[i:86e290b490]October, 3rd, 1990. Chicago.[/i:86e290b490]

The room was painfully barren. In it’s centre stood a simple, pine wood desk. A simplistic design that echoed the bleakness of it’s surroundings. By the desk’s side stood a seat. Not really a chair, but almost stool-like in appearance. The back of the chair, merely a stump compared to many others of it’s kind.

Standing vigil to the desk, were a collection of filing units. Each drawer carefully labelled, giving clear indication of the contents. And finally, on the desk’s surface stood a computer. The monitor neatly folded when not in use. The hard drive lying in perfect position with the edge.

The door to the room seemed to blend in with the wall. The lights hung on alarmingly elaborate silvered, platinum tendrils. Providing the room’s denizens with just enough light.

The lights flickered minutely as the door crept open.

[i:86e290b490]“Lights. Fifty per cent.”[/i:86e290b490]

As the figure stepped in, wreathed in light from the room beyond, he spoke quietly. His voice dark, but eloquent, precise. Each word perfectly pronounced as he uttered a brief command. The lights adjusted in brightness as he closed the door. Pulling the stool-chair inwards as he sat, he booted up the PC. Staring blankly at the screen as system checks whirred and beeped in the silent chamber. He placed the “glove” next to the keyboard on his right hand and waved it across the screen. A digital representation of his hand, moving in perfect harmony with his own.

And so he sat there, his fingers whispering in silent codes and numbers. Moving and opening files. Tracking down numbers and statistics as he lifted books from electronic shelves, flipping through “imaginary” pages before settling on one.

[i:86e290b490]“Financial statement 2002/3.”[/i:86e290b490]

The screen brightened then. Casting a pale glow over his face.

His eyes were dark, even in the direct light. He was an imposing, dominant looking man. His face, though stony, was attractive. He had a predatory look as he read the figures on the screen. His eyes focused, hunting, chasing down his prey. A disturbing smile crossed his face as he found the date he was looking for. He yawned, not out of weariness, but pure habit. His curving fangs suddenly a fluorescent blue as the screen switched to a new display. His eyes seemed to shimmer with silver flecks as he slid away from the desk. Standing he turned to the far wall. Still wearing the [i:86e290b490]glove[/i:86e290b490], he waved his hand over the wall. The wall seemed to melt, liquefy as a screen came to life.

The image was that of the horizon. The sun slowly sinking behind the tree line.

[i:86e290b490]“Excellent. All work and no play...”[/i:86e290b490] He hissed through his canines.

He removed the [i:86e290b490]glove[/i:86e290b490], the computer seemingly knowing the action demanded it closed down. Placing the glove on the desk, he left the room.

Once in the second room, his attire was more obvious. The suit was grey, well charcoal grey to be precise. The coat open, he strode over to a cushioned chair, removing the coat, then continuing with the tie.

A moment later he stood in his underwear. His legs, powerfully muscular. His body, lithe and angular as he tensed each muscle. He stepped across the room, evidently a bed-chamber, and pressed the intercom on the right wall.

[i:86e290b490]“I’m going out tonight Mallistair. Don’t wait up.”[/i:86e290b490] The speaker hissed before a reply came through.

[i:86e290b490]“Of course sir. As you wish.”[/i:86e290b490]

He walked to the bay window of his rooms, pulling them open to allow the chill to permeate and stumble over his skin. Cooling him as the first, tentative hairs came pushing needle-like through the cells. Black, and sleek with effort.

Growling he stepped, no padded onto the patio beyond the glass doors. Dropping to all fours as the frost began to cling to the frames.

He had long since mastered the transformation. It was easy to switch from the relatively weak human form to a killer form, quickly. But sometimes he liked to savour the sensations, as each sense was magnified, and his strength multiplied.

Minutes passed. And snarling at the distant forest, the creature launched itself forward. Bounding across the lawns, keeping it’s body low to the ground, it’s legs bunching and pushing it onwards. The long, supple predator’s body shimmering in the low light.

(((Something deeply threatening about people casually hacking computers... ::wonders if he should step up Darrant Industries security some::

Old Henry had lived on the streets of Chicago for thirty-seven years. Over the decades he’d made and lost friends. Either to the cold, or to the greed and hatred of others.

In his time, he had made silent pacts with the other residents of the alleys and forgotten places. Even giving some of his blood to them, in exchange for a hot meal and a dry bed.

Henry had been, in his youth, a bulldozer of a man. Working on the railways he earned the monicker of “Strong Henry”. Now in his seventies, he was a wrinkled, stooped figure. His dark skin now leathery, his black eyes seasoned. He swigged from the bottle of cheap liquor, smacking his lips as he relished one of the few pleasures his age had left him. He stepped over the empty sidewalk, the streets drawing dangerously close to the forested suburbia that ringed the cityscape. He looked up drunkenly, his increasingly glazed eyes struggling to make neither head nor tail of the shadows ahead.

He shook his head chuckling. [i:f70409b103]“Nuthin’ there Henry old boy. Naw, nuthin’ there to spook yu’sel’ about.”[/i:f70409b103]

In the alley ahead a long shadow dropped from the rooftop above. Landing silently on furred, padded feet. It stood on it’s haunches, watching as the staggering prey approached. A low rumbling almost escaping it’s ruffled throat as hunger took precedence over grace.

Henry stopped. The hairs on his neck standing on end.

He stepped forward, as cautiously as the alcohol would permit, waving the bottle ahead as though brushing cobwebs from his face.

[i:f70409b103]“Hullo? Any’bdy there? I got a shiv mon!”[/i:f70409b103]

The latter was a lie. But from here, he hoped that whoever was watching him, didn’t have a clear enough view to know his secret. He crept forward.

The long shadow slid from it’s perch, running like slick oil onto the concrete of the alley floor. There it sank it’s body closer to the ground, muscles tensing to spring.

Henry, bolstered now as the warmth in his drunken stomach flooded outwards, told himself off for being a “daft old coot”. He made his way into what he usually thought of as the “welcoming shadows”. Pulling a crate over to act as a seat as he took another mouthful of the bottle, he scratched his bearded chin as droplets escaped his gummy maw.

The long shadow grew impatient, shuffling closer, unseen against the blackness of the shadows. It tensed again, powerful limbs coiling, ready to unfurl it’s bloodlust on the drooping derelict.

[i:f70409b103]“Umm? hullo? Look mon, I ain’t messin’ with you. I’ll stick you!”[/i:f70409b103]

Henry turned to face the back of the alley. Wreathed in wisps of anti-light he saw two silvered slits blazing at him.

[i:f70409b103]“Huh?”[/i:f70409b103] He rubbed his eyes, the bottle smashing as old age lost the race with death.

From nowhere it stepped. The huge, long muzzle inching forward as the jaws opened. “Lips” rolling back as the fetid breath revealed it’s intent. He swallowed back the salt as tears reached his mouth.

[i:f70409b103]“I--rene.”[/i:f70409b103]

The word meant nothing to the creature. It lunged forward, moving like quicksilver. Dragging the dying Henry into the alley before it fed. Greedily. Hungrily.

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

He dropped onto the stone slabs of the patio. His eyes fading to black pools, as the fur receded back into his flesh. Pulling himself to his feet as the last legs of the change were completed, he walked inside. Closing the bay doors behind him.

The shower was hot. Stifling, had he needed to draw breath. But he hadn’t needed air for as long as he cared to remember.

The dried blood trickled from his hands and face as the water ran over him. Outside, the dawn began to rise over the trees. Mallistair stepped discreetly into his master’s chambers. Leaving the briefcase, and flight details on the desk. The light stammered as he left, becoming little more than the glow of fireflies.

[i:f70409b103]“Calder party. Departs O’Hare Airport. Flight 617 to Rio De Janeiro.”[/i:f70409b103]

The Learjet stood almost nonchalantly on the grey expanse of tarmac, that covered the runway. As the long, leonine form of the limousine crossed the airfield, the three passengers within adjusted their neckties one last time before the car purred to a stop. A second, more personal limo appeared at the rear as the first began to unload onto the jet.

Haid stopped at the base of the steps, watching the car approach. The Glock that hung under his suit jacket gave him an extra feeling of security. He stayed immobile as the car stopped in front of him. Keeping a steely gaze on the airfield as the second group of passengers stepped out.

[i:5ae977c1c2]“Everything as planned, Haid? No surprises?”[/i:5ae977c1c2]

[i:5ae977c1c2]“None Mr. Calder. Just making sure.”[/i:5ae977c1c2]

[i:5ae977c1c2]“Good to hear Haid. Mallistair? Bring my bags, will you?”[/i:5ae977c1c2]

The somewhat obtuse form of Mallistair huddled out carrying some scant belongings. A briefcase, as always. A leather holdall, and a larger case. Mr. Calder always travelled light. No point in carrying too much if you didn’t stay anywhere for too long. He nodded at the raptor-like form of Haid as he strained upwards at Calder’s heel.

Haid made one final sweep of the airfield with night-vision binoculars, before he too retreated aboard the aircraft.

The distant runways were a hive of activity. Passenger jets of all shapes and sizes landing or taking off. Maintenance vehicles buzzing around them like nurse-fish tending a shark. The lights flashing and fading, directing the whole thing like neonite-orchestral conductors.

The Learjet rolled forward as the passengers found their seats. Calder sat at the rear of everyone else. He learned long ago, never to sit with anyone you didn’t trust wholly, behind you. The others were like a little corporate regiment. Everyone wore matching charcoal-grey suits and ties. They all wore Glock - 17’s under their jackets. And they all wore identical jewellery and cologne. All except Calder. Who reclined at the rear in a resplendent black suit, the cut complimenting the sleek body beneath. He favoured John Philipps of London. And as a result, everyone within his party had to wear the designer also. He never carried a gun. Why use a gun when your hands can do so much more? Of course, he was known, on occasion, to pick one up.

The jet engines began to rumble as the plane moved into position. Calder closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as his ears twitched. He was sightless while his eyes were closed. But he had [i:5ae977c1c2]other[/i:5ae977c1c2] senses that would remain alert.

Mallistair made last minute checks, ensuring that luggage was secured, and everyone was seated as the jet turned.

[i:5ae977c1c2]“Mallistair! Sit down for goodness sake man!”[/i:5ae977c1c2] Calder growled, eyes still closed.

The bumbling serf jumped at his master’s voice.

[i:5ae977c1c2]“I was just...”[/i:5ae977c1c2] He stammered.

[i:5ae977c1c2]“I said sit!”[/i:5ae977c1c2] Calder’s eyes crept open, miniscule slits of silver, cutting into his heart like twin stilettos.

[i:5ae977c1c2]“Uhh yes sir. Sorry sir.”[/i:5ae977c1c2]

Taking his position beside Haid, Mallistair looked downtrodden. Haid tutted as he closed the blinds over the window. He pressed the intercom by his seat instructing the pilot, Graves, to do the same with the other blinds.

Soon the jet interior was bathed in false light. Calder dimmed those above him till he was basking in shadow. His dark, immaculately cut hair framing his granite-like face as he dozed. The jet’s engines roared to a whine as it lurched forward, soon climbing away from O’Hare, like it ascended cloudy steps.

Once airborne, Haid stood up. He walked to a small table on the right side of the plane, careful not to rouse Calder as he searched through a small laptop. The display showed a detailed map of Rio De Janeiro, complete with a route clearly showing the roads to take upon arrival. He made some careful adjustments to the route. You could never be too careful. As Calder’s personal minder, he had to change plans regularly in case Intel was leaked.

He looked around at the others, nodding at a decanter of brandy, then at a range of glasses. The gesture was silent, but effectively asked “Does anyone care to join me?”. Some of the others nodded to the affirmative. Mallistair abstaining.

He began to pour glasses of brandy. Carrying them over to the others. Alden, a Ventrue accountant, grinned wickedly through goggle-like spectacles. His tiny eyes wincing with the motion. He carefully inhaled the bouquet from the glass before sipping gently. His face beaming as the fine French liquor burned his throat. His assistant, Ossian, a young woman of Middle Eastern descent, abstained. Choosing instead to listen to music piped into headphones. She closed her eyes, losing herself in trance inducing dance music. She was Ventrue also. But by Ventrue standards, her taste was less than desirable. And so Alden took her share after his own glass was emptied.

Haid shook his head, smirking at the Ventrue. For all his suits and polite demeanour, Haid was [i:5ae977c1c2]still Brujah[/i:5ae977c1c2]. He ran a large hand over his shaved head and hissed out through his teeth.

[i:5ae977c1c2]“Ever the Noble, eh Alden?”[/i:5ae977c1c2]

Alden looked up, squinting at the hawkish Brujah. Haid’s roman nose crinkling as he grinned toothily.

[i:5ae977c1c2]“Aye Haid. Appearances and all that.”[/i:5ae977c1c2] He returned the cheeky grin before returning to his glass.

[i:5ae977c1c2]“Will you two be quiet!? I am trying to get some sleep!”[/i:5ae977c1c2] Calder growled. Already he looked twice his original size. The suit looked dangerously close to bursting as he snarled.

The two colleagues froze, quickly taking their seats as the jet, now bathed in sunlight, flew over the Florida Keys.

((nice post, with all these Venture about I think there might be a market for aquiring rare blood types in the near future :lol: ))

((oh this venture tyoe happens to be quite the opposite... if im not mistaken hehe

((i'm Gerousia!! i'm Gerousia!!! for those of you who don't own the Ventrue Handbook, Gerousia is sort of a local Ventrue leader. Sorenti named me Gerousia some time ago, so I rock and you should all be kissing my arse! ((by you all i mean the local Vents of course))

((Gerousia schmousia :P

((Grah! Not as flowing as I'd hoped but here we go....

Graves double-checked his instruments.

He’d been flying private flights from O’Hare for the last ten years. In that time, he had flown “discreet” passengers to almost anywhere in the America’s. He had no qualms with keeping to strange hours, and for his trouble he was readily rewarded.

The flight so far had been uneventful. The Gulf of Mexico rolled below, the sunburnt coastline shimmering on the belly of the swan-sleek aircraft.

Haid opened sleep-weary eyes. Standing he began to awaken the rest of the party. He looked towards Calder’s seat, nodding as the Elder stirred. His silver eyes glinting as the cabin lights brightened.

[i:e15c7c3111]“ETA Haid?”[/i:e15c7c3111]

Haid walked to the intercom.

[i:e15c7c3111]“Graves, what’s our ET...?”[/i:e15c7c3111]

He never finished his question. As his fingers registered the impact, he was sucked violently threw the hole that had been birthed by the explosion. The cabin pressure lurched harshly. Haid tumbled to his doom. Noiselessly shrieking as the sun unleashed it’s holy wrath upon his Vampiric flesh.

Breathing equipment dropped humorously from the ceiling above each seat. Forming a sequence of plastic vines that added to the swirling debris as the jet began to descend. Calder growled back his fears, locking himself into place. His voice unwavering as he demanded the others do the same. Mallistair fumbled with the lock on his seatbelt. The delay in fastening was sadly his last. The jet lurched again. Flailing, the rotund retainer fell head over heels. Disappearing through the hull breach.

The first explosion shook Graves as he tried to maintain altitude. Vibrations ripped through the plane. No matter how hard he tried, the loss of cabin pressure had been too massive. He tried, instead, to land the plane. Ahead, the lush, sprawling carpet of the Amazon jungles looked almost cushion-like. But he knew better. Each tree would strike the plane with utter impunity. He strained, banking the plummeting jet towards the beach-head. The shallows would hopefully absorb the worst of the impact if he skimmed her in.

[i:e15c7c3111]“Everyone! Brace for impact! I’m taking her down!”[/i:e15c7c3111] He screamed into the headphones, sweat pooling at the base of his back as the jet sank hard.

The crash seemed to run in slow motion. Plumes of enraged seawater threw up alongside the plane’s sides as the wings were torn back. Inertia was in a cruel frame of mind, throwing the craft over it’s nose. Spinning in the surf before settling upside down. Six feet of water on either side as it finally stopped.

Graves’ last thoughts were smeared over the canopy, like a viscous red syrup. The cabin was now underwater. Sand fogged the chamber, little ribbons of vitæ ran through the murk. As the silt finally settled, it revealed the carnage beneath.

Alden’s body was strewn all around. His seat had been wrenched from it’s holdings, and his body hadn’t withstood the stress.

Ossian had fared better. She lay on her side. A gurgling coming from her throat as she groaned from the agony. Her legs were crushed, vitæ escaped her just as air had escaped the cabin through the hull tear. She groaned more as the schools of curious fish took tentative mouthfuls of her undead flesh.

The rear of the cabin was bathed in salted blackness. Bubbles rose, gathering at the floor/ceiling of the cylindrical space.

Calder stirred. His left side pinned to the wall behind him by ruptured struts. He opened his slitted eyes, the silvered lenses bloodshot with pain as the beast rose in his throat. His hands became talons, wrenching at the steel spear that trapped him. The claws spilling through the metal, sending him gracefully tumbling to the floor/ceiling. He lurched forward, his mouth impossibly wide and serrated as he became beast-manifest.

Ossian opened her remaining eye and screamed. But all that emerged was a muffled gurgle as the inky, black thing seized her in it’s jaws.

He fed, and fed until her body was drained. Healing what he could before consciousness left him sunken.

There was little physical difference between night and day when within tropical climes. The temperature barely fluctuated. The humidity was equally rotting. And the seas, trees and undergrowth were as pulsing with predator and prey.

The sun sank over the beach. Strata of red, yellow and pink broke the horizon, like the feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl had shaken his plumage onto the clouds. As the jungle became black, it exploded with sound.

Jaguar hunting through the tangles. Nocturnal prey hoping to remain unseen. Nature in balance.

The jet had already become part of the scenery. Fish had moved in just as soon as the Vampires within had ceased to live. Hiding from the larger fish as they patrolled the nose cone.

The night passed quickly. Nothing stirred on the beach. The jet’s residents hadn’t moved, had they?

As dawn rose over the sand strip it accentuated pockmarks on the beach face.

Leading away from the sunken, ruined aircraft were footprints. Crude because of the sand’s shifting nature. But definitely the footprints of a biped. Leading away from the crash site. And into the jungle.