock market that
was occasionally sadly lacking, especially given what modern
technology could now do. And that aspect was information.
An entire third of the Bolo Corporation's main headquarter's
was dedicated to the hub of their vast network of computer systems. Of
course, relatively few people were aware of just how powerful the
computer system truly was. Designed to search out and extrapolate
immense amounts of information, it became almost a myth in many
circles. But the results of the massive engine spoke for themselves.
Entire profit margins could be predicted years in advance, with the
appropriate human touch to help the process along. It was rumored the
computer, named Delphi, could actually postulate the extact words
spoken in a corporations board meeting, based on results and actions of
personnel.
Recently, Delphi had uncovered entire sets of false bank
accounts at the request of someone in Genom. They had been linked to
a number of false identities, or deceased persons. Even now, the
computer was tracking the individuals who were using the dummy
accounts. And because of this discovery, the Sabbat around the world
had found themselves a little short of money.
But that was not all Delphi had done. More than one
corporation had been interested in the largest rival, Genom. Thus, a
portion of Delphi had been assigned to uncover the tangled mess of
Genom business transactions. And recently, something very
interesting had begun to emerge. Something that made the Kuei-jin and
Virtual Adept owners of the Bolo Corporation very interested.
Of course, Gary Fanword knew little about this, only that
several of the higher ups were in a buzz about something. For him, this
was just another boring night, watching the monitors in front of him,
showing any visitors to the visitor display center, ordering his loyal but
stupid boomer minions around. All in all, it was the height of boredom.
The security system on the building was excellent, and Militech
Security was only two minutes by GEV. All he really had to worry about
was the crazies. Someone like- THAT!
The man entering the building through the glass front doors
looked like something someone had dragged out of one of the discard
bins. He was dressed entirely in black, his face painted white with small
streaks of black and his eyes blackened out, like some sort of mime. His
black clothes seemed to be held together with black electrical tape.
Black, like his poorly dyed hair, which still had strands of blond
showing. But the rest...
What _appeared_ to be a dead pigeon spray painted with
black pigment that still dripped was strapped with black electrical cord
to the man's shoulder, its neck hanging at an odd angle. A broken
guitar, the neck snapped, doubtless garnered from some garbage
vestibule, was in his hands, which he occasionally strummed.
(Oh shit, not another one), Gary thought. This was the second
in three weeks. The last had been an escaped mental patient. He hated
to call the cops, dreading the inevitable hassle of forms and interviews.
His employers also disliked the harmony of the building being
disrupted. Thus, Gary opted for another solution. A simple "talk" with
the security boomers would have the desired result of getting rid of this
troublemakers. Gary hit the recall for the forward security boomers as
he got up from his desk and approached the intruder, casually
loosening the holster on his pistol. The intruder had not triggered the
"boomer sensors", as Gary liked to call them. And those same sensors
would have also triggered if the man had any serious cybernetic
enhancements. Still, it was best to play it cautious.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?" Gary asked as he approached,
hoping his voice was level.
The intruder seemed to ignore him, picking instead at his
broken guitar.
"Excuse me, sir?" he asked again, just before the man
vanished.
(What the hell?) Gary thought, even as he heard a sound
behind him.
"Here Funboy, Funboy", came a mocking voice, as the off-tune
strumming of the guitar continued.
Gary spun to find the intruder sitting next to his desk, going
through a stack of paper brochures detailing the company profile.
No more screwing around. Out came Gary's Fichetti 500
Security, cocked and ready to go. "Sir, stand away. You are on private
property. I am going to have to ask you to leave."
The intruder ignored him, flipping through the brochures,
tossing them at Gary as though they were shuriken. "Each of these is a
life." He flung another at Gary. "A life of a tree. That you stole."
Another brochure came flying. "Each of these is a dream, of a tree, that
you stole... um, I guess."
Gary ignored the deluge of paper sheets, moving to his desk,
finger hooking underneath to compulsively push the button to summon
the forward boomers. Where the hell were they?
"But worry not for them, rather yourself! For soon enough,
you shall share his fate!" cried out the demented man, as he threw back
his head, giggling, before he turned his crazed eyes to Gary.
The black man suddenly gained an intensity, as he grinned at
Gary through his clown's makeup. "Go ahead, Funboy. Take your best
shot!"
With sudden speed, the intruder was before him, the only sign
of movement a black blur that coalesced from the ebony blot into the
midnight harlequin, the motion transferring from the honesty of
improbability made into the madness of reality.
Only starting to backpedal, Gary found his wrist and arm being
pushed back, the barrel of the gun in his hand moving up as the man in
black placed the palm of his hand over the small yet yawning aperture,
from which the whining and screaming larva of the ferric bullet would
emerge, hungry and spinning.
The good-looking man leaned forward, his neck seeming to
elongate to the horrified Gary, before the face smiled, revealing sharply
pointed canine teeth, each one an ivory needle, a gleaming white dagger
that promised death. In the whisper that came, of forced breathing that
sounded like dry silk bellows pumped the miasma forth, a smell reached
Gary. It tickled his nostrils, reminding him of the earlier altercations he
had once know, of battles won and lost. When he had broken his nose
in gym class. For the breath of the stranger reeked of rust, of that
metallic smell of human hemoglobin exposed to air.
The smell of blood.
And in that moment Gary knew what he faced.
"Do it!" whispered the voice, with the urgency of an
passionate lover eager for climax. The voice and the will behind those
eyes commanded Gary beyond his ability to resist. "Shoot me!" it
pleaded.
Gary pulled the trigger compulsively, his breath and wind
exploding from him as he gasped in relief, as at the same time his ears
registered the echoing thunder of his pistol.
"Ah, ah, ah!" the monster moaned in pain as he clutched his
hand, spinning about on one leg, bent over.
Abandoning his duty for the briefest of seconds, Gary allowed
his human conscience and concern for a fellow being to direct him, as
he moved to help the man.
"Ha, ha, ha!" the cries of pain became gales of laughter, as the
monster completed his turn, holding up his hand. In horrid fascination,
Gary Fanward watched as the sizable hole began to close, becoming
flesh and skin once more, unblemished.
"Hahahahahahaha!" laughed the madman, before his feverish
eyes settled on Gary, and sound ceased, his mouth now giving forth
only a smile. His gaze bore in at Gary.
Impossibly, inconceivably, Gary hiccupped, and with that,
reality returned to him, almost as though his brain were restarting, and
information on such important topics like survival were iniatalizing.
Gary jumped back, as he pointed the gun over at the man- no,
boomer, must be!- only to find him flicker and vanish as the crosshairs
settled on his silhouette.
Breathing raggedly, awash with fear and the sudden sense of
his own mortality, Gary looked about furitively, his gaze like that of a
frightened animal, searching for a predator he knew to be there. Only
the sound of the air conditioning remained.
"Over here", came the voice, and Gary spun, saw the man, and
opened fire. Yet it seemed, as he pulled the trigger, almost as though
the man shimmered into nothingness. The two bullets hit the wall.
"No, over _here_" the voice mocked, and Gary whirled one
hundred and eighty degrees, wildly firing as he turned.
The man in black just sat there, as the six hasty rounds fired by
Gary missed him, instead tracing his outline. The monster just shook
his head before vanishing again.
Gary turned, even as the last of his spent shell casing fell and
spun on the marble floor in the sudden silence. He moved violently,
darting every way. (The boomers should have heard the shots), Gary
thought desperately. (All I have to do is hold out until they show up.)
"Let me ask you a question", the voice whispered directly in
his ear, even as Gary felt the slight kiss on his cheek.
Spinning around, Gary came face to face with the solemn
vampire. Vampire is what it had to be. Some kind of new 33-S that went
rogue. Yeah, that was it. Rogue boomer.
"Are you frightened?" the question was asked, curious.
Trembling, Gary none-the-less brought his firearm up and
leveled the metal weapon directly between the eyes of his foe. Staring
into the vampire's eyes with a steady gaze, he pulled the trigger.
CLICK.
Disbelieving, Gary couldn't believe his ears. Looking at his
hand, Gary examined his faulty weapon. It should have worked. He had
plenty of rounds left. Raising it again, he pointed it at the now grinning
vampire.
"Are you?" the vampire asked.
CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. That was Gary's response to the
question. Unable to believe it, raging at the unfairness as a tide of
despair welled up within him, Gary looked at the boomer.
The pale boomer held up his right hand, before opening it and
presenting the contents to Gary, almost like a proud child showing a
treasure to a parent.
Resting atop the flawless white skin of the hand were a handful
of bullets. With a sinking sensation, Gary suddenly realized why his
firearm apparantly felt a little lighter. He was out of ammunition.
Somehow this bastard had stolen it. He had no firepower. He was
screwed in a way that was illegal in most countries. Backpedalling
furiously, Gary sought only escape.
"Here", called the vampire, as he tossed the glittering brass-
cased rounds at the startled security. Fumbling, the startled Gary only
managed to snatch three of the rounds as the others danced on the hard
marble floor.
Uncomprehending, Gary only looked at the cold bullets in his
hand, before turning his eyes to the grinning monster.
"Let's make it fun, Funboy", the pale masquerader smiled, eyes
burning with madness.
Fumbling, panting, Gary frantically cocked the pistol, breach
feeding one of his three rounds. Slamming the receiver, he raised the
gun with a shaking hand as he thumbed the hammer. With remembered
security training, Gary allowed some of his tension to drain away as he
slowly and surely squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
Grinning over the sudden puff of smoke, Gary searched for his
target.
Who stood before him, unmoved, unhurt, still grinning.
At first, Gary was stunned, uncomprehending, not
understanding. Like a camel in the Arctic, unable to deduce why there
was so much light, and yet so much cold. But then, like a warm cup of
cocoa in winter, it came to him.
A BANG!, yes.
But no kick.
Examining the bullets, hefting them, Gary realized something.
They were too light.
"He-he-he" chuckled the vampire, as he held up his left hand,
out of which fell a fine grey dust. Gunpowder, Gary knew. Gunpowder
from the rounds the vampire had stolen.
Not caring, not rational, Gary loaded his last two rounds in the
clip to the Fichetti, and readied the weapon.
BANG! BANG!
Nothing. Nothing more than the sound and the smoke. No
kick, no thunder of a bullet breaking the sound barrier. Just the primers
in the rounds going off. Damn. Where were the fucking boomers!?!
Still backing away, Gary never noticed the bullets still rolling
around on the surface of the floor. But he did notice when his heel fell
on one, and he suddenly was moving down as well as backwards. An
explosion of pain radiating from his backside, informing him that he had
landed.
Kneeling beside him, the figure in black raised his painted
eyebrows at the puzzled and fearful expression on Gary's face. He
smiled, saying, "I like to play with my food."
Faced with such events, terrified, Gary did the only thing he
could think of.
He lost control of his bladder.
The urine stained the trousers of his uniform, forming a small
puddle, a warmth that Gary was accutely aware of.
As was the vampire, as he looked down at the yellow liquid.
He grinned up at Gary, his fangs growing even longer, and he lunged.
The cold lips carressed Gary's neck, scrabbling to find
purchase, as the hardness of the fangs finally settled over Gary's
clavicle. Gary could only whimper, the fight in him having fled. The
only thing remaining in its place was a wet stickiness of terror, like
seaweed patte. The sludge of it seemed to seep into his limbs, leaving
him helpless.
The vampire sensed this, as he chuckled, and Gary could only
cry, unable even to beg as he voided himself more.
The fang pierced the skin, drawing a tight breath from Gary,
before they plunged down, deep into his flesh, straight into an blood
vessel, an artery that pumped blood right from his heart. Gary gasped in
at the icy pain.
The crimson spray of red flowed, and Gary could feel the
coldness as the liquid warmth left him in the gush that filled the mouth
of the vampire, as he began to suck. Gary gasped, but this time the
sounds were different. Rather than the long gasp of pain, Gary found
himself uttering small gasps of pleasure, beyond his control, as sheer
bliss of an almost orgasmic nature filled him, coming from the wound,
from the vampire, sending him to the Seventh Heaven.
And suddenly he was forced back into harsh reality,
condemned to the cruel world as he lay, his cheek against the cold
marble floor, his lifes blood pulsing out of his neck with every beat of
his heart, the sanguine fluid mixing with his other bodily fluid. He was
cold, so cold.
Giggling, the vampire licked his lips, luxuriating in the fear and
mix of pleasure and pain still edible in the blood. The cocktail of
hormones, his favorite, added a bouquet to the otherwise plain bounty
of vitae. Licking the last, he glanced down at his meal, and got an idea
for a deliciously cruel prank.
Gary looked looked up at vampire, his jaw and mouth smeared
with blood, Gary's own blood, when his vision began to blur.
Suddenly, the shadows around Gary became indistinct,
moving, pulsating, like creatures, like a slug moving with lightning
speed. They gathered, they flowed, and suddenly, they were the
Shadow Monsters!
But that was not all! All about, he could see the invisible
Gooma Razor BUGS! With their phallic probisci, the sweet pink color of
their shells. They were buzzing around, trying to stab him! He had to
get away!
Throwing off his lethargy, Gary tried to get up, ignoring the
sudden gush of blood that erupted in a thin stream from his shoulder.
Instead of standing, he spun, dropping to one knee, before he could
move again. He was so weak, he could barely move. Looking at the red
and yellow wetness he was kneeling in, it was all crystal clear. It wasn't
his fault. It was the liquid. It was the KILLER KOOL-AID (TM)!
Screaming, frantic, as he noticed it, Gary hit the ground
spinning, scrambling about, trying to reach the alarm button at his desk,
when he stopped cold. Yes, there, hiding behind his chair, was the
snout of a creature. A dreadful, terrible creature. Yes, no doubt about
it, IT WAS A PINK AND PURPLE POLKA-DOT *PEOPLE-EATER*!!!
Screaming in fear, Gary twisted about, howling in horror and
barely understandable sentences.
The vampire laughed as he looked down at his midnight lunch
thrashing, before he reached to the small of his back, pulling out what
he had hidden there.
The boomer skull, still in the pristine grey and green of the
Bolo Corportaion, looked back at Rene as he gazed into the dull
photoreceptors of the machine. "Alas, poor-" Rene stopped to read the
serial number from the CPU housing of the boomer, "G-087373-4B. I
knew him well-" Rene stopped again, puzzled. Furrowing his brow
briefly, in thought, the Malkavian bent down.
The weakly flailing limbs and hoarse voice prevented Rene
from reading the nametag of the mortal. Tiring of the game, Rene
reached out, grabbed, and tore the larnyx of the mortal out, leaving him
to either drown in his own blood, or bleed to death. Either way was fine.
Waiting a few seconds, Rene grabbed the nameplate from the corpse.
Hmmm. Unconscious. Not dead- whoops, dead now, Rene realized, as
he removed his knee from the skull of the man, crushed like an eggshell.
"-Gary Fanward. A machine of infinite gestures- um, jesters...
or was it fletchers? Oh well", Rene commented, as he dropped the
boomer skull, wandering over to the security station.
Wooo-weee! Just look at all those flashing red lights. Hey,
looked like Militech was mobilizing. Yep, looked like several GEVs were
on a two minute ETA to retrieve the VIPs at this hostile LZ, which was a
GT, as the CIC of the company would probably MIA the poor SOB who
didn't HA to do their job. (Which means I still haven't used 11 eleven
letters of the alphabet), thought Rene, as he counted off the remaining
letters on his fingers.
Checking the displays, Rene found a blinking light. Ah!
Incoming communication. Grabbing the headset, Rene put it on, and
flipped the switch.
"Everything's under control, situation normal", Rene cheerfully
announced.
"There was an alarm triggered, weapons fire detected. What
happened?", the anxious voice on the other end asked.
Stretching, Rene pondered an answer, before one came to him.
"Ah, a slight weapons malfunction. But, uh, everything is perfectly
alright now. We're fine, we're all fine here, now, thank you." Rene's
voice pattered off, unsure. What now? Of course! Best to be polite.
"How are you?"
The voice came back, "We're sending over a squad."
"Negative, negative", Rene said. He was getting the feeling he
had had this conversation before, but the memory seemed light years
away, in the long, distnat past. Of course! "We have a reactor leak
here, uh, now. Give us a few minutes to lock it down. Uh, large leak,
*very* dangerous." He _had_ done this before. It was very boring
doing it again.
"Who is this? What is your security authorization?"
Ignoring the voice in his ear, Rene dropped the headset as he
took it off. That was boring. The terminal. The pretty lights. Those
were interesting. Rene crushed the squawking headset. Boring
conversation anyway.
The bright lights in the terminal beckoned. Sparklies!
Rene slammed his hand through the computer, shattering the
plastic and delicate circuitry. He twisted, and then extracted his ruined
appendage, staring at it in rapt attention.
"Ooohhhh!" He crooned, as he looked at the flashing, glowing
bits of circuits and diodes.
"Sparklies!!!" he gleeful proclaimed.
Standing, carressing his savaged hand and the treasures
imbedded in his flesh, Rene looked at the pretty lights until they
twinkled out, one by one.
Hmm... Now that he thought about it, Rene realized it was time
for him to get going. Best to stick to the plan.
(Well), he amended, (the spirit of the plan). After all, his boss-
man had given him an entirely different set of instructions. But
Mackie's plans lacked a certain... artistic... flair. Yes, that was the right
term. They needed a special touch of a true artiste such as himself,
Ren- hmmm... what was his name again? Didn't really matter, did it?
Rene, or whatever his name was at the moment, walked away
from the security station, passing the man lying on the floor. Lazy man.
At the doors, he paused. There was something in the air.
Something definite. An unpleasant odor. Almost-
"Is that gas I smell?" Rene asked.
No answer.
Rene looked over at Gary. He wasn't moving. Rene walked
over to Gary, knelt by him. Rene stuck a cigarette in his mouth, one of
Gary's favorite brands.
"I said, is that gas I smell?"
Gary did not move. How inconsiderate of Gary. The smokes
having failed, Rene lifted a silver flask of 100 proof alcohol from his
pocket, uncorking it and dangling it under the nose of Gary.
"Gary?" Nothing. What a jerk. No response.
Well, he had tried to warn him. But _noooo_! That rude Gary
just wouldn't listen. Look at him, just lying there.
Sighing at lack of sanity in the world, Rene shook his head and
stood, walking towards the enterance. Head hanging, arm dangling,
Rene walked out of the enterance, shattering a glass door and bending
the frame as he kicked it out of frustration. What was it with people
these days? No ambition whatsoever, they just lay about as if they
were *dead*!
In the background, Rene could hear the very faint high pitched
whine of GEV engines kicking in, the dull thumps of the pressure
chambers firing up.
Well, well, well. Looks like Gary was mad at him. Calling in
some friends, eh? Rene put away the flask.
Well, he was no slouch either. Raising his fingers to his lips,
Rene whistled up his _own_ posse.
At the whistle, two set of high-powered truck lights kicked on,
bathing Rene in white radiance. Grinning, Rene threw his arms wide.
"Come, my sisters and brothers! Step into the light!" Rene
cried to the empty parking lot.
Basking in the illumination, Rene became more and more aware
of the fact the thrumming sound was getting closer and closer.
Giving a long and slow whistle, Rene set his plan in motion.
There was a grinding sound, like a horde of demons trapped in
a pipe organ were being tortured, as the two massive tanker trucks
before Rene shifted into gear at his signal. The massive vehicles started
slow, but swiftly began to pick up speed. Soon they were thundering
along, rumbling by to either side of Rene as he laughed.
Eleven seconds later, the two semi-trucks crashed through the
glass enterance of the Bolo Corporation, smashing aside the flimsy
constructs, their mass and velocity making them high-speed missiles.
The two vehicles lost course somewhat, one falling on its side, while the
other made a dramatic left turn on striking a potted plant on the
sideway.
The crash was enormous, but it was not what Rene was
listening for. Around him now, closer, the disparate stereo echo from
the GEV engines screaming out loud, approaching closer and closer.
They were behind Rene, the Bolo Corporation Building between him
and the incoming Militech GEVs. Tuning his senses, Rene waited, and
waited.
Now.
Rene raised a hand, giggling, as small motes of flame and firey
sparks began to swirl into his hand, becoming almost like vibrant cotton
candy strands forming in the machine. The whisps and tongues of
flames danced, curling around one another, playing a game of hide and
seek in the palm of the Malkavian's hand.
Rene raised his arm higher, and with a grin launched the
flaming ball straight into the air.
The fireball, looking like nothing more than a small flare shot
into the dimly lit night sky.
Rene examined for a moment the broken guitar he still held.
With a smirk, he tossed it aside, onto the ground.
Concentrating, Rene felt his vitae burn with the unholy power
all Cainites possessed. But this time, his vitae was channelled by his
will into the effect he desired.
In his hands, there was a shimmering, as the Fender electric
guitar appeared in his hands, the polished finish it had was gleaming.
Each stroke of the perfect strings sent shivers down his spine. It wasn't
a fiddle, but it was still a magnificent instrument.
The Thaumaturgical napatha began to slow, eventually
hanging, unmoving, in the sky.
Looking at the guitar, Rene realized what was wrong. No
power.
Again, Rene channeled his vitae, drawing on the magical
power of the Thaumaturgical Path of Conjuring. Before him appeared
the giant speakers, the amplifiers, and the power cell he desired, all
hooked up. Reaching down, Rene grabbed the cable to the amplifier.
The howling flame began to fall, picking up speed, plummetting
to earth, like a forgotten meteor descending in fury, raging at gravity
plucking it from the Heavens.
The jack slid in, as Rene's toe nudged the amp and speakers
on. The steady thrumming bass of the speakers was quickly
overshadowed by the thunder of the approaching GEVs.
Grinning, Rene reached in his pocket, drawing out the shining
silver guitar pic he kept with him at all times. He set the guitar against
his hip, adjusted the strap, and raising the quicksilver pic high.
The fireball fell behind Rene, striking the ground a mere ten
feet from his heels, sputtering out.
The pic struck the strings with a crash of musical thunder.
The fireball vanished soon enough, dissappearing without
noise or comment. But the flames of the magical effect caught the 100
proof alcohol on fire, which had been laced with a slow evaporating fuel
compound, and the fire seemed to be in a race with itself as it rocketed
backwards.
Towards the Bolo Corporation Building.
Rene playing and strummed, his fingers doing a dance across
the strings, his Celerity making the guitar sing for him. Each ounce of
music he wringed out of the instrument, as though he held a dancer or a
lover in his lands. Together, they were one, as the area and the parking
lot became his stage, the night pigeons his only audience. Tonight was
a symphony of heavy metal that would make a Toreador weep at the
beauty of the act. For Rene was brilliant.
The line of fire stretched onward, as the music had a
conterpart, a dissonance like a piece by Bach, weeding its way into the
resonance of Rene's playing.
This dissonance was the two Militech Camelot class GEV
transports that had now reached the Bolo Corporation Building. Each
peeled off, to circle the building.
Rene's fingers became like the feet of a mongoose, dancing the
cobra, never stopping, as fast as the beating of the heart of a
hummingbird. Each note rose, merging to become one, as the
thousands of voices in Rene's head began to sing out, aloud in their
differing unity. At last, on the neck of the guitar, Rene bled one last
scream out the guitar.
Several things happened at once.
The fire reached the building, meeting the hundreds of gallons
of fuel pouring out of the building in a wave. The fire became a wall of
flame as the radiance burrowed into the heart of the building, a blossom
of phlogiston was born.
The two GEVs screamed into sight, each passing by the walls
of the Bolo Corporation Building, searchlights and turrets tracking
inside the building. Seeing the glow within, they came closer.
The music became a spiritual wave, rolling over Rene in the
afterglow of creation of genius, and his back went out as he threw his
head back.
The contents of the two trucks went up, shattering the
windows throughout the Bolo Corporation, as parts of the structure
simply vanished. The fire, the gases, the explosion, took as avenues of
escape the thousands of holes where once stood windows. The
concussion of force caught the two deaccelerating GEVs like insects in
the hands of a giant infant, smashing them against the ground, where
the ammunition and fuel in them cooked off, the armor bulging at the
seems.
With one last effort of magic, Rene channeled almost all of what
remained of his vitae into his Thaumaturgy of Creo Ignem.
Behind him, the roaring flames seemed to gain life, swirling
about, reaching for the sky as they twisted and turned, each strand of
fire attuning itself to a different shade of red, orange, or yellow. Higher
and higher the flames rose, still burning, as no mortal flame ever could,
achieving shape, colors moving and swirling, until they held.
Rene slung his guitar, his teeth holding his pic between them,
as he walked on, his eyes lazy with the ecstasy, the pure epiphany of
destruction he had just known. It invigorated him, made him whole.
And behind him, in perfect detail, each feather carved from fire,
each having its own color, the eyes blazing white fury, rose a phoenix, a
bird shaped from sheer fire, carving itself into the tapestry of the night
sky, before it began to fade.
(Burn, baby, burn), Rene thought to himself, as he smiled,
knowing he would never forget such perfection of pure destruction.
And on the echoes of the wind came the last notes of Rene's
performance:
The dying cry of a newborn phoenix.
* * * * * * * *
(This can't be happening), thought the woman desperately,
even as the ropes dug deeply into her arms and legs, cruelly reminding
her of the grim reality of her situation. (Oh, Kami-sama, this can't be
happening!)
"Ready, baby?" said the horrible Gaijin monster that grinned at
her with his animal teeth. His oh so sharp, animal teeth. Fangs. She
had seen the movies. Knew what he was.
The man drew one clawed fingernail over her back, and Kimiko
stiffled a gasp of pain, unwilling to show the monster any such
satisfaction, biting her lip and clenching her teeth until enamel chips
and blood filled her mouth, around the tiny rubber ball. One more, twice
again, the nail dug.
"You _are_ ready!" whispered the monster. And all the
previous pain became memory.
The claw cut in again, deeper, slashing muscles and severing
ligiments with tendons, and Kimiko felt hot fluid gush down her back,
over her waist, blood she knew, and she screamed in pain. The blood
flowed all over her chest, across her sides, and dripped from her nipples.
She struggled harder, even as the ropes dug in and gave her burns.
"Let's make things interesting, shall we?" the monster lovingly
hissed in her ear.
It was their fault. All their fault. Ever since the barbarian,
degenerate Westerners had come to her nation. To her home. Bringing
their weapons, and perversions, and monsters with them.
Kimiko screamed again, as the claws rent her body, flaying thin
patches of skin, digging into muscles, causing pain after pain AFTER
PAIN! Lacerating her face, her breasts, the womb that had born little
Akane but a few years ago. Her body became a living inferno of agony.
"NOW" the man whispered, and an ice cold sliver of flesh, his
tongue, licked mingled blood and tears from her face. "Just right.
Terror and pain." And then his fangs extended and bit into her.
Screaming, she fought, as the monster sucked deeply on the
blood that welled up. Yet through the dimming pain and rising pleasure,
Kimiko thought she heard something.
- - - - - - - -
The door flew open as Thomas applied the appropriate entry
method of his boot, aided by his Potence, shattering the synthwood
construct in one savage blow.
Even as the splinters and fragments of the door blew about
him, several even penetrating his flesh, Thomas was moving forward,
his Celerity making everything around him move slower, even as he
moved at normal speed. It seemed so unreal, as it had countless times,
the feeling increased by his Quietus deadening all sound around him for
meters. The Hand Cannon 3 was in his hand, already moving up from
the downward pointing position it had been in.
It was kind of silly, but that action brought back a memory of
his past, of himself a younger vampire. He had been a little naive about
the finer points of assassination. His experience in Vietnam had not
been one of the horror stories of massacred villages, or cutting off the
ears of the fallen enemies, but he had learned to kill well enough. But
not well enough for his sire.
One of the first things he had learned was breaking and
entering. How to anticipate it. How to target. How to actually perform
the action.
It had probably been all the movies, with their stereotypes and
misinformation. He knew it was more than probable, as he continually
saw the same rookie mistake being made over and over again, by both
his enemies, as well as new Sabbat recruits.
It had been a simple drill; bust down the door, then pop a cap
in the ass of the target. Smooth, simple, and easy. One motion, all
thought flowing into the action. At least in theory. It had taken several
dozen attempts over several nights to get it right.
He had just begun to feel comfortable with action, when his
sire had substituted himself as the target. His first attempt had
surprisingly gone off superbly, and he was only starting to feel a glow
of statisfaction when his sire had calmly stated that he had made a
critical error. Mentally reviewing his performance, he had angrily replied
he had done no such thing. Smiling, his sire had asked him to try the
exercise again.
He had done so, expecting to find his sire hiding, or at some
furniture. Instead, the short man had been right in front of him. With
that small smile still on his face, the man had almost casually reached up
with an iron-hard grip to grab the wrist of the hand that held his gun up
by his cheek, like they did in the movies. Thomas knew he had screwed
up when the man had glided up, and looked him straight in the eyes
with that smile as he whispered, "This is why you keep the gun low."
The weapon his sire had had below his sight had blown both
his kneecaps off in a split second, and Thomas had learned the valuable
lesson of how an enemy could easily block a descending weapon from
an elevated position, not an ascending weapon from an arc below the
human center of gravity.
(Perhaps that was why I find myself categorizing), thought
Thomas, to himself. (The memories of the past).
First off, the lack of accessible, or blockable, exit points. Two
egress locations, one a window, the other the back. Poor positioning of
furniture. Poor lighting conditions. And in all the wrong places.
The man was starting to react, to get out from under the
woman, as Thomas raised his gun. He was fast, but not hectic or
reckless. One sure kill, his sire had always told him, is forever better
than a hundred accidental fatalities.
The Hand Cannon 3 that he held was, technically speaking, not
intended to be used by humans. Only the finest physical specimens
would be able to handle the recoil from the potent weapon. Hitting
something was an entirely different proposition, if not impossible. The
Hand Cannon 3 was a 12.7 mm bore weapon, essentially a light anti-tank
rifle or anti-boomer weapon cut down to pistol size. While a shorter
barrel meant less weight, recoil, and size, it also meant a sharp drop in
accuracy. The caseless shells also gave much more bang for their buck
than the brass-cased shells of older days. It took a steady hand to
place one of the diamond tipped, molecularly-aligned shells through any
target. Even his Potence barely made the job acceptable.
(What an idiot), thought Thomas, as he took careful aim at the
exposed and naked legs. Even as they started to wave like grass in the
wind, the vampire struggling beneath the woman, Thomas took aim.
Contrary to popular opinion, the kneecap is not the best place
in the leg to shoot someone. First off, it is a fairly small target. Second,
all it does is incapacitate from the knee down. Third, there is no
permanent damage beyond crippling.
Thus, Thomas' target was the thigh. The big, juicy thigh, an
easy target on both men and women. The thick femur made a tempting
target, and the prominent veins and artery were laughably easy to sever
and damage. A number of factors, including the close proximity to the
central nervous system, made it ideal.
The Hand Cannon 3 bucked in his hand, and though the sound
was muted, Thomas could feel the bones in his wrist, the carpals as well
as the radius and ulna, creak and bend under the massive force. His arm
slapped back, even as the gas of the explosion propelling the projectile
forward flooded the gas vent, the force chambering a new round.
The Hand Cannon 3, as mentioned, was designed to take out
heavy armor. The bullet was not particularily aerodynamic, giving poor
accuracy and limited range, but this close, it made little difference. The
jacketed, artificially densed steel penetrated the unliving flesh of the
vampire's thigh with all the force of a five hundred pound sledgehammer
being brought to bear on the contact point. The flesh of thigh seemed
to explode, the bone fragments flying about in the leg, lacerating further,
leaving the lower leg connected to the body only by a few strands of
flesh. The Hand Cannon barrel was already moving.
As Thomas had expected, the sudden shock of pain had
caused the vampire to convulse, every muscle freezing up in shock at
the violation of the body. For a brief second, the vampire was perfectly
still. Thomas knew this would happen, and it was too good an
opportunity to pass up. In fact, he had counted on it. By the time the
seizure of muscle was fading, the gun was again in position over the
other thigh.
The gun fired again, soundlessly, and this time Thomas *did*
feel some bones break in his hand. The shell was a little off this time,
but in the end, it made no difference. The body fragments flew like dirt
as the bullet became as a mole, frantically burrowing through the flesh
of the vampire.
Thomas took an instant to spend his precious vitae towards
the task of healing his wrist. He knew his enemy could not escape now,
but that did not make him any less cautious. The Ventrue could still see
and thus Dominate, and his Presence required only the body of the
wielder so as to function. Both had obviously been applied with great
affect to the woman in front of him, who obviously did not want to be
here.
Thomas did not truly feel pity for the Oriental woman. She was
of the Children of Seth, just as he was of the Children of Caine. It was
his right to feed from such a descendant of Seth, just as it was the right
of the degenerate Ventrue who now preyed on her. But Caine abhorred
waste and excessive cruelty by his children towards the offspring of his
youngest brother.
Looking into the tear-streaked eyes of the woman, Thomas felt
something pass through him. It was as though he was looking at a
kindred spirit. A fellow in belief. She would not stand to be used thus.
Her pride would not allow it. But she could be used in another way, and
he saw the silent plea to grant her this small vengenance burning in her
brown almond shaped eyes. Thomas felt his arm move almost of its
own violation.
Thomas did not consider himself a hero. Nor did he see his act
as a humanitarian one. But nor was his action the act of one motivated
solely by self-interest and a desire to complete his mission. It was one
of... understanding.
The gun shivered again in his hand, and the shell slammed into
her back, blood and viscera exploding outward as the round continued
onward, to the undead heart of the vampire, which immediately gushed
forth its stolen bounty. The final jerk of the woman, and the satisfaction
in her eyes revealing that her shame was finally ended, told Thomas she
was dead.
One more round was fired, making sure that the heart, the seat
of all Cainite power, has destroyed, mangled into the consistency of
hamburger. The blood from the woman and vampire made one last
pulse of red mist, before going calm.
The receiver on the gun locked back, as it no longer had a
round to chamber. Uncaring of the throbbing pain in his wrist, Thomas
let the hand holding the gun drop to his side. His other hand went to
the small of his back as he stepped forward.
The Ventrue vampire was thrashing impotently, nearing frenzy,
even as he stared upwards to the pitiless eyes of Thomas. A lesser
assassin might gloat, might glory in the misfortune of his mark. But
Thomas had been too long at the business to make such mistakes.
The vampire struggled even more, fangs extended as it tried to
shake of the dead weight of the woman's body. But his own torture of
her now defeated his efforts. The ropes kept her body from moving too
far up, and the dead weight kept him pinned. His arms could not find
enough strength, his back not enough purchase in the plush surface,
and his shattered legs could not hope to manufacture the leverage
necessary to move him up to effectively fight. Thomas looked in the
eyes of the Ventrue as they widened, the Ventrue realizing he was
trapped and helpless. And thus he entered a frenzy, crying out with
mute howls of rage.
Thomas felt the handle of the long-bladed knife, which he
withdrew with one smooth motion, keeping it gripped in a standard knife
hold, point down. It swept up, and the Ventrue got a look at his doom.
The weapon was not terribly impressive. Nothing, to be sure,
like the ancient, Brujah-forged blade his commander wielded. No, this
was a cheap, affordable death-dealer. The kind of sword that lost its
razor edge after a few dozen strikes. The Ginsu knife of the future. But
it was very sharp. And Thomas had an intimate knowledge of the
anatomy and physiology of the human and vampire body, from muscles
and fat, to bone and nerve.
With all of his weight and strength behind it, guided by his
skill and knowledge without ceremony or fanfare, the blade fell, cleanly
bisecting the fourth and fifth vertebrate, cutting into the sofa beneath,
before being pulled sideways and free, gliding up in an ergometric move
that found the blade cleaned with a twist, and returned to the sheath.
Now that the deed was done, Thomas took the time to look and
admire his handiwork, even as the body of his victim began to revert to
a withered corpse, and the nude woman gave her last twitch of life.
(It was good), he decided. Not his best by any means, but
good. And it was done with tried and true methods. Not that he had
too many bones to pick with the innovative tactics of his young
commander. They were brilliant, inventive, and usually successful. It
was just that Thomas was at heart a conservative in many regards. He
*liked* doing jobs like this. Methodical, by the numbers, with style.
Old school. Yes indeed, he liked it old school. And he felt a glow of
pride at his handiwork. But it was more than that, he realized after a few
seconds of reflection. He felt _good_.
Now Thomas knew he was not a good vampire, no saint, no
Salubri. Not even a decent man , by human standards. But sometimes,
in cases like this one, where he could grant a dying wish, and gain a
small measure of justice, no matter how dark, he was reminded that for
all the darkness in his own soul, there were those who were even darker
and more evil still.
With one tender gesture, Thomas reached out and gently
closed the eyes of the poor woman who was simply at the wrong place,
at the wrong time. He took one long second to memorize her face, then
turned on his heel, reloading his weapon as he Obfuscated. Almost
casually, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the thermal grenade.
With one hand, he thumbed the primer, and tossed it back, before
walking into the night.
Behind him, in an obscene parody of a lover's embrace, in the
act of making love, designed to create children, lay two corpses, one a
mummified shell, the other still oozing out dying life fluids, and the only
product of their union was death.
Then the thermite grenade went off, the wave of heat igniting
all about it. The flames caught up swiftly, and the burning of the
building and bodies gave rise to a mournful dirge of fire that called to
the night sky.
* * * * * * * *
The Communications Department of ADP was a zoo, as report
after report poured in. Switchboard directors and ADP Operators were
frantic, and overworked. After almost two months of _relative_ calm,
the shit certainly seemed to have hit the fan.
The Operator Center had been rennovated, with new
equipment and an entirely new, more ergometric arrangement of space
and devices. The former lines of terminals and operators working cheek
and jowel had long been abandoned. Now, each operator had their
own, independent station. Each station was assembled in a satellite
arrangement, five stations facing each other with their own, shared,
CPU. This enabled the managers of the Operator Center to direct critical
communication duties to a single satellite. If necessary, several
communication satellites could be directed to the assistance of a single
operation, keeping a rough sense of order in the frantic bustle of the
workload the operators had to deal with. That order was critical, as
several times in the history of the ADP, lines of communication had
gotten scrambled, resulting in horrible ADP casualties. Even worse, in
many ways, was the night of 2031, back when a systems failure on an
overtaxed CPU node had crashed the entire system, leaving the officers
in the field without support, either medical, intelligence, or emotional. It
was a testament to the rigors of their job that most ADP troopers
considered in their top ten of important things, that an operator talking
to them meant so much. A voice of calm, amid the chaos, encouraging,
helping. Psychologists identified it as command syndrome, named after
the psychosis that struck many soldiers when they no longer had a
definite command structure, no longer had their entire world defined by
the orders of a superior. The more honest troopers simply commented
on how good it was to here a woman's voice in your ear, like your
mother, even if you were deep in the shit, or watching your friends
massacred before you by rampaging boomers, or watching your own
lifes blood gushing from the gaping chest wound you had.
Yes, the ADP Operators were very important to the ADP
personnel in the field. And right now, they were being taken to the
brink of insanity. Disasters were popping up, all over the city. There
was reports of an explosion on the 87th floor of the Tinsel City Building.
Falling debris and glass had made the entire area for several blocks
unpassable, and very dangerous. People at Jeremiah Garrison's building
were claiming he had been assassinated, and were demanding a full
investigation by the ADP. An entire district in MegaTokyo was
without power, as a rogue boomer in the Far Northern District had gone
wild, smashing capacitors and routing breakers. Normal Police were
handling that, but were requesting ADP assistence.
There was also reports of several fires throughout the city.
The Kamazake Massacre, as the media was already calling it, had
heightened public paranoia and fears to an absolute frenzy. Thousands
upon thousands of calls were coming in from concerned citizens,
frightened families, and practical jokes. The emergency lines were being
flooded, inundated, despite the request of the ADP to use the special
line established to deal with the Kamazake Massacre.
On top of which, a number of citizens, frightened, bored, and
roasting in the sweltering heat of the city, decided to have some fun
tonight. Already, there were reports of looting, rioting, drag racing, and
gang war.
On top of which, MegaTokyo's *other* citizens were
protesting. Overworked, undermaintained, and uncooled, the boomers
were going berserk. Not in droves, not in rebellion. More often than
not, their AIs went out with a little *PIFF* of smoke, and that was that.
But sometimes, the boomers _didn't_ simply go "piff". Most of the
time, it was harmless. They kept repeating the same task, over and over
again. Or wildly gyrated, which could be dangerous if someone got in
the way. No, the real danger was when the synthetic hormone program,
the virtual emotions that were used to enslave the boomer, went out of
control.
They might be artificial, but the emotions and the hormones
that caused them were just as strong as in a human being. And like an
adolescent going through puberty; and with about as much control, the
boomer reacted and overreacted to anything it saw. Freed from
constraints, it would attack those who had insulted it, those who had
hurt it.
Karmic debt returned, in this life.
Fortunately for one particular red-headed ADP controller, she
was spared the majority of the madhouse. Her entire satellite, E,
including stations E1-E5, were waiting in an auxiliary function, having
been assigned to the Kamazake case, led by Inspector McNichol.
Nene was in a particularily bad mood. More than a bad mood,
she was downright nasty. Despite the attempts at air conditioning, all
the recyclers did was provide a light perfuming to the air that flowed
through the vents, regurgitating the stagnant stench of sweat. Like old
gym socks, left on a heater. It was everywhere.
It was coming from her co-workers, and coming from her, Nene
had to acknowledge. She was herself coated in a fine sheen of sweat. It
didn't go anywhere, and the heat buildup continue, despite the fact she
had loosened her uniform. Another pet peeve of hers. Uniforms, while
they tended to look great, and made the wearer seem authoritative, and
perfect, had disadvantages as well. First off, they had to be worn in
stages. Several precise, carefully constructed stages. How to tie the
cord around the arm. How to hook the skirt. How to twist the arms on
the blouse underneath. And other annoying things. But the worst
thing about uniforms, was that they were very unpleasant to wear.
They were very unpleasant. It seemed that in making them
look nice, comfort was sacrificed. Nene agreed that she looked very
cute in her uniform, but she had half a mind to stick the designer in the
ridiculously hot suit, and have *them* walk around a day in it. Point in
fact, every one of her co-workers were rolling up sleaves, unbuttoning
the top buttons of their blouses, loosening anything they could to let
air in and cool them down. Which, thankfully, was happening, though
not fast enough.
"....4-0-1, I read you. We have a situation. Rogue boomer,
domestic series, model THX-1138...."
Her co-workers were also mostly the enemy. Both Keiko and
Haruna were jealous of her mythical relationship with Leon, and made
no attempt to hide it. Sally was still an enemy, though for different
reasons. On the plus side, Sally was one of the few who didn't believe
that Leon and Nene were having a secret and torrid relationship. The
reason for that was also the reason Sally was on the minus side; she
was quite convinced that Nene would go out with _her_ instead, if only
she would open up. Not that the offer wouldn't have displeased Nene
at an earlier point in her life, as Nene was bi, but she was also
monogamous, and that meant she was only for Mackie. While Priss and
Linna tended to play fast and loose, Nene prided herself on her loyalty
to her current love interest.
Naoko was a friend, a good friend, but was unfortunately very
happy to believe that Nene and Leon were secretly being naughty. Of
course, Naoko was also a habitual gossip, and frequently made up
things that had never happened, just to stir the pot a little. Nene loved
Naoko, one of her best friends, but she wished that Naoko would get a
hint and stop trying to "arrange" things.
Naoko was to her right, smiling as always, and Sally to her left.
That was headache enough, but the information search she was running
for Officer Riggs and Officer Murtoff was running into problems.
Apparantly, the datastore with the files was located in the Far North
District of MegaTokyo, where there was no power, and the stupid
fucking machine would acknowledge Nene's request to stop running
that search track, and switch to another. At the same time, her headset
was chattering in her ear, with Riggs yelling for the information, as they
were apparantly currently in a hot pursuit of the maniacal garbage truck
boomer. Finally, she was menstruating, and a little heavier than normal,
and that just made the entire day suck.
Finally, after routing through an alternate, she found the file
and screamed it to the terminal in ADP Interceptor 22387. With only a
quick "Thanks", "Thanks", they were out of her ear, and another call
was being forwarded. With some amusement, Nene noticed her original
search was still stalled. Damn AOL. She hated using All-people On
Line. Though it was the service she had started on at first, when she
had first gained her interested in computers.
"-I need fifteen cars; no twenty! That red car isn't getting
away this time! I'll get you Roadbus-"
Nene toggled off that channel, and with it the annoying voice
of the Normal Police Lieutenant. Nene instead cast her mind backwards
through time, to the distant past, while a part of her focus routinely
went through the motions of doing her work. She had a lot on her mind.
The pictures of Mackie hadn't developed quite as she hoped.
Namely, she couldn't make out anything. The image and picture was so
distorted so as to be impossible to recognize a human being, much less
Mackie. With that went her plan to show him off to her co-workers and
friends. She needed to, desperately. She needed some stability.
Freedom was good. But there was more.
Her parents had come to MegaTokyo before she was born.
They were Russian, white collar both, well educated and well spoken in
Japanese. They were middle class, but they had wanted something
more. Though her mother was a qualified medical nurse, and her father
a master of nuclear physics, they hadn't liked the rough and tumble
elements of Russian society. How the sweeping political, economic,
and criminal changes in the society had been causing so much trouble.
When her mother had discovered she was pregnant with Nene, both of
them had immediately immigrated to the safest country and the most
stable country in the world.
Japan.
Of course, they hadn't been expecting for the disasters that
would strike Japan to occur. The economic upheavals that would rock
the entire world, and the entire Terran sphere in the Sol system. They
had dealt with it, though, and lived as legal aliens in a country of people
that disdained them, who saw her parents as a pollutant in their "perfect
land."
Then the earthquake had come. The earthquakes. The Great
Kanto. The Arashi Tsunami. The others. And fire, that eternal
Japanese fear, the fear of any major metropolis, had come with brutal
efficiency. Even today, exact figures could not be kept, even in such an
ordered society as Japan. But the fact was simple; too many had died.
There were not enough Japanese people to allow Japan to *live*, and
retain her level of economic power. And suddenly, her parents had a
chance.
Nene had grown up in an upscale section of MegaTokyo, one
of the northern districts, with clean streets, little to no obvious crime,
and a bright and cheerful atmosphere. She had grown up thinking of
Japanese as her native language, and Russian as nothing more than a
hobby. She had gone to private schools and public schools, depending
on which of her two parents had the chance to decide her education and
future.
Nene hadn't even been fourteen when she had decided to
rebel. To join the crusade, to rebel against.... parents. Authority. The
rules. And more honestly, the boredom.
It wasn't like she had been too damaging. To be sure, she had
worn the clothes, learned how short she could arrange her skirt, how to
make the breeze "accidently" rearrange her clothes. She had tried
smoking, some drugs, but mostly the harmless euphorics. She had even
had a few relations with teachers, but that was mostly for fun, and they
didn't even really count.
"-Oh my God! This Genjuro at the Mizuhara residence.
Someone has switched Mrs. Mizuhara with some kind of Boomer! She
is tearing us apart!"
"Genjuro, this is Command! How many casualties?"
"Actually, sir, um, none. She is just destroying our weapons."
"What?"
"...Ifu-chan, knock it off, and come back to bed..."
"Hai, Makoto."
"What the hell? The boomeroid just disappeared!"
"Dammit, Genjuro! Where di-"
Nene tuned out that call. Mizuhara residence again. Last
month, it had been giant boomer bugs. That place was a magnet for
weirdos.
She had stormed out, actually ran away from home at the age
of sixteen. She had had her computer skills, learned from friends and
school, but no hardware meant no chance to make life easier. She had
been forced to live in a rathole of an apartment for five hellish months.
Even worse had been that bastard Takeda at the Nippon Radio Shack.
Her manager had possessed a large gut, roaming hands, and a
condenscending and lecherous attitude. Even today, the thought of
him touching her sent shivers down her spine. Of course, she couldn't
do much about it, as he was her boss, that was rocking the boat, girls
were supposed to smile and be cute to sell products. Nene could still
feel the pleasure she had known when she had slashed that bastards
account to nothing with the parts she had scrounged together from
work.
It was then, after she had really started her hacker career, that
Sylia had contacted her with the offer of membership in the Knight
Sabers Organization. The rest was history.
But that was the point. Mackie. She had met Mackie when in
the Knight Sabers. She could still remember that gawky teenage boy
that almost made her break out laughing when she had been nice to him
and smiled. He had nearly fainted and fallen all over her. She could also
remember the shock and awe she had felt, when Mackie had concisely
and quickly explained to her how AI logic with non-relative frameworks
truly functioned. In one sitting. He had become another person, a
strong young man with ideas and ideals and passion. And then, when
he realized who he was leaning against, he had become that stuttering
little boy.
That was the problem. She liked him, a lot. She liked Mackie,
more than any of the others. Her parents had always hoped she would
find a nice young man, marry, and become a full citizen. Nene had
always thought it silly, though she had dreamed the schoolgirl
fantasies. But that was just it. She had always dreamed. Never really
thought about it. And right now, she could feel the urge and desire to
get married. It was like some winding spring on a clock that had
recently begun to count down.
That was the problem with Japan. If she got married, she
would be expected to quit her job, especially if her husband was rich.
Which Mackie was. In traditional Japanese views, the only place of a
woman in the marketplace was for young, unmarried girls and old
women. Things had changed, but still it persisted.
Take the ADPolice. It was a good enough place to work, with
people Nene considered family. But boy was it screwed up.
The boss for an example. Not just the Captain, who typically
had to be skilled, but not always. But rather, the Police Chief. The one
who ran the show. They weren't chosen for their skill, or dedication.
They were chosen because of their lineage, their connections, and the
university they graduated from.
And the breakdown of personnel. Nene didn't mind the fact
that she was an Operator, safe from danger. She was actually rather
glad for it. But it galled her when she knew full well that no woman
could ever achieve high rank. Sure, making Sergeant was possible.
Lieutenant even. But then the glass ceiling. A woman could be a
trooper, or an Operator, or support, but never be a high ranking
Detective or Command staff. Why? Because a woman would
eventually get married, then leave the job to have children. At least,
that was the traditional thinking and rationale. It didn't help that several
women in the troopers had been waiting for slots at Detective for years,
yet were unable to break the glass ceiling. Damn hidebound dinosaurs
just perpetuated the belief. And if a woman complained? Rocking the
boat, they called it. And then they were an outsider, gai-jin, and the
social order was perserved.
It made Nene want to vomit, then pull out a service pistol and
gun down about a dozen people. Maybe she even wanted to use it on
herself. Yet despite it all, Nene really wanted to get married. She loved
Mackie, yes, but she had a feeling she would go for any guy that was a
good catch. God, it made her sick. Were her feelings for Mackie
honest? Or was it just a desire to get married?
But then again, a part of her danced and sang at the thought of
being Mackie's wife. Mackie's wife. Where she could take his surname,
and join his family. Be enveloped by their own community, walled away
from outsiders. To call Sylia sister in name, as well as in spirit. To go to
sleep with someone she loved, and expect to find support when she
needed it. To support him, and help him through his tough times. And
yes, even to feel her own belly swell, as a child of her own grew inside
her womb.
She knew it was traditional, old-fashioned, everything she had
fought against as a teenager. But a part of Nene wanted it so bad, it
shook her. And to say nothing of the fact that the image of Mackie
wouldn't leave her. His smile. His eyes. His lips. His body, hard
muscle, firm yet not bulked. His other muscle, and the way he would
hold her chin, and look into her eyes as his hands would carress her
breasts until all they were were fiery globes, and how on that magical
night, how she had, how *they* both had-
"...Nene-chan? Nene! Nene!" came the insistent voice.
Nene blinked, looking around, flushing bright red and hoping
that no one saw or smelled her aroused state. To be caught
daydreaming like that was an embarassement she would be humiliated
utterly by. Though the memory of the electric passion tugged at her
desire, and the bliss of the gasps, his as well as her own, merging as
they-
"Nene!" came the voice in her headset.
"Hai!" Nene tried to sound as chipper as she could, even as
she squirmed in her seat.
"I need some background on several individuals. Can you set
something up?" came the speaker again, who Nene recognized as Leon.
"Hai! Sure!" Nene said.
"Nene, I didn't even tell you what it was about", Leon scolded.
"Gomen, gomen, I was a little distracted", Nene admitted.
"No problem. We are still setting up and preparing. I just
wanted to drop a line, and see if you were napping", Leon said, and
Nene could almost hear the grin on the other side.
"Rest? A public servant's work is never done!" Nene giggled,
once again on familiar territory.
"Sure, Nene, sure. Take a look at the files. Tell me what you
can dig up. I'll keep in touch. Bye", Leon clicked off.
Nene nodded, a habit she had, as there wasn't anyone she was
speaking to who could see her. But she wasn't the type of person to do
anything in halves.
Absently, Nene sent her searches and her drones out,
scourging the Net for the information Leon requested. She modified the
parameters, tightening and widening the effort dependent on the results
she received. It was an old trick, something she was used to, and easily
had in hand. One part of her mind multitasked, while another, less sure
and secure, pondered her situation.
What to do? What to do! She had to do something. Mackie
had come back, different. It didn't seem like another woman had her
hooks in him, but she couldn't be sure. Maybe she was being too
forward, but whether just boyfriend or future husband, she wanted
Mackie. And as a rule, when Nene really wanted something, she always
got it.
Her mind made up, Nene focussed on the job at hand a little
more. At the same time, outfits, plans, motions, actions, and other ideas
began to take place.
Whether he knew it or not, Mackie was going to be hers.
Whether he wanted it or not.
Eyes narrowing, pert mouth smirking, Nene went to work as
she tossed her hair over her shoulder.
* * * * * * * *
More customers arrived, one after the other. Most were ADP
personnel, taking a quick snack. Enjoying the company of one another
in the comfort of informal settings. Years ago, in a more traditional
Japan, such fraternizing was frowned upon. Such taboos still existed, of
course, but not nearly as strongly as before. In MegaTokyo, despite
pretensions, an individual, regardless of their title or position, were
fairly insignificant. Even the vaunted Chairman Quincy would be
nowhere near as powerful as he was without others to help him. And in
the eye of history, even the power of Genom was but a blink. So too
were the people that sat and chatted around the noodle shop. Most
were everyday people, ordinary Atlases who held their own tiny worlds
of responsibilities and burdens on their shoulders. For some, it was to
gain energy for the start of a hectic night. For others, it was to
recooperate from a busy day.
Yet off to the side, near the end of the wooden shelf that stood
as a table for the customers, was a place that none of the new arrivals
stopped by at. It was not that the location was crowded; on the
contrary, there were numerous seats available. And while it was
somewhat cooler than the rest of the restaurant, that particular area
being somewhat shielded from the heat of the oven and cooking
burners by a large storage shelf, it wasn't particularily bad. No, it was
more of an unconcious desire on the part of those who tried to
approach. A hesitant desire to be close to the two who sat there, a lady
and a gentleman. But then they realized those two wished privacy, and
respected the wishes of their betters.
The two of them sat there, one like a statute that breathed, a
predator and hunter at ease, confident in the power that he had. The
other was nervous, though it was less than obvious. It was the small
things that made it apparent, like the way she moved her hands, how
she shifted her hips, so as to better redistribute the weight of her body.
She also had a tendency to show an almost imperceptible twitch of her
hand.
Sylia cursed inwardly as once more her hand tried to go up to
touch her hair. The longer tail of hair at the base of her neck tickled,
several strands having escaped from the hairpins she wore. Again, she
had to restrain herself from reaching up to straighten it out. She knew
full well that the jerky motion of her hand, barely noticeable, would be
picked up by the observant Frederick. He seemed to pick up on
everything else. Damn it, she didn't want to seem like a stupid and
nervous schoolgirl! It was natural to be nervous, but this one seemed
to be appraising and testing her. She didn't want her nervousness to be
so apparent. She didn't think Mr. von Ruthaven was infallible, but he
was very, very sharp. And she didn't want to give him any more
advantages than she already had accorded him.
Truth be told she was very nervous. Frederick had just
intimidated that he could kill her, and would kill her. That he knew
things about her, about Mackie, about the Knight Sabers that she was
ignorant of. And on the same time, with one hand held up in promised
retribution, he held his other hand out, palm open. He offered to tell her
secrets that she was ignorant of, give her answers she had sought.
Make her aware of greater truths.
And now he just sat there, calmly sipping his tea. Was this
some sort test of his? Was he waiting for her to make the first move?
Was there supposed to be some meaning in the relish he was taking in
drinking down the caffinated beverage? Probably not? Or perhaps it
was an attempt to see her showing initiative?
Just before she was about to speak, her thoughts gathering on
what to say, what to ask, he turned to her and smiled, his eyes, ever so
slightly large, stopped her as started to speak. More than that, it was
that damn voice, holding so much emotion, communicated through mere
sound. It was a tempting potion of intensity. Even when calm, he was
intense.
"Now, how about that meal?" Frederick inquired, his voice
hinting at hunger, curiosity, openness, menace, seduction, and a dozen
other things that Sylia could not make out in that potpurri of subliminal
messages, "I am famished."
Sylia was about to agree, when she saw the hint of a smirk, of
arrogance, of condensending attitude all directed at her. As though he
knew how his voice and eyes were doing these things to her.
Damn him! "No, thank you", Sylia cooly replied, as she
seethed inside. She knew he was doing this to annoy her, to keep her
off guard and angry. And damn him again, it was working. Or was this
a more general test, one crafted to see how much she needed to be in
control? Her limits? Or whether or not she was willing to fight?
Frederick started to blink, as concern entered his eyes. Her
emotions had suddenly shifted, the colors of her aura flaring into a
churning mass of blues, reds and greens. And her thoughts had
shifted. Whether she knew it or not, his respect for her had just gone
up another notch. Her mind was shifting tactics, and the delicious
lattices of her mind, like gossamer spider webs crafted of titanium that
hung in the vastness there, were beautiful. She was as well, with
intelligence, will, idealism, and hope. He couldn't read her as well as he
could a hundred other elders of his own kind. Her mind was more well
ordered then the most anal-retentive of his own clan. Her emotions,
kept hidden, had an intensity that a Toreador would envy. And her
soul was so different, so much like Samiels'-
Cutting himself off from that memory, Frederick reminded
himself that it had been necessary. Had been necessary. Necessary.
How he hated that word. What he was doing here, now, was another
thing that was "necessary."
Redirecting his attention, Frederick relied on his eidetic
memory, enhanced by his Thaumaturgy, to go over his own actions,
categorizing them. At the same time, he kept track of his surroundings,
absently destroying yet again another roll of film the Watchful Eye
Private Investigator was trying to load into her camera. Hmmm... she
was nearly to the point where her anger was great enough to have her
have an "accident" with the camera; damn, stock prices went down. He
wondered briefly if Sylia knew that he owned the Watchful Eye
Detective Agency, dismissed it as irrelevant before his Auspex power of
Omniscience could read her, and began extrapolating a possible
scenario for her reaction. The conclusion was that he should make his
influence less known and oh, (what is this), he thought, extending his
perceptions farther, achieving perfect and absolute spacial awareness
about him for several hundred meters. It wasn't perfect, like focussing
the vision on an object, but more like perceiving everything the sweep
of the eyes. Of course, this was 720 degrees of vision, through solid
concrete and stone. Damn, so that was what he had done wrong.
Frederick's review of his performance came to one most likely
conclusion, even as his eyelids rose, finishing his blink.
Damn, he had started to gloat, a little too eager. (Pride goeth
before the fall), he reminded himself. He would have to fix that.
Sylia looked over at Frederick, who blinked and looked at her
with a trace of concern, regret and hurt in his eyes. Good, he had gotten
the message. Sylia knew she had to make it loud and clear. She knew
she was being patronized, but she also knew she had something he
wanted. A quick verbal and metaphorical slap took care of that, and
helped set things back into their proper place.
"Are you sure? My treat", Frederick invited, the slightest
quaver and catch of his voice seeming to convey an ocean of meaning,
each current and tide bringing in messages of apology, tempered by a
reminder of his own position.
Inwardly, Sylia smiled, her objective accomplished.
Inwardly, Frederick smiled, his objective accomplished.
Somewhat coldly, Sylia regarded him, as though prompting him
to continue. It was a small victory, inconsequential, but in games of
dominance and submission, it was these tiny victories of minor battles
that caused the war to be won. Causing him to fumble up, make this
tiny mistake, would throw him off guard. Men had a tendency to
dominate conversations, or became either aggressive or hesitant when
unsure. Either one would suit her. She would use any advantage.
Yes, that *was* a good idea. Someone who thought that her
opponent was aggressive or hesitant would be overly confidant. That
could serve just as well. Now, should he be aggresive or hesitant? Or
just ignore the idea?
Sylia felt a hint of elation as there was a slight hesitation in
Frederick's next words.
"Your decision", he said.
"Miso soup", Sylia decided, having evaluated several
selections from the menu. If he was trying something underhanded,
then the vapors from the miso soup would rise up into the air. A
discrete adjustment of her purse, and the airborn toxin detector she had
put inside would take a sample, and determine if there was anything. It
seemed unlikely, but anything was possible. Her plan was working,
however minor. She would have to shift gears though. It was a bad
idea to rely on any single plan. Multiple avenues and efforts would
better serve her.
"An excellent starter", Frederick stated, already designing
counterplans for every plan she came up with. Using submissive ocular
cues to make him overconfidant? Easy solution to that one. Interesting
idea if she was to do _that_! But could it even work? Apparantly so,
judging by a quick mental review. He actually _would_ react that way.
How very interesting.
Sylia noted how Frederick's demeanor changed. His gaze
became harder, his jaw firm, as he looked over at the young man,
Yuusuke. Sylia could almost see the palpable aura of power. She could
see the results, though she could not actually tell what it was that those
around her found so impressive. It was like someone hit the "on"
switch of those around her. In almost synchronized motion, the heads
of the people within eyesight swung over to stare at Frederick, almost
rapt in their attention. They stared at him like he was the most important
person in the world.
Was this one of Frederick's tricks? Perhaps a test? Did he
own everyone around him? Were they his minions? If so, why show
her? They didn't seem like they worked for him, but the speed and
constant of the attention they showed the Genom Director was...
unsettling, to say the least. It was almost inhuman, like the presence of
a world famous superstar, like how royalty were treated in the ancient
days. If Frederick was a direct relation to the Emperor of Japan, Sylia
did not think he would garner a greater reaction. These people treated
Frederick like he was someone of awesome import. Did they recognize
him, and his Genom connections?
Just as suddenly, the attention of everyone but the proprietors
of the shop wavered. Only Keiko and Yuusuke were paying attention to
the young man, the others having returned to eating or dining.
(How did he do that?) thought Sylia. It was almost like a 33-S
sexaroid ability, with hypnotic optics and pheromone powers. Yet those
only worked on the opposite sex, and then only to a certain degree. The
optics, which were the greater portion of the ability of the 33-S, could
only affect one person at a time. And the pheromones had a remarkably
reduced efficiency the older the beholder was. And that couple on the
opposite side had to be at least eighty five years of age. Yet even they,
arthritis inflaming their joints, had risen to witness the face of Frederick.
Like they all had.
And all he had done, as far as Sylia could tell, was to raise his
chin up.
The young man, Yuusuke, came forward like an attentive dog,
his eyes eager and hands moving with nervous energy as he asked,
"Your order?" His voice was breathless with anticipation.
Sylia was almost speechless with shock. They hadn't been
speaking that loudly. And she had only just decided. No one had been
looking at them. So how did this Yuusuke know that they were ready to
order? Did Frederick own them? What was going on?
Frederick's expressive voice, that voice that belonged to a
movie star, said with a hint of deep bass, "One miso soup, an order of
udon noodles, a bowl of rice, and a tea." The authority behind those
simple words, innocent in tone, apparant as day in hidden meaning.
Frederick dropped his gaze to the young mans eyes, and Sylia
tensed at the vague threat in his eyes. It was the slightest of tension of
the eyes, a firmness of the mouth that caused the barest hint of a smirk,
making the face seem hard without becoming arrogant. A confidant
face. A face that expected to be obeyed.
"A miso soup for the lady", Frederick said, and there was a
hint of cutting ice in his voice, a look on his face and expression that
made it clear his next words were a demand, not a request. "Your finest."
Inside, Sylia's expression was like the open one that Yuusuke
had, mouth wide open, as though waiting for something to fly in.
Yuusuke nodded his head suddenly like a bobbing bird, jerky like a
caffeine addict, as irregular as an elderly gentlemen. "Of-f course, sir.
The best for he-", he saw Frederick's eyes narrow slightly, and hastily
revised his next words, swallowing, "-the lady."
Frederick nodded, seeming to accept that. With a startling
suddeness, like a lord dismissing his servant, Frederick ignored the man,
returning to his contemplation of his tea. With a careful sigh of relief,
Yuusuke moved to fulfill the order.
Sylia realized she was staring, and couldn't help it. The way he
moved and acted was at one minute like a king, and then the next, he
was a calm and collected bystander. And, she realized with a slight
blush to her cheeks, he was very proper and gentlemanly.
Sylia involuntarily moved her eyes to Frederick's own as he
pushed aside his tea to regard her. The change was shocking and
sudden. One moment he was frozen water in winter, and the next, you
realized it was in fact spring, as the thin ice on the pond shattered. That
smirk was still on his face, but it was not arrogant or contemptuous. It
was more like a confidant and humorous expression. "Well", he drawled
out, his voice again sending shivers down her spine, "that takes care of
the first of the appetizers."
"Yes", Sylia breathed, before she realized what she had just
said. Mentally shaking herself, she once more drew on her inner will,
constructing a calm facade. Not an ice queen; they were too far into
this to go frozen bitch. Rather, she decided to merely act extraordinarily
collected. While a portion of her attention went over what she had just
witnessed, another part went into planning what to do next.
Hmm... didn't seem she was quite getting it yet- dammit, the
MegaTokyo Giants lost again. Troy is going to brag about that all
tomorrow. He did call it right though, so- He was going to have to give
her more of a hint. Nothing to blatant, but decent. Perhaps a sutble use
of unobtrusive quasi-Zen revelation? Yes, that would work nicely. And
while he was at it, it looked like his little friend was getting a little more
bold. Getting more arrogant and nervous. Typical of jackals who
fancied themselves leopards.
"I hope you enjoyed them", Frederick said, as he turned back
to his tea. Let her digest that. While taking another sip, relishing the
feeling of tea going down his throat. The warmth was as delicious as
the water and flavoring. It was all cosmetic, but the ideal was the point,
not the semantics. At the same time, he directed his Auspex to the
young woman beside him.
Sylia immediately caught the slip of the tongue, despite her
fading confusion. Probably not a slip of the tongue though. A
deliberate mistake to tease her with the true meaning. A hint of what his
intentions were. Another test.
He had said "I hope you _enjoyed_ them." Them was most
likely a reference to the appetizers. Yet the appetizers had not arrived.
They had just been ordered. Which made it impossible for a past tense
to be applied to them. Enjoyed. What had she enjoyed. Not enjoy, as
he should have used. This one would not make a stupid mistake like
that. And he had said the _first_ of the appetizers. But they weren't
appetizers. They were the meal.
Meal, which was a metaphor for what they would be
discussing tonight. If the meal was knowledge, then an appetizer would
be a bit of knowledge. Of course! _Enjoyed_. She had just enjoyed a
bit of his secret knowledge, which implied it had been completed. But
he had not told her anything.
Which was exactly the point. Just as he had made everyone
respectful at the drop of a hat. He had not *told them* either! They
just reacted. Without being told anything, given no cues or warnings.
He had _ordered_ the appetizers. Just as he had the people around her.
That was the point. He was giving her a hint of the conspiracy.
And how it existed. The others had reacted to his presence,
stood in awe of Frederick and, Sylia scanned the room, just as quickly
forgot about him. Or convinced themselves they had. That was how
such a conspiracy could be kept. That was what he was showing her.
But knowing this one, which she did not, but was getting
better at, there was greater shades of grey, more to this than was
inevitably shown. What else- yes, when she had first met him, he had
mentioned something about his presence, and how it had such a
"majestic" effect on people.
And he had been surprised! Surprised that she wasn't affected
by it! That she wasn't like everybody here! He had even commented,
saying with a questioning tone that all of a sudden now made sense,
that she must be blase. And made comments on family and-
He was probing her. Trying to find out if she had met others
like him. And he had garnered from her reaction that she had not,
without her saying anything. And he had complimented her on not
being affected. Like it was something positive. Given his surprise,
which, Sylia was now convinced, was actually genuine, that wasn't why
he was interested in her. It had just been- yes, it had just been another
mark in her favor as he judged her.
But was there greater meaning? Perhaps. She would have to
think about that one, and remember this, bringing this statement in
correlation to others he might make. That way she could piece together-
yes, even his answers were a test! These answers were a riddle! A
jigsaw puzzle he intended to hand out piece by piece. Only towards the
end would she see the picture.
Oh yes, she was sharp! Already figured it out. Of course, he
had other aces up his sleeve, but damn was she quick. His respect for
her rose again, even as the thought set his Beast rumbling, the points of
his fangs starting to elongate before he reigned it, and himself, in. And
speaking of reigning in, it looked like the good Detective had reached
the proper anger threshold. With a weak burst of his Thaumaturgy,
Frederick set his will in motion.
Across the street, a block away, Chelsea's hand jerked,
breaking the locking pin, ruining her chances of getting the camera to
work. At least, until she got it to a repair shop. Surpressing a shriek of
frustration, looking again at the perfect front-page shot for Genom GQ,
Chelsea instead nashed her teeth as she discretely observed, her fingers
entered her observations in the datapad.
"So, what do you want to know?" Frederick asked, his tone
frank and open.
Sylia, about to take a sip of her tea, started to cough before she
swallowed, startled by the openness of that small question. Looking
over at Frederick, she found his eyebrows raised, his slight grin frank
and inviting. Was he serious? No, this was some sort of joke.
"Well?" Frederick again asked, curious.
Unable to keep the disbelief from her face could only say,
"What?"
Frederick grinned, "That is my question." Frederick paused for
a moment, as though thinking, before his grin faded, but with the humor
still in his eyes. "Let us make this an exchange. You will ask me a
question, I will answer as is best. Then I will ask you a question, which
you answer. Agreed?" He finished, his mercurial expression already
solemn, as though this were a sacred contract.
Which it very well may be. He seemed to place great store in
the most bizarre things. But Sylia was expecting bizarre things.
Mysterious answers. Prickly subterfuge. Honest evasions. Not a frank
exchange of information.
But perhaps that was what he was intending to do. Keep her
off guard some more by engaging a simple change of tactics. But the
truth was that it was working. Sylia simply hadn't expected such an
openness. She had no questions she could craft to optimize her
singular opportunities, questions that would maximize her time, and get
the most information out of Resu.
And he would also be getting information out of her. It was a
one for one basis in this process. He could potentially gain more from
this exchange than she would. And if that was his plan, Sylia had
several of her guesses confirmed. He was trying to get information out
of her. She had something he wanted. Knew something he desired to
know. And this medium of exchange could help him acquire what he
wanted.
And it would divide her efforts of analyzing what he said, and
deciding what she would say. And how he would interpret what she
said. Which would cause an ever increasing loop of uncertainty.
Perhaps not so foolish as it first seemed.
Especially since there was no one around them. No one to
overhear their conversation, as long as they didn't shout, this security
of privacy especially enhanced by the white noise from the subway
tunnel several blocks away, a muted roar.
"What is are the 'antitribu', really? And why is it so
dangerous?" Sylia blurted out, her suppressed fears about Mackie and
the trouble she may have inadvertently caused him suddenly making
themselves known. She started to become embarrassed, before she
hardened herself. Well, it was one of her questions. She just wasn't
sure she wanted it out in the open quite so soon. Too bad. Deal with it.
Frederick blinked once, then twice before he turned to answer
her. "I told you the truth. The 'antitribu' are the anti-tribes, those
against their own clan."
Sylia met his gaze, her eyes demanding more than a
regurgitation of his former words. Her eyes narrowed, as she glared. He
knew what she wanted to know. She wanted to know about the
Lasombra antitribu, and what that meant for her brother.
"But...", Frederick stopped to take a sip of his tea, "for your
unspoken concern, I shall tell you this. The Lasombra are an arrogant
clan, Machiavellian nobility of our kind. We all are, but they are among
the worst. Long ago, there was a division among the clan on a matter.
The majority chose one path, a small minority chose the other option
and fled their brothers and sisters, becoming the 'antitribu'. The
Lasombra are arrogant. They do not tolerate mistakes. The fact the
antitribu still exist is a blot on their perfect record, one that they desire
to erase. And the methods of the Lasombra are very... thorough." He
finished, giving an apologetic shrug.
Sylia saw the gesture, and understood what it signified. He
sympathized with her, but the fact he shrugged indicated myriad things,
like the fact he was somewhat indifferent to Mackie's plight. The fact
that he was familiar with how the Lasombra dealt with their wayward
Lasombra antitribu brethren. And perhaps most telling was cultural
meaning of a shrug; it told Sylia that this treatment of the Lasombra
antitribu was expected, that such things were normal, the status quo
among these people of the clans. It also told Sylia just how unpleasant
those Frederick associated with actually were.
Sylia stared at him, and his bittersweet smile seemed to
sympathize with her, almost as if he could read her mind, as if he knew
how hard to swallow this piece of information was. For some reason,
this only made her angry. She didn't want to be patronized, or be given
sympathy. She wanted information, to help Mackie and enlighten
herself.
"I could tell you more", Frederick said, his tone gentle,
soothing as a silent breeze on a stuffy August day in MegaTokyo, "like
what the disagreement was about, but in the end, like many things, it is
inconsequential."
Sylia sat, thinking over this. What it implied was that the
"regular" Lasombra were very numerous, far more than the Lasombra
antitribu. And if Frederick was telling the truth, it seemed the regular
Lasombra regarded hunting down their antitribu as being of utmost
priority.. Sylia had met people like that, who would do anything to
remove a stain on their record. Frederick seemed to be saying that this
is the way the Lasombra were.
"What do-" Sylia started to ask, before she say his gloved
finger raised, stopping her speech. She was momentarily embarrassed,
forgetting the rules of this exchange. Even more than that, she wanted
to know more. Frederick finally seemed to be giving her straight
answers, and Sylia burned with a passion to know more, a-
Which was making her feel even more hectic, letting her guard
down, allowing him to outmanuever and manipulate her! Get her
worried and excited, nervous and distraught, and he would be able to
squeeze what he wanted. That was part of his plan, she was sure.
"Excuse me", Sylia apologized, trying to keep the civilized
atmosphere, while at the same time giving her time to compose herself.
"Your question?"
"Very well", Frederick began, cocking his head slightly to one
side, as though listening for something, "mine is a little more complex."
"Yes?"
Frederick seemed to gather himself, before he intently looked
into her eyes. It was like fire burned in his veins, so severe was the
attention he focussed on her. It was unsettling, so much so that Sylia
started to squirm in her seat. With a flicker of understanding as to her
situtaion, the intensity of his eyes lessened, and Sylia breathed a sigh
of relief, even as her own gaze was trapped.
"Tell me, simply and honestly, what do you enjoy most about
life?" Frederick inquired, almost wistfully.
Sylia blinked, more than a little surprised by the question.
After a quick mental review of the question, Sylia discovered nothing
that seemed to have any implications against her, so answered
honestly, with the first responses that came to mind.
"Breathing. Smelling flowers and plants. Walking in the
sunlight. Watching the stars at night. Sleeping. Laughing. Crying.
Life." Sylia answered in a rush, the words tumbling out, staccato.
As soon as she was done, Frederick leaned back, eyes closed,
almost as though he was tasting something, savoring the flavor. Sylia
stared at him, as he simple smiled, eyes shut to the outside world. Just
as suddenly, he opened his eyes, solemn once more.
"Thank you. That was very honest", Frederick admitted,
before he blinked, his gaze thoughtful. "Perhaps I shall tell you a little
about the decision that caused the division in the Lasombra."
Frederick looked down at his tea cup, empty by now, only the
wet leaves at the bottom. He was like an augur, searching for an answer
in the tea leaves, and their particular fall in the steaming collection of
water, the source of life. After but a moment, he put aside his cup,
having seen what he had seen, perhaps not the answer hoped for.
"But perhaps later in this conversation. Not at this moment,
no", he decided his languid eyes looking over at her, "not yet."
He sat there, almost like a soldier at attention, perfectly
balanced on the stool, yet his shoulders were relaxed, his forearms like
the arm of balance, holding aloft the wrists that held his hands, elbows
balanced akimbo. The red of his scarf was the only color against his
dark gray overcoat, the light swallowed by the darker suit he wore
beneath. His eyes, shimmering with reflected light, and his scarf were
the only thing remarkable about him. He was good looking, but not
extraordinarly so. So why? Why did he hold such power? It was about
then that Sylia realized he was waiting for her next question.
Sylia thought about it. Frederick had said he would answer "as
is best." That left a lot of leeway. She very much doubted he would tell
her the answer to a question like "Tell me all your secrets!" or "Tell me
what I need to know." At most, he would smile or laugh. Yet, he had
asked her a seemingly foolish question. Why? Was he willing to
"give" her answers, like some freebie questions on a pop quiz? What
did he get out of her answer? I seemed to satisfy him, which told her it
was what he wanted to know. Or, he wanted her to think that.
She needed some basic information. Something to build on. A
frame of reference. Even general basics. There was some secret he
wasn't telling her about these "clans." Sylia was fairly certain it had
something to do with the unifying factor. The thing that made them the
same. Frederick had implied the clans were very different. Yet, he used
clans as an inclusive term, not an exclusive one. These clans were part
of a larger one. Did they all come from the same place? No, that did not
follow. Mackie and Frederick in no way came from the same place. That
also ruled out race, the other big motivator. Perhaps they were inducted
into these clans? Close, but it didn't seem quite right. Even if they were
inducted, they needed something more pressing than that commonality
of a clan to maintain unity. What if someone just decided to leave? So
much for that idea. The conspiracy would be blown apart. Threat of
death, or blackmail? That only worked for so long. Even if they were
raised from birth to be loyal, there was always Murphy's Law, which
ruled that eventually, someone would go rogue. And blackmail or
murder meant the target had nothing left to lose. And it couldn't be
something like demon-worship, or incest, or some perversion. There
were places, like Ishikawa's Jack Off, where that sort of thing was
accepted. No, it had to be something more. Something they all had.
A disease? That seemed closer to the truth, a more likely
unifying characteristic. It could be passed on to anyone, which would
explain how Mackie could "join" a clan. Sylia had heard stories of
lepers joining secret orders during the Dark Ages of Europe, so as to
keep their condition hidden from the general public. But even then,
they didn't _willingly_ pass on their disease. And with modern
technology, almost any problem could be cured.
No, not a disease. Or maybe it _was_ a disease? Or something
*like* a disease, something that gave an advantage so serious, that it
was worth having, or hiding, such a disease. Something that anybody
would want. Or enough people would want, despite the disadvantages.
It must also change the people infected. Make them insular.
Thus, clans. Groups of the infected joining like minded people.
And with such closeness, an opinion that they were better, or at least
different than other people. And normal people would hate such
exclusion. Like the Jewish people, who held they were the only true
chosen people of God. It gave rise to a certain hauteur, an exclusion of
other people, that they were different, even better than others, whether
in truth or not. And thus, like the Jewish people, they would be
persecuted throughout history.
Thus a conspiracy.
But what would be worth so much? If that followed, what was
the big advantage? Survival could bind them, but only some advantage
would keep them.
Maybe if she knew something more about these clans. Yes,
she needed merely general information, for a foundation of knowledge,
to get the ball rolling.
*Mon Deus*! She was *_sharp_*! She had already figured
out the basics, like he knew she would, but before an entire two rounds
of roundabout questions had been finished! She didn't know yet, but
she had figured out the rules of his little test, and was asking all the
questions she needed to. Not the right questions, and not the precisely
correct ones, but she was asking questions that were correct for her,
and precisely right for what she needed. Her mind was spinning, her
thoughts flowing into ideas and structures of possibilities. Without a
doubt, Frederick knew he could watch her, feel her mind, know her
without knowing her until the sun rose and turned him to ash. She was
without a doubt one of the most incredible human beings he had ever
met. The thought of it made his teeth ache, and his artificial breath
quicken, as the smell of her drove him nearly to distraction. The way
her own unique smell, her musk, merged with her thoughts, as unique
enough to be a fingerprint. The sound of her heart beating, each
rhythmic thump of the organ, as it pulsated. Singing out, in its selfless
duty, to keep its owner alive. Alive, yes, alive. Above all, Sylia was
alive.
"I ask again: Will you tell me about the clans, general
information?" Sylia asked again, repeating her question, as all Frederick
seemed to be doing was staring at his empty cup. Was this a test?
She almost drew back, reflexively, but controlled herself, as
Frederick snapped his head towards her with inhuman speed. His eyes
were wide, shocked, staring at her in mute surprise for the barest of
seconds, jaw dropped and mouth slightly open, before his usual
expression drew a curtain over his surprise. Sylia swallowed slightly,
nervous as a spooked animal, at what had been revealed beneath.
She had seen it. In those few, rare seconds before his
expression had become calm. That barest of moments in the transition
between shock and order. Those telling moments.
It had been the anger. It had transformed Frederick from that
shocked young man, or from a cooly collected gentleman, into
something primal. Something animal. His eyes had flashed fire and
zoanthropetic rage. Anger at himself, she knew, but the snarl on his
face, the way it accented his canines, made him look like a wolf, caused
her heart to race. It was the kind of passion foolish young girls looked
for in a man. The look of an untamable animal, someone who would
never be brought to heel. And the way he had looked at her, for the
barest of miniscle minutae. Like she was prey, like he was debating
whether or not to consume her utterly. (Big, bad wolf), Sylia sang to
herself mentally.
Frederick was shocked, even as he allowed his face to settle to
his normal expression. He was shocked that he had been shocked.
Losing focus like that? Losing track of his surroundings so that he was
surprised? It had been 6 years, 58 days, 7 hours, 31 minutes, and 2
seconds since he had last been surprised.
Why? Why had he been surprised? Why had his attention
wandered? He knew the answer to that, even as he ignored it. Keep to
the plan. This was business, of a sort- and it looked like his little hunter
was in position. Just a little more before that one acted. Best to
prepare- and answer Sylia's question.
Frederick blinked, and gave another of his slight smiles, before
he started to answer her question. His words came out in a measured
pace, carefully enunciated, "First, my apology."
"Your apology?" Sylia echoed. He was going to explain about
why he had reacted so? Be honest? That would be a switch.
Frederick nodded, making a slight gesture with his hand,
pointing and motioning down with a finger to his cup. As if by magic,
Keiko was suddenly there, blushing and bowing while she poured out
the tea as if the act was the most important in her life. She bowed
repeatedly after she finished, backing away at Frederick's twisting of his
wrist, a gesture of dismissal. As far as Sylia could see, Frederick hadn't
even noticed her, though Keiko had occasionally darted up a glance to
stare at him, abandoning her submissive of eyes downcast. Sylia
noticed her looked at her the entire time.
"About the magic tricks, if you were offended. They were
merely basic cantrips, the sort an apprentice of the art would learn", he
looked down at the tea after finishing, before raising it to take a sip. It
was not precisely rude, but neither was it very courteous when one was
having a conversation. Sylia felt a little annoyed and angry.
"I was not offended", Sylia replied, cooly. Warning bells were
going off in her head. This man didn't do anything without a purpose
he seemed. He never seemed to be inscrutable, as he seemed to want
her to figure out what he was saying. And why. And all his attitude
would do was make her a little angry and more standoff- That was it.
He was going to drop someone kind of bombshell. He wanted her
offguard, so he could see her reaction and evaluate it better.
Frederick removed a gloved hand from his cup, gesturing, "I
thought the rose and flame an excellent opening, considering that is
what my clan are so often known by."
Ah, so that was it. He was going to start telling her about the
clans. And from his opener, and his attitude, he was going to use frank
honesty and coyling hints of secrets to get her interested, and then see
what she asked, and how she reacted.
She had called that one quite well, anticipated his plan. He
must be getting old. Still, he intended to play it out. She had earned.
"The Tremere, I believe? So, you are a clan of tricksters?"
Sylia asked, eyebrow arched. He certainly seemed to like playing tricks.
Frederick smirked and shook his head, "No, the tricksters are
the Ravnos, and those who play their demented tricks the Malkavians."
"If so, then what are the Tremere?" inquired Sylia. Malkavians
insane, the Ravnos tricksters. Two clans. Lasombra and the Tremere
made four.
Frederick winked as he gestured with his hands, drawing her
attention to them. With a subtle wave, he brought his hands under the
wooden shelf that served as the table for the customers. With a twist,
his hands blurred, until he waved his hands, and a spread of cards
appeared, both hand and cards hidden from sight under the shop's
extended wooden shelf.
(What did he mean by that?) Sylia looked at Resu, coldly
demanding with her gaze a better answer than that. Though she
"Magicians", Resu stated, mysteriously, like a stage magician.
Exactly what she thought. A magician. Which could mean a
whole number of things. Magicians had more meanings than she could
conveniently remember, and it varied from culture to culture. She would
need more information than that, she thought with a stab of annoyance,
and he knew it.
(Hmmm... lets see if I can make him work), Sylia thought. It
was a tactic she had tried twice this evening, but never with vigor. She
would try it now.
Sylia put a mocking expression on her face, as though it were
only a fraction of the disbelief she felt inside. He had to have some
other meaning behind the term "magicians."
Frederick's lips twitched, "Perhaps, for the ease of your
understanding, the Tremere are like magicians; keeping secrets close to
the chest, knowing arcane lore long vanished from mortal perception."
Damn. His little friend was getting ready to do something.
Looked like- oh, one of the newer generation, eh? Using what looked
like a grenade launcher. Newer model, too. Not very traditional, or
subtle for that matter. Overconfident, too. Maybe an elder, turned
giddy and young by the fact that he could once more diablerize.
Thinking his Obfuscate would hide him. Very stupid. Especially with
such an obvious positioning. Hmmmm.... smelled like a 5th generation.
New one, too. No more than a 7th generation a decade or two ago.
Sending a new hotshot after him. But then again, their kind had always
had a grudge against his clan, and they suspected him as being directly
involved in the little incident with their ancient home.
Which was absolutely true, of course. Not that he would give
them the satisfaction of admitting it. Or ever use such tactics again. He
had been very careful to make sure the site was very remote. Even for
someone of his power or the power of his sire and associates, playing
with the power of the atom was something most Antediluvians
intensely disliked.
And no one on Earth could survive *their* dislike for very
long.
"And this makes them unique how?" Sylia asked.
Frederick just shrugged, not because he didn't have anything
to say, but because his concentration was on something else entirely.
Mentally, he muttered the words of power, the magical rhymes and
rhythms of the arcane, as his vitae burned with his power. He was, with
only a few exceptions, such as Lord Tremere, his sire, Meerlinda, and,
he grudgingly admitted, Goratrix, one of the greatest Thaumaturgists in
the world. In his mind, he saw the assassin, his Auspex making it seem
as though he were right there, as the vampire on the rooftop began to
sight down the grenade launcher.
Reaching in his overcoat pocket, a motion he knew Sylia saw,
he drew forth the simple glass slide, from a labratory in Genom he had
visited four nights ago. It was a simple, ordinary glass slide, one inch
by two inches in size. Frederick wove his Thaumaturgy around the
glass, infusing it, as he linked the glass to his rooftop target, binding
the magical formulae to it.
The vampire moved his finger down to the trigger.
Frederick finished the last of his ritual, as an inaudible sound
passed his lips, and he broke the glass slide cleanly in two, as he called
the Chill of the Windsaber.
"What is that?" Sylia asked, as she saw Frederick break the
glass slide.
On the rooftop across the street, swallowed by the sound of
the city, there was a dull clank as the grenade launcher fell to the
ground, overshadowing the sound of the fine dust impacting the
cement, all that remained of the decapitated Assamite.
As the magic faded from his body, the task complete, Frederick
smiled as he held the broken glass slide. "This? This is just an ordinary
glass slide I picked up at a lab. But it served its purpose."
What did Frederick mean by this? "Oh?" Sylia asked,
confused.
Frederick smiled, "It broke the tension." He was moderately
amused by the dual meaning of his little statement. But now he had to
deal with his other unwanted guest. Another rooftop skulker. And he
knew one other piece of information: "Our meal is here."
"Here is your order", Keiko offered, her voice trembling
slightly, as she held up the tray on which the food lay, as though it was
an offering given up to the divine. At Frederick's nod, she carefully
placed the various dishes on the table, before the appropriate people,
before she bowed over her tray.
Frederick's hand darted out startling Sylia, as well as Keiko,
who gave a slight yelp as his gloved hand caught her shaking and
delicately small hand.
Frederick gave a warm smile as way of apology, which made
Keiko flush as brightly as the red tomatos on the shelf behind.
"My thanks, lady", Frederick said, bowing slightly as he briefly
squeezed the hand of woman, before he smile a little wider.
"Thank you", Keiko answered, breathless and dizzy, smiling
happily, her cheeks rosy as Yuusuke glowered.
Sylia paid careful attention to the interaction this time. It
seemed none of the other patrons were reacting to Frederick's presence,
but Keiko was obviously overcome, Sylia noted with a brief twisting
sensation. Silly girl, overcome by a smile and a touch. But what truly
made her puzzled was how the formerly angry young man seemed to
relax, and even smile and nod at Frederick. (What the hell?) Sylia
thought. Making people respect and obey you was one thing, but
having someone who looked like they were about ready to tear you to
pieces become your best friend in a few seconds was sheer lunacy. It
wasn't humanly possible. Just a few second ago, the young man had
been furious!
And what did Frederick mean by breaking that glass slide?
Frederick gestured to the food, and turned to his own.
Sylia looked down at the miso soup, before covertly glancing
over at Frederick. He seemed to be ignoring her, his eyes closed and
face over the bowl of his own miso soup, breathing in the steam and
smell, a slight smile on his face. The look of expectation almost made
Sylia smile herself. Once more, the lines of his face relaxed, making
years fall from his face.
Convinced Frederick wouldn't notice, Sylia discretely
maneuvered her purse over by the bowl of miso soup. She casually
reached in and activated the toxin detector. She had been careful to set
the device to ignore the usual potpourri of background pollutants in the
MegaTokyo air. A movement of her hand sent enough steam over the
purse for the detector to read the sample. No beep. It was clean.
"Good, no?" asked Resu, as he carefully and silently slurped
up a few noodles.
Startled, though not showing it, Sylia carefully turned her head
to look at Resu, who was looking at her, a slightly mocking twinkle in
his eyes. Sylia ignored the slight flush of her cheeks. She was only
being careful, checking her food. It was distrustful, but what did he
expect? It was then Sylia really noticed Frederick was working on the
noodles. It seemed he had already finished off the miso soup.
Noticing her gaze going to the empty miso soup bowl,
Frederick allowed a slight shrug of his shoulders. "Sorry about that."
He examined his main dish, ate a few more noodles, before he turned
back to her and smiled.
"Feels like it's been centuries since I put down a good meal."
Blinking, Sylia nodded, taking a sip of her own tea, which she
had been nursing all night, not sure what that statement's hidden
meaning was. That seemed to be fine, as apparantly Fredrerick was
taking a break from the questioning in order to eat. Which was good.
She didn't have time to read into his last statement, and right now, Sylia
had a little bit of a headache. Analyzing and examining everything von
Ruthaven said was a trial and effort. It seemed that he had control of
the situation, even if he did occasionally make mistakes. Some of the
mistakes were inexplinable, but others seemed to be due to her own
efforts. Which was good. She could effect him if she had to. And she
had hints of information. She only needed more, so she could but the
pieces together, and use it to understand Frederick, and have some
more options than she currently did when dealing with him. Options
she could use to get more information, or protect her brother.
Options for controlling her brother.
Already finished with his noodles, an impressive feat,
Frederick waited for her to finish her miso soup. Not bad fare, though
she had had better.
"You asked about the clans, yes?" Frederick reiterated,
questioning.
Sylia nodded, as she removed a cigarette from her purse,
affixed it to the cigarette holder, and put it aside.
"Very well, perhaps the basics. The clans are the Assamites,
Brujah, Cappodocian, Followers of Set, Gangrel, Giovanni, Lasombra,
Malkavian, Nosferatu, Ravnos, Salubri, Toreador, Tremere, Tzimisce,
and Ventrue. There are also the Caitiff, the outcasts, those who have no
clan, much like Japanese ronin. Of course, these names are quite old,
and in common use among the world, even if the meanings have become
meshed with blatant errors. Though Lasombra means 'the Shadow' in
Spanish, and is a good translation for the Lasombra clan, the word
Brujah is also Spanish, and 'Witch' is a poor term for that clan. Once,
they were scholars, though now they are revolutionaries. And a
Toreador is a 'Bullfighter' in Spanish, a person that has little in common
with the artiste of the clans. So do not judge too heavily on the clan
names, or imply too much from similarities to common words", Frederick
finished.
That was a wealth of information. At last, she had to build on.
It was a rough start, but now she had a reference to everything else he
said. Or Mackie said, if he let slip any other omissions. With this
information, if she was very careful, she could conduct searches. She
didn't doubt that Frederick was being honest when he said she should
not trust the meaning of the names. But they still would give her
something to start from.
"I have an offer", Frederick said, almost hesitant.
Sylia glanced at him, as his eyes seemed to be judging her,
looking for an signs she might be interested in his offer. "I am
listening."
Frederick nodded. "I will tell you more on the clans, more than
I normally would, if you agree to answer one question for me, without
hesitation or question."
The seriousness of his offer stopped Sylia for a moment. How
far was she willing to go, anyway? What if she accepted this deal, only
to have him ask a question she could not, and would not, answer?
What if he asked the one question that was the only one he wanted to
know, and then left? What if she refused to answer his question after
accepting the offer? Would he walk away? Cave in? And what if she
did not accept his offered deal?
In the end, there was no real argument. She wanted to know
more, needed to know more, and Sylia was caught by the lure of
Frederick's knowledge, hook, line, and sinker.
"I agree", Sylia stated.
Instead of smiling, as she expected, Frederick merely sighed,
"Where shall I begin? Our long and sordid history? No, I think I shall
begin with the origin of the clans."
"Each of the clans originally comes from a sole founder, from
whom the clan sometimes bears the name. For example, Brujah founded
the Clan Brujah, while Arikel founded Clan Toreador. Likewise with
Lasombra founding the Clan Lasombra, but Haquim founded the
Assamites. Of these founders, there were thirteen, the origin of the
unlucky number. These legendary beings created the clans, and were
known as the Antediluvians", Frederick explained, his voice solemn.
Sylia noted the almost recital quality of Frederick's speech, as
though this was all coming from rote memory. Probably something he
had learned a long time ago, or had had passed down to him. Which
made sense, especially if these clans were as old as he suggested.
Still, Sylia did some quick math. "Wait a minute, you
mentioned 15 clans, yet you said there were only thirteen
Antediluvians, founders of the clans."
Frederick smiled a small, sad smile. "Indeed. For two of the
clans I listed fell, killed and destroyed by the successors who took their
place. The Giovanni defeated the Cappodocians, and the Tremere
destroyed the Salubri. Some few remnants of the Cappodocian and
Salubri still exist, but they are weak and disorganized."
Sylia immediately understood what he was trying to convey to
her. How their world was a dog eat dog environment. A place where
one clan, apparantly an extra-familial unit, could be killed, and another
could rise to take the place of the fallen. Which opened up a whole new
world of revalations.
Frederick's comments on the Machiavellian nature of the clan
politics suddenly made sense. Of course these clans would spy on one
another, and be paranoid. If two clans could rise on the bones of
another, they would have to be. It also told her a little about Frederick.
His clan was a clan of bastards. The Tremere had stolen their position
among the clans, not been afforded it by tradition.
Sylia's musings were interupted as Frederick continued.
"Each of the clans had a duty, or concept associated to it",
Frederick began, "For example, the Assamites are the assassins, the
Settites the corrupters, the Gangrel the guardians of nature, the
Lasombra bold manipulators, the Ventrue kings and rulers, the Tzimisce
tyrants. Even these, though, are mere stereotypes. No creature, not
even bacteria, are so easily defined. But for most purposes, they
serve."
Which implied their was significant differences among the
clans. Both by their duties, and by which types of people they attracted
to them. Or the people the clans selected to join them, whichever was
the method of recruitment used by the clans.
Frederick allowed her to digest that information, before he
cleared his throat. Hopeful for more, Sylia looked at him.
"I believe I shall hold onto my special question for a time, but
shall instead ask another of you", Frederick announced, as he took a sip
of his tea.
Sylia cleared her mind, filing away the information she had
learned for later study. She didn't like the idea of Frederick having a
little "Ask Sylia anything" card in his pocket, but she had little choice.
He had information she wanted, and had warned her how others of his
kind would react to her poking about for greater secrets about these
clans. Sylia intuitively believed that he was serious about that, and
didn't think it was only an attempt on his part to keep himself as her
only source of information.
"So tell me, what were your areas of academic study?"
Frederick asked, abruptly changing the subject.
Sylia stopped herself from saying anything, before she
answered, "Business mostly, with a little in the hard sciences." It was a
lie, of course, and if Resu had done any research, he would know that as
well.
"Truly? A pity. In my education, the Classics and the
Humanities were paramount, along with religion. But my question is
more a hope that you might have studied sociology? Or perhaps even a
general study of humanity?"
Sylia shook her head.
"Humanity is truly fascinating", Frederick began, "and I
sincerely mean that. There is no being more vesatile, intelligent,
adaptive, moral, innovative, and good than a human being."
Sylia started up the cigarette she had laid aside, a trifle
impatient, but patient enough to hear through this, if it would lead to
something. Still, she had her own opinion, "I would sincerely have to
disagree with you on that."
"I think you are judging humanity, rather than a human being.
Human beings are smart, independent, and usually good. Humanity
itself is dumb, becoming reactionary herd animals, with a morality that
reaches low levels in large groups. Therein is the paradox of the human.
Human beings must be intelligent social animals by their very nature.
Eastern beliefs have solved this problem by integrating society as being
critical to the human, but in doing so have neglected the higher
elements of man. They appeal to the lowest common demoninator. This
is a mistake. Much as the West believes the individual can make a
difference. An individual cannot. But a group that supports an
individual can. Yet in many cases, this individual does not know what
is best for humanity, as they are only human. This too is a mistake."
Frederick looked over at Sylia, and must have read something
in her expression. He smiled slightly, and said, "There is a point to all of
this."
"Ah yes, humanity, and the relative state of common sense
and intelligence, and how those two characteristics deteriorate in
proportion to the rise of population. You see, we of the clans are not
fools. We know, should the general human populace know of our
existence, and how they are manipulated by us, they would rebel."
"And this is a bad thing?" Sylia asked. After all, one of her life
long goals was to expose the evil of Genom to the world. And here she
was, talking to a Genom Director.
"In addition to keeping the populace ignorant of our presence,
the clans also keep secrets that would cause a general panic. Truth is a
three edged sword. You never know how it will cut."
Frederick stopped to take a moment to collect himself, before
he continued, "For example, take a fire. A fire is something that, though
it starts small, can quickly become a raging inferno. Now, there are
those who are trained to deal with the fire, a small minority. That is us,
the clans. Then there is the general public who, on seeing the flames,
immediately stampedes, crushing and destroying all in it's path." Resu
took a drink of his tea. "Humanity would do the same. Once, long ago,
the clans sought to rule too openly. The clans paid the final price for
their lack of vision. Over half our collective number died in those nights
of fire and pain."
Sylia looked at Resu, at the intense hardness in his profile, as
he stared off. Not at anything in particular, she realized, but rather at
something in the past, whether remembered from experience, or from
having been told.
"Of course, that is why it is now a secret. Even the Sabbat, for
all their disdain for 'common' people, and their desire to rule all of
humanity, realize that. We all honor the ancient rule. And that is why,
and how, our little conspiracy exists."
* * * * * * * *
They looked like nothing more than three vans, one old and
beat up, the second a Genom Plumbing utility van, and the last a simple
black and unmarked van. Across the block, there were two semi-trucks
pulled up parallel to each other, the drivers of both vehicles out and
discussing something, apparently a map. They were companionably
sharing a cigarette break. Cars occasionally drove by, and pedestrians
hurried on; this was not a good neighborhood. For less than three
blocks away was the cesspool known as Ishikawa's Jack Off.
Yes, the vehicles looked completely harmless and ordinary,
just as they were intended to. Just like their companion vehicles, on the
other side of Ishikawa's Jack Off, four blocks away from the building.
Over on that side of the building, there were two heavy hauling
vehicles, apparantly garbage trucks, but in fact part of the little
operation planned by one Inspector Leon McNichol.
Said Inspector McNichol was in the process of going over the
final details. The inside of the semi-trailer, while relatively spacious,
was less so with all the people and equipment packed inside. Added to
the burden was the fact that the thermal filters caused a large heat build-
up and the isolation system allowed minimal power, so everyone in the
trailer was quite uncomfortably cozy.
Leon checked his headset. He disliked headsets, mainly
because of the fact that the flimsy constructs always seemed to get
knocked off his head in the heat of battle. But this current model was a
present from Genom, a high-tech little toy that had a pop-up HUD
display that positioned itself over his right eye. In that HUD was a
small video display, which was currently running through remote
camera.
"Unit 7, check Iron", said Mairah, one of the people he had
recently promoted. Currently, she was hunched over the
communication terminal, sweat pouring down her face and neck,
aggravated by the heavy armor she wore. Mariah was a new person
Leon had pulled for the raid. She had been on the waiting list for
Inspector for three years, and was more than qualified. Leon had
promoted her to his fourth-in-command.
"Command, this is Unit 7, confirm Underwear", said Unit 7, an
ADP Officer pretending to be a drunk, huddled with a bottle of whiskey,
directly across from Ishikawa's.
Leon clapped Mairah on the shoulder, who turned a smile with
mixed emotions behind it. This was big, and she knew it, thus hesitant
fear and powerful excitement warred across her face. Leon just smiled
and nodded. He had been there before.
Leon looked over at Reinhart and Captain Deunan, both in
their own unique armor. Reinhart was wearing a suit, which probably
had as much ballistic cloth in it as Deunan's polymesh and almost
skintight suit. Both had guns, Reinhart with a small, yet effective BLA
046M 'Blitzer', while Deunan had a handy Suboro submachinegun. Both
had headsets on.
"Last checks people", Leon said on the general frequency, "we
are five minutes to go."
Not bothering with the assents, Leon toggled over to Daley,
only to see him talking to the hulking cyborg that was Deunan's partner.
"Daley", Leon announced.
Daley looked up, grinned, and waved at the camera in their faux
"garbage truck". Behind him, Leon could see the two boomers, twin to
the two boomers in the other "garbage truck". They were some of the
BU-15B Goblin boomers, specifically designed for urban assault. They
had some very heavy reinforcements on their AI packages, which was
one of the reasons that Leon was willing to use them. They had been
armed with programs to "subdue" their opponents, but Leon had no
mercy for those in Ishikawa's. By his reasoning, the people in
Ishikawa's were either scum, or victims. The victims would probably
prefer death. He had heard that the men, women, boys, and girls were
kept from sharp objects, like the whorehouses of old Japan, to prevent
them from commiting suicide. They were even kept from the animals. It
was sick, inhuman, and the white hot rage in Leon was barely kept in
check. Something primal in him was gnawing at his self-control. Leon
wanted nothing more than to tear those bastards apart with his bare
hands, and then only after an eternity of pain and suffering inflicted on
them. Leon had told the truth about Ishikawa's and shown the evidence
of the perversity of the place to everyone in the task force.
Even the Genom executives had had hard firmness in their
eyes, and more than one hardened USSD commando had wept over the
photos he had been shown.
Which probably explained why Genom had been so willing.
They had provided most of the technology, and the boomers, including
a few "misplaced" security boomers, the BU-15Bs that had been in the
process of being "dismantled" (ignoring the fact one of them still had
primer paint), and the last boomer. It was the last boomer that worried
Leon. He could deal with the security boomers, the secretary "boomer
women" like those Brian J. Mason had used as bodyguards during the
entire USSD satellite disaster. Their shock pads in the knees and
elbows would guarantee prisoners, and their advanced AIs would allow
them leeway enough to operate effectively with the USSD and ADP
personnel. That is why Leon had selected them for part of the initial
assault force.
Thinking on that, Leon keyed another channel, finding Pan
Son, dressed in a suit, going over the last of the details with the security
boomers in the trailer next to Leon's own. A few technicians were
helping to outfit the boomer women with weapons. As one, the boomer
women turned their heads to the camera, looking right at Leon.
Normally, this would be unsettling, but Leon was too full of icy rage to
care.
"Pan", Leon said.
"Yes, Inspector?" she asked, not looking up from the data she
was going over.
"Are we ready over there?" Leon asked.
"A-OK", Pan announced, finishing her work.
Leon nodded, turning off the channel, as he turned to Deunan.
The blond woman was fully dressed, with genuine camoflauge paint on
her face. Despite it, the gun, and the sleek armor she wore, even Leon
had to admit she was sexy. Then again, so did Priss. (Maybe I have
some fetish for babes with bazookas and armor), Leon thought to
himself.
"Ready?"
"Yes Inspector. My team is on standby, awaiting further
orders", she saluted, before she could stop herself.
Purely on ingrained instinct, Leon returned the salute, saying,
"Carry on." Brushing by her, Leon continued to the back, to the thing
that really concerned him.
It was large, larger than a man, but not extremely so. Leon had
seen boomers that were far larger. And more dangerous looking. But
Leon knew that appearances were deceiving. And especially in the case
of this one.
This boomer was the lynchpin on much of his plan. It had a
Multi-Task-Simultaneous-Processing-Unit, or MTSPU brain, integrated
into the advanced Model 11G boomer AI, with a quasi-imprinted, free-
floating amalgamate concious. Most of it was tech-talk to Leon. All he
knew was that this boomer, which had all the tech people giddy with
excitement, could direct almost twenty boomers at once, without
compromising it's own actions. But it wasn't the newness, or the
untested nature of the prototype that really concerned Leon, though
those were all factors. It was that he had seen this type of boomer, and
he wondered how in the hell Genom was going to explain this one away.
There was little way they could talk of "misplacing" something like this.
Oh yes, Leon had seen this type of boomer before. Nearly
been killed by one, atop the Tinsel City Building.
This dully gleaming grey and blue painted boomer was a
hyper-boomer.
Not just a combat boomer. Not just a fusion boomer.
A *HYPER-BOOMER*!
The unit, called ALEX, was a wonder of Genom technology. It
had collapsable and reactive armor plating, an advanced resin
compound mixed with the unstable crystalline matrix, able to deflect
almost any caliber. It also possessed a sensor suite that allowed it to
operate at night, in urban settings, air, water, underwater, space, smoke,
fire, nuclear blastfields, chemical warfare theaters, and even in molten
lava, the latter which served no function that Leon could tell. It was as
intelligent as Einstein, able to argue philosophy and physics with equal
ease, with a reaction speed that could only measured in lightspeed
fractions, and a dedicated subsystem AI designed solely for military
measures. It also had a monomolecular tri-blade in each arm, a gravity
blast generator in each hand, a multi-lens heat cannon with variable
focus in the chest, and the ever present oral laser, the latter weapon
being equipped with an advanced targeting sensor cluster sensitive
enough to perform laser surgery on an insect caught in the winds of a
tornado.
This one boomer could take out their entire raiding force, and
that worried Leon.
Alot.
So he strode up to the boomer, which looked down at him.
Leon looked at Kircheis, the Genom suit, who nodded at him.
"Are you ready? Do you understand the mission at hand?",
Leon asked the boomer.
Instead of the usual gravely boomer voice, a clear and concise
vocalization emerged from the boomer in flawless Japanese. "Of course.
I have prepared and activated my Rival Corporation Solution
Programming and-"
"Ah, ah, hahahaha!" Reinhart broke in, "Ignore that Inspector
McNichol. Just some programmer humor." Reinhart shot a glare at
Kircheis, who just shrugged and looked surprised.
"Activate your public relations program", Reinhart hissed at
the boomer.
"Belay that", Leon broke in.
Reinhart looked over at Leon, angry. Leon ignored him, as he
stepped right up to the boomer.
The boomer just regarded Leon.
"Who am I?" Leon asked.
"Too many variables. You are Leon McNichol. Human being.
Animal. Terran. Apparant Scottish heritage. Service record-" the
boomer started to rattle off information.
"I am Leon McNichol", Leon said, "and what does that mean
to you?"
"Yes, you are Leon McNichol. I obey you", the boomer, Alex,
replied.
"And if I told you to kill Mr. Reinhart, would you do it?" Leon
asked, joking. The others laughed, even Reinhart, after a few moments.
"Yes", the boomer answered, emotionlessly.
The laughter cut off, as Leon looked at the boomer, who stared
right back.
Leon was definitely not laughing. He had never expected an
answer or comment like that. Never expected the boomer to be serious.
If boomers had sense of humor, Leon would have thought the machine
was joking.
"What if I told you to kill Chairman Quincy?" Leon asked,
quietly, curious.
"I would kill Chairman Quincy", Alex answered.
Dead silence fell on the interior of the mobile command center,
as everyone stared in shock at the boomer. Even Leon was shocked,
and it took him a few moments to find his voice. "Who do you obey?"
"In order of descending authority. 1) Chairman Quincy. 2)
Classified. 3) Inspector Leon McNichol. 4) Genom Directors. 5)
Authorized personnel designated by aforementioned authorized
personnel", Alex recited.
Leon's mind went into a state of shock, no less than anyone
else around him. Him? Leon McNichol? In absolute command of a
state-of-the-art killer boomer? Only outranked by *the CHAIRMAN OF
GENOM?!?* A boomer with which he could kill off the Genom
Directors, and a boomer whose orders those Directors couldn't
countermand.
"What is the classified?" Deunan asked.
"Classified", announced Alex. "Further inquiry will result in
summary termination of existence."
"Who gave you your orders?" Leon asked.
"Chairman Quincy."
Everyone in the command HQ just stood or sat there, quiet,
until the incoming calls started to pour in, wondering why checks
weren't being run.
Shaking his head, Leon backed away from the state-of-the-art
sentient superweapon. Something he would have to deal with. (Later),
he realized, looking down at his watch. Only two minutes left until the
go ahead.
Leon keyed an all-channel signal. "Alright, listen up people!"
Everyone went silent, as they listened in. Leon cleared his
throat.
"I know that some of you don't like how this is going down.
Some of you don't like Genom. Some don't like USSD. Some of you
don't like boomers. None of you better not like ADP, because I am in
charge!" There was some small laughter at that.
"We are going to be raiding one of the most evil places in
MegaTokyo. For those of you who don't know, this has been a dream
target for every cop in MegaTokyo for years. We've known about,
hated it, many of us even drooling at the thought of busting it. But all
that is going to change."
"This is for those of you not ADP. You've seen the pictures.
You know what this place is. But it probably hasn't penetrated yet. So
let me clarify things a bit."
"We only need a few people alive in management. Only a few.
There is supposed to be over sixty 'employees' in this hole. Do the
math. And let me say, there will be no write-ups for improper procedure,
or unnecessary force. So let's save the tax payers some money in legal
fees, shall we?"
"In other words, let's keep a heavy finger on the trigger folks."
"Let's kick some ass. Thirty seconds, and we move out!"
Leon grinned at the sudden wave of cheers. Even the Genom
suits had savage grins on their faces, holding their guns in eager and
amateur anticipation. Captain Deunan smiled and nodded at him, before
executing a parade salute. And much to his shock, Leon swore he saw
Alex, the boomer, raise one biomechanical arm and shake its fist at the
air, almost in anger. But then he blinked, and the boomer was as it had
been, still, arm by its side.
"Final check!" Leon said into his mike, "Squad Commanders,
report in."
"Ready Leon-chan! Drive them out of the building, right at us.
The Goblin boomers and our people will mop up."
"Standing by for rapid deployment at enterance via van
insertion."
"Locked and loaded, sir!"
Leon smiled in animal hunger, as he thought of the people in
Ishikawa's, all those sinners and evil people. He felt like an angel, like
the mythical arch-angel of Justice, and he was an angel that was about
to go a little Old Testament on their ass.
"Standby!" Leon shouted, as the seconds tickled down.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
(Showtime).
End Part 7c of Night Sabers.
To be continued in Part 7d of Night Sabers.
In the next part of Night Sabers, Part 7d, Mackie and the Black Hand move
to finish the last of their targets. But, unknown to them, other players
in the game of the Jyhad are moving their pieces. Meanwhile, Sylia
continues her conversation with the powerful Tremere Methusalah, Frederick
Gustovich von Ruthaven, the enigmatic Director of Media Affairs, unaware
of the true power he possesses. Why is he interested in her, and Mackie?
Who are the mysterious beings manipulating Mackie Stingray, known only by
the colors Purple and Green? Why did the Chairman of Genom, Mr. Quincy,
personally command that a rare, prototype hyper-boomer named ALEX be
assigned to Leon McNichol, a dedicated police officer who dislikes Genom?
What shocking revelations await in Ishikawa's Jack Off? Who is really
manipulating who in MegaTokyo? Find out part of the answer to that
question in the explosive conclusion of Night Sabers: Part 7, in Part 7d.
Coming so-; er, .... sometime.
Please send any comments or criticism to Curtiss Nelson
(curtiss@seattleu.edu). Believe me, I really appreciate it. Not only
does it feed my ego ^_^, but it also helps direct and guide the story, so
that it is better.
And here, though *very* rough, and liable to change, is a character sheet
for one of the characters in Night Sabers.
Name: Takahashi Giro
Nature: Traditionalist
P'o Nature: Meikai Akuma (special: see below)
Demeanor: Loner
Direction: Center
Chi Balance: Balanced
Dharma: Thousand Whispers 4
Wu: The Children of the Dark Moon
Physical: Strength 3 (6), Dexterity 4 (5), Stamina 4 (6)
Social: Charisma 3, Manipulation 3, Appearance 3
Mental: Perception 4, Intelligence 4, Wits 5
Talents: Alertness 3, Athletics 2, Brawl 2, Dodge 3, Empathy 2,
Intimidation 2, Leadership 2, Streetwise 1, Subterfuge 3
Skills: Animal Ken 2, Archery 2, Crafts (Swordsmithing) 3, Etiquette 3,
Martial Arts (Hard) 4, Meditation 3, Melee 4, Performance (Painting) 3,
Portents 3, Stealth 1
Knowledges: Computer 1, Enigmas 3, Finance 2, Investigation 2, Law 4,
Linguistics 3 (Japanese, English, Korean, Cantonese, Mandarin),
Medicine 2, Occult 3, Politics 2, Rituals 4, Science 1
Disciplines: Equilibrium 2, Yang Prana 2, Yin Prana 1, Black Wind 2,
Demon Shintai 4, Bone Shintai 1, Jade Shintai 2, Cultivation 1, Chi'iu
Muh 2, Obligation 1
Backgrounds: Contacts 1 (Traditional Craftspeople), Fame 2,
Horoscope 2, Magic Artifact 1, Nushi 5 (see below), Resources 2,
Retainers 1, Status 2
Chi Virtues: Yin 4, Yang 4
Soul Virtues: Hun 4, P'o 6
Willpower: 6
Image: Takahashi Giro tends to dress in modern clothes, so as best to fit
in, but prefers to wear traditional Japanese clothes whenever possible.
He appears to be in his mid-30s, with a set face and steely gaze.
Roleplaying Hints: You are a samurai once more, despite what others
may think. You have shed your previous life; now all that matters is
returning the land of your ancestors to it's descendants. Despite what
your wu thinks, you must fight back now, and hard. It is bad enough
one of your wu is a gai-jin, and older as well; that he too bears a Meikai
Akuma is an insult. His prattle of the dangers is just silly paranoia. You
and your P'o agree, and are set on your course. Nothing will stop you
from driving the foreigners out of your home. And your first target will
be that perversion, Genom.
Haven: In Kyoto, the ancestoral castle of the Children of the Dark Moon
wu family. In MegaTokyo, which you still call Edo at times, just to be
contrary, you have a small building in a bad neighborhood.
Secrets: Takahashi Giro knows that Genom is secretly engaged in
research manipulating Dragon Lines. He is also aware that this is very
secretive, as he saw the team doing the research being killed when it
_appeared_ that they might be captured. This makes him very cautious.
Takahashi Giro also possesess a Meikai Akuma as a P'o.
Though he little realizes the danger of this fact, it also gives him great
knowledge he is unaware of.
Influence: In MegaTokyo, his only influence is as a contact of the
equally persecuted Conclave members, who are hei-men to him. As a
member of the Children of the Dark Moon in Keui-jin society, he has
significant power.
Background: Takahashi Giro was born into a small, but poor samurai
family in the time of the latter part of the Meiji Restoration. He grew up
being told tales of his noble samurai ancestors. Yet something within
the youth despised the squallor his family was forced to live in. He
accepted that Japan was a country undergoing changes, learning to use
gaijin technology, but he could not accept the Japanese being inferior
to the West. Like many young men in Japan, he enlisted for military
service, against the wishes of his parents, who saw modern warfare as
being dishonorable. Caught up in the rampant militarism of Japan at the
time, Takahashi fully supported the idea of Japan entering with the Axis
powers. It seemed perfectly fair. Each of the Axis powers would divide
Asia and Europe up; West Europe for Germany, East Europe for Italy,
and Asia for Japan. Thus, when Japan invaded Korea and China,
Takashi went overseas.
Like most Japanese soldiers, Takahashi was horrified by the
decadence he found. The Chinese and Koreans had no heirarchy, no
willingness to recognize the superiority of the Japanese. In fact, they
continued to fight, long after they had been beaten! Like most of the
Japanese soldiers, Takahashi engaged in rape, torture, and even
vivisection of the enemy, spurred onward by his loyalty in Japan.
Though he never knew it, he became more and more fanatical, even
going as far as smashing Chinese and Korean cultural icons, destroying
temples.
After raping and beheading an entire Korean family for the
sheer thrill of it, Takahashi Giro was very surprised to find the ten year
old son of the family he had just killed commit the affrontry of striking
someone of superior social standing by stabbing him through the heart.
He died, still surprised.
Once dead, Takahashi found the minions of Hell eager and
waiting, as they were also waiting for so many of his fellow Japanese.
His crimes against the spirits, and the evil he had done caused him to
know incredible agony, before his soul seperated, his P'o driven to
escape.
Takahashi Giro awoke as Chih-mei, rampaging throughout the
holds of the Navy vessel that transported his body home, slaughtering
the Chinese prisoners being brought to Japan as living dummies for the
bayonet training of Japanese soldiers. Once on land, the Keui-jin courts
of Kyoto found him. There, a small court who opposed the military
actions of Japan on her neighbors, brought him into his Dharma path.
About this time, the two events that would shock Japan rocked
Takahashi; Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Horrified and angered,
Takahashi's anger changed from pro-Japan to pro-Asian and anti-
Westerners. His views of Asian supremacy caused him to be selected
by a Japanese Mandarin for the Children of the Dark Moon corpse
family and wu. The Children of the Dark Moon, a wu who specialized in
supernatural affairs, disdaining mortal involvement, also included some
of the most potent Keui-jin in Japan, most of which had only the most
lip-service to Asian supremacy, concerning them solely with more
spiritual matters.
Takahashi Giro found himself in an ancient wu, surrounded by
wise and great warriors. Being one of the youngest of those present, he
was the lowest in the social order. That he could accept, but there was
one thing he could not.
The Gai-jin Keui-jin in his wu.
Takahashi Giro raged and seethed, but the other members of
the wu stood firm; it was the supernatural that concerned them, not
such petty things as nationality or skin color. The fact that this Gai-jin
also had an Meikai Akuma P'o only made things worst. Meikai Akuma
are incredibly rare; two in a single wu was unheard of.
Recently, Takahashi Giro left his wu, pursuing a quest of
vengenance against the invaders into his homeland, Genom.
Meanwhile, all along, Takahashi Giro ignores the pleas from his
wu-mates, who urge caution, instead listening to the seductive call of
his P'o, who whispers vengenance.
Notes: Takahashi Giro would be racist in many countries, but in Japan,
he is only a hardliner. He is one of the youngest members of a wu that
includes such ancients as Yoshitsune, Kushinada, Himura Kenshin, and
other notables. This, combined with his wu's unwillingness to involve
themselves in mortal affairs, has caused him to break away, and come to
MegaTokyo on a quest for vengenance.
Takahashi Giro is also possessed of a Meikai Akuma, a very
rare sort of P'o for a Kuei-jin to have. Meikai Akuma are legendary in
that, unlike most P'o, they are perfectly willing to cooperate with their
Hun. They have their own interests, of course, but unlike other P'o,
they are willing to compromise. Yet like the Westerners say, "Never
deal with the Devil." Indeed, each one of the suggestions and advice
the Meikai Akuma gives eventually leads the Hun down a path of its
own chosing. There are terrifying legends of Cathayans, possessing
Meikai Akuma, who begin to degenerate, their Dharmic Paths twisted
and fractured. Bodhisattvas whisper of the ancient legends, of spirits
cursed by the Emperor of the Heavens to have no forms, instead to be
forced to dwell in the Thousand Hells, denied emotion and interaction.
Some even say that these accursed ones join with unfortunate P'o of
rare Kuei-jin who are chosen, allowing them to escape Yomi, even as
they begin merging with the vampire...
Having a Meikai Akuma P'o is truly damnation. The P'o may
offer solutions, not force them, but it is inevitable that the vampire will
succumb to them. In the end, the Hun and the P'o start to blur, in a
perversion of the eventual goal of the Fivefold Way. Once a Kuei-jin
Meikai Akuma reaches this point, the P'o and Hun become almost
indistinguishable. The Cathayan literally becomes a demon on earth, an
intelligent Chih-mei. Except once, in ancient times, no Meikai Akuma
vampire has ever survived to that point.
(Meikai Akuma are very rare, and subject to Storyteller approval. On
the plus side, you have a P'o that seems to be helpful, and certain
Disciplines are easier to learn; Demon Arts cost level X 6, and Soul
Disciplines cost level X 7. There is also one additional free point in any
Demon Art, though one point must be put in the Demon Shintai form.
On the negative side, your P'o can use a third of your Willpower points,
is going to eventually win, and is regarded by Banes, demons, and other
unpleasant folk as an equal and kindred spirit (pun intended); not
exactly conducive to a good social (un-)life.)
Demon Shintai Form: Takahashi's Demon Shintai Form is much like his
"human" form, except the musculature is more pronounced, his hair
sticks out in a wild and firm starburst pattern reminiscent of a Tenchi
Muyo anime hairstyle, and his body has demonic tatoos. Effectively,
the Demon Shintai allows the powers of: Infernal Ranking (Banes,
demons, etc. regard the vampire as an equal. The vampire has a "social"
Rank equal to the P'o rating divided by two. All Meikai Akuma have
this power), Demonic Charisma (similar to Delerium, but does not cause
forgetfulness or catatonia; makes mortals very intimidated and willing to
obey orders), Body Armor (+1 soak, in the form of the sigils on the
body. These sigils having meaning, and any spirit, Bane, demon, or
Meikai Akuma who views them can immediately tell the social status
and power of the vampire.), and Hell Touch (Claws cause strength + 1
aggravated damage; vampire can change two damage successes into a -
1 to all dice pools on the victim.) The Demon Form also gives +3
Strength, +1 Dexterity, and +2 Stamina.
Nushi: The Children of Dark Moon have an ancient Nushi, one of
astonishing power for a Kuei-jin wu, the Kage no Akai (or Red Shadow).
Though its exact origin is not known, some whispering of what
Westerners call the Wyrm, it is none-the-less a powerful Nushi.
The Red Shadow, Cleansing Memory
Rage (P'o) 7, Gnosis (Hun) 10, Yin 9, Yang 7, Willpower 10, Chi 100
Nushi Cost: Total of Wu: 31 (!)
Charms: Appear, Break Reality, Cleanse the Blight, Create Winds,
Dragon Sight, Influence, Lightning Bolts, Materialize (as black fog - Str
8, Dex 8, Sta 10, Alertness 10, Brawl 10, 20 Health Levels, Chi Cost: 50),
Mind Speech, Re-form, Solidify Reality, Spirit Away, Tracking
Image: The Red Shadow, whatever it truly is, appears as a black fog,
covering a twenty foot area, smelling of spilt blood. It speaks with a
soft mental voice that reaches into the soul of the listener, soothing and
calming, bringing peace to the observer, despite the fearful appearance
it has. The Red Shadow radiates power.
History: Where the Red Shadow truly comes from, no one knows. The
first, hesitant records of the spirit are in the earliest portions of the Fifth
Age, recalled only by the Zhong Lung. This cleanser of taint seems to
have been a former spirit of the being the Westerners call the Wyrm,
escaped from the sickness that consumed its fellows. In 500 BC, or
thereabouts, it came to Japan, where a group of Kuei-jin petitioned the
spirit as their Nushi. The Red Shadow, seeing and knowing how the
Wan Xian fell, refused. Still, patient and eager, the Kuei-jin humbly
persisted, and in 340 AD or so, the Kage no Akai agreed to serve as a
Nushi, provided the Kuei-jin honor a contract it made. This began the
Children of the Dark Moon wu. The Red Shadow is a patient, eternal
being, who seeks to bring purity and balance, as it once did, Ages ago.
Habitat: The Red Shadow roams where it will, being a creature equally
of the Yin, Yang, and Yomi worlds. Only rarely does it manifest in the
Middle Kingdom. It's "home" is in an ancient shrine on the outskirts of
Kyoto, which serves as a "cap" to a nexus of Dragon Lines.
Approaching the Spirit: The Keui-jin who seeks to join the Children of
the Dark Moon wu must first be accepted by the Kage no Akai. At the
most basic, they must bring forth a gift (a background of at least 2 in
Nushi, preferably 3 or more). The Red Shadow also demands that its
shrine, which contains a massive Jade statue formed of what mages call
pure tass, be guarded and kept in perfect harmony. In addition, once
every Second Celestial Cycle (about 118 years), the Kage no Akai can
demand its servant wu go on a quest, no matter what it might be. There
is no time limit on this quest, but the wu must try to accomplish it.
Lastly, the Kage no Akai demands that, outside of sustenance and
court dictums, the supplicant have no involvement in mortal affairs
(politics and such manipulations). As a nushi, the Red Shadow
mentally links and allows instant mental communication with all wu
mates, enabling them to instantly locate one another, and gives all
member of the wu a certain status and respect in the spirit worlds, being
the vassals of such a powerful spirit. The Kage no Akai will grant the
use of the Charms of Cleanse the Blight, Dragon Sight, Mind Speech,
and Tracking, though the Kuei-jin had best have a reasonable
explanation why. In _very_ special cases, it will allow the use of Create
Winds and Lightning Bolts, both of which are very powerful variants of
the Charms, causing hurricane force winds and sheets of lightning to
touch the Middle Kingdom. In the most rarest of rare cases, certainly
no more than once a year, and even then only after an enormous task
has been performed on the part of the wu, the entire wu may focus and
use the Charm of Break Reality, much like the Nexus Crawler power,
which enables the Kuei-jin to recreate reality as they wish. This latter
power has only been used four times in the millenia-long history of the
wu. The supplicant must also swear a powerful and binding oath of
fealty to the spirit.