[i:399e5fb859]I am not entirely sure how to join in anyone else's chronicle right now - I am afraid of simply leaping in at the moment, so I am starting my own thread to which I invite others once it catches up to present day - what is below is background. Once it reaches 2006, its fair game. Or perhaps, it will blend into someone else's story. Who knows.[/i:399e5fb859]


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San Francisco. It occupies the northernmost 7 miles of a peninsula only 7 miles wide. Its mayor has called it “49 square miles surrounded by reality.” He is more right than he knows. The locals simply call the city, “the city.” Visitors often call it “Frisco,” unaware of the ferocious hostility their ignorance will reap. But Herb Caen, the city’s most celebrated columnist, gave the city its most colorful title: Baghdad by the Bay. His collection of writings by that name was published in 1949, but he had coined the term almost a decade earlier while writing his man-about-town column, “Its News to Me” for the San Francisco Chronicle. On October 1, 1940, Caen wrote in his column: “The crowded garages and the empty old buildings above them, the half-filled night clubs and the overfilled apartment houses, the saloons in the skies and the families huddled in the basements, the Third Street panhandlers begging for handouts in front of pawnshops filled with treasured trinkets, the great bridges and the rattletrap streetcars, the traffic that keeps moving although it has no place to go, the thousands of newcomers glorying in the sights and sounds of the city they've suddenly decided to love, instead of leave. ...This is Baghdad-by-the-Bay!”

It would be 50 years before the first Gulf War would change the way Americans looked at Baghdad and more than 60 before the second Gulf War would change the way Baghdad looked. What Herb Caen could not have known, however, was that another war, a secret war, a secret [i:399e5fb859]jyhad[/i:399e5fb859], would make San Francisco far more like the Baghdad of the future than anyone could have ever imagined …

*****

[b:399e5fb859]Summer, 2003[/b:399e5fb859]

Thirty five miles to the east of San Francisco, the suburb of Concord lay beneath the shadow of Mt. Diablo. Concord was a typical California suburb, comprised of tract homes and strip malls, high schools and parks, fast food franchises and convenience stores. Its 120,000 residents were mostly white, though the Hispanic and Asian populations, especially the Philippino population, were growing rapidly. Many of the residents commuted into San Francisco on the BART train. Others work locally at one of the thousands of “pink collar” jobs that had sprung up in the last 15 years; as the price of office space in San Francisco climbed through the stratosphere on the power of the dot-com bubble, many of the traditional brick and mortar business moved their floor-space intensive data processing units to less expensive east bay locations. Bank of America, prior to its merger and subsequent digestion, had moved thousands of these clerical jobs out to Concord. Sterile, utilitarian concrete office buildings rose where once there had been empty fields or post-war cookie-cutter homes. Money poured into the region, oft known to those in San Francisco as the ‘far east bay’ or simply as ‘the sticks.’ New strip malls appeared and old strip malls got face lifts. Concord prospered, but it was not unique; the wave of the dot-com boom that had washed ashore in San Francisco and into the south bay’s Silicon Valley was finally reaching inland.

Prior to the dot-com boom, however Concord did have one asset that no other far east bay community had; nuclear weapons. Since sometime in the 1940s or 50s, the Concord Naval Weapons Station, which incorporated the Port Chicago Magazine, had served as a storehouse for much of the Pacific Fleet’s nuclear arsenal. For decades this fact was viewed with some favor by local residents who figured that in the event of a nuclear war with Russia, at least they would be targeted directly and thus killed quickly. Suburbanites living elsewhere would face lingering deaths through starvation or radiation sickness; an instant vaporization was much preferable.

Predictably, this attitude changed following the end of the Cold War. As defense spending decreased and as protests against the housing of nuclear weapons at the Station increased, the Navy decided to decommission the facility. The nukes were moved out along with the conventional munitions and by the start of the second gulf war, only the northwest portion of the 12,000+ acre facility was still in use by the military. Of course, bunkers built to house nuclear weapons are quite strong, and facilities designed to protect those bunkers can be quite secure; such attributes were not lost on everyone who lived in the Bay Area and while the military had pulled out of the bunkers, other folks had moved in.

**********

Deep inside a decommissioned bunker, Sara Ann Winder, the blond, Ventrue, Camarilla Prince of San Francisco stood and rapped the blunt metal end of a hunting knife on a WWII-era wooden folding table. The 60 year old relic shook violently and nearly collapsed. Sara frowned. “Was it not possible for you to find something better?” Her voice was English-accented, intelligent and sassy. She directed her question to a dapper white man who appeared to be in his early 40s, though his hair-cut was that of a much younger man.

“I thought it particularly fitting for the locale.” The man replied. “It adds ambiance.” His voice was Irish accented, though the accent had clearly faded over time. “Consider it a reinforcement of the ‘bunker mentality’ that permeates this whole affair.” He smirked with satisfaction.

Sara’s irritated frown faded into peeved acceptance. “Fine. Lets call this meeting to order.” A hulking brute lurking in the shadowy corners of the basement snorted derisively. Sara ignored him and continued. “Many of us have not met yet, and some of us know each other only by reputation. Let’s start this by going around and introducing ourselves. Tell us your name, who you are affiliated with and anything else you feel is relevant, such as why you are here. We don’t have to go into who our sires are or through a recitation of our complete histories, but it would be good if we all knew a little about each other before we begin.” She paused, looking from person to person. “I will lead off. My name is Sara Ann Winder, and I am the Prince of San Francisco. I was embraced a long time ago and since that time I have served the Camarilla and through the Camarilla, all kindred.” Another snort came from the brute in the corner followed by a chuckle from the man to his right. “I am here because I am the one who called this meeting. The reason I called this meeting I will make clear when we are done introducing ourselves.” She paused again, looking around the bunker at the assembled kindred. Finally her eyes settled on the dapper Irishman to her right.

He smiled wanly. “Well then, I am called Sebastian, at least at the moment. I am the proprietor of the Alexandrian Club as well as the, shall I say it aloud? The ‘Vampire’ Club.” He looked up at Sara with mock fear. “Will I be going to Camarilla hell for saying Vampire? Its such a dirty word I am told.”

Though Sara had not breathed a breath of air in more than a century she made the effort to sigh. “Lets stay on track, shall we Oscar?”

The previously insouciant Irishman grimaced at the mention of the name he had held in life. “I told you never to call me that again.” Before Sara could respond, he quickly added, “which is precisely why you have now called me that I suppose. Very well. I am Sebastian, I am the proprietor of a club located in the City I am sure you have all at least heard of. And I am here because dear Prince Sara has requested me to be here. Why? I cannot possibly fathom, though she did ask me to bring tables and chairs, which I have, apparently to her great displeasure.”

“I asked Sebastian to be here because there is probably no kindred who knows San Francisco’s politics better than he does.” Sara explained. She looked at the woman to Sebastian’s right, a thin, palled creature of grey-white hair and ivory-white skin, bedecked in a snow-white frock.

“I am Luna Demian.” The woman said, her voice cool and measured in keeping with her stark appearance. “I am the Tremere Regent and Primogen for San Francisco. I am here because I would like to see the Cathayans driven out of San Francisco, and I am hoping this meeting moves us towards that goal.” Luna looked around the tables at her fellow kindred imperiously and then to Sara.

“Thank you Luna. Kokopell, I believe you are next.”

A deformed creature, sitting away from the table, to the rear of Luna, peered out from beneath an olive-drab wool army blanket. “I am the Kokopell Mana, kachina of my people. I am here because Coyote told me to come; that my people would need my council and my protection while in their stone lodge beneath the shadow of 'Oj-ompil-e.”

Sara nodded, but avoided looking directly at the hideous face that threatened to emerge from under the blanket. “Kokopell is the Nosferatu primogen of San Francisco.” She elaborated.

“I am Kelvin Wee.” Offered a large Asian man at the end of the row. “I am Ventrue, as I am sure most of you know already. I am also the Camarilla’s chief negotiator with the Cathayan’s New Promise Mandarinate. I work closely with Prince Winder in our relations with the Cathayans, and I am here because I wish to see Camarilla influence extended, not restricted.”

“Thank you Kelvin.” Sara’s said graciously, her voice lifting along with her eyes as attention shifted from the ugly, warped, old Nosferatu to the beautiful, muscular, young Kelvin. “I can assure all of you that Kelvin’s efforts have helped our cause in the City tremendously.”

“Your cause you mean.” Chided the chuckling man in the back.

“I mean our cause.” Sara replied crossly. “If my cause is lost, then you are lost.” The man chuckled again but made no further reply. “Introduce yourself then, Gustavo. Its your turn.”

“Si. I am Gustavo Morales. I am not some Camarilla lick, though I might let some Camarilla lick me.” He laughed at his own joke but no one laughed with him so he cut his chuckling short. “Anyway, I ain’t no Camarilla, like I said, but I always get along fine with them in the past. And I hate the zips and the chinks. ‘Specially the zips. They killed mi hermano, my brother, in world war two.” Gustavo spared Kelvin a look. “No offense bro. When I say zips and chinks, I only mean them, not you.” Kelvin gave Gustavo a flat smile and said nothing. “We cool, yeah?”

“Of course.” Kelvin offered.

“Right on.” Gustavo replied offering Kelvin a pat on the shoulder. “So, yeah, so there it is man. I am here to kick those fuckers out of our city.”

Sara rubbed her brows and shook her head just slightly. Gustavo was not the sort of kindred she would normally ever sit down with or even talk to, but he had proven himself over the last few years in the City. He and his hulking partner who was lurking in the shadows nearby had made the city’s northern parks, Golden Gate park and the Presidio, exceedingly dangerous for the Cathayans.

Silence followed. Sara waited for the hulking figure in the back to speak up on his own but finally decided to prompt him. “Mirko?”

The hulking figure leaned forward into the dim, flickering light of the overhead fluorescent tube. His face was like chiseled granite; a three day growth of coarse hair covered his jaw like moss on stone. His voice rolled and tumbled like a rock fall. “Who is the woman behind you? The one you skipped?”

To Sara’s right stood a lithe blond woman of great beauty, dressed in a black bodysuit with a red-sarong tied at her waist. “That is Miriam. Miriam Caravaggio. She is my bodyguard, Mirko. I did not introduce her because, while very important to me, she is not here to lend her council to this meeting. I already know her mind. Now how about you?”

The hulk grunted. “I be Mirko Mirkonen. I be old, probably older than all of ye’, and I been in a scrap or two. I be here 'cause the Prince asked and I decided to come.” His face was an expressionless as the granite it resembled. Causally he relaxed back into the darkness, squatting against the concrete wall of the bunker at the far end of the table.

There was but one person left in the room who had not been identified; a woman. She sat alone on the far side of the table across from Luna, Kelvin and Sebastian. Delicate hands with delicate fingers adorned with ruby-red manicured nails pulled back her cloak’s hood revealing a stunningly beautiful face framed by silken auburn locks. Clear, deep blue eyes stood out on alabaster white skin. “I am Michelle.” She said, her voice tinged with just a hint of French. “Michelle St. Claire to some, Michelle Du Claire to others. And I have been sent back to San Francisco because the Camarilla is going to war.”

((pure excellence! you certainly don't show any ring rust! i can't wait until it catches up to modern nights.

[b:8c3ce5d424]2003, continued:[/b:8c3ce5d424]

Michelle was bored; she and the other kindred summoned by Prince Winder had been discussing, plotting and scheming for hours down in the concrete bunker and there was no end in sight. The conversation was dominated by Prince Winder, the Tremere Regent Luna Demian and the Ventrue negotiator, Kelvin Wee. Occasionally Sebastian would interject with a witty comment, Kokopell with an enigmatic one, or Gustavo with some absurd macho posturing. Michelle and Mirko remained largely silent, however. For Michelle’s part, war planning bored her. While she was of noble birth like many Ventrue, she was not preoccupied with the acquisition and maintenance of power; she was far more focused on experiences. Where most Ventrue were driven by a lust for status or money, Michelle’s motivations were substantially more carnal. For centuries her predilections had kept her on the fringes of Ventrue society despite her age and generation; she was not a proper Ventrue in the minds of those whose defined such things. She it knew it too; often she wondered if her unlife would have been better, or at least easier, had she been embraced by a more hedonistic clan, such as the Toreador.

Michelle was not incapable of waging war of course, it just bored her. She was an expert fencer, having studied under no less an instructor as Lucinde at one time. Since that time she continuously developed her skill. For the last century or so her lethality had kept her enemies at bay; while many Ventrue might not respect her attitudes or consider her a proper Blue-Blood, few would cross someone so skilled with the blade.

As the meeting dragged on Michelle found that Sebastian was equally bored. Clearly war planning was not his forte either. The two of them exchanged glances across the rickety old wooden table as Winder, Demian and Wee droned away the hours. Through their glances, Michelle learned that Sebastian was taking a fancy to Kelvin. She in turn was intrigued by Mirko; the bestial man was laconic to be sure, but that silence only piqued Michelle’s interest.

Sebastian, however, grew bored of stealing furtive glances at the massively built Ventrue negotiator, and began injecting his own particularly scathing brand of humor into the conversation more and more.

“Enough.” Winder replied angrily to one of Sebastian’s quips. “If you have nothing constructive to contribute, then contribute nothing.” Sebastian, rarely at a loss for words, turned away in a huff. The conversation resumed but Michelle could see the wheels spinning in Sebastian’s head behind his indignant expression.

“You are approaching this in the wrong way altogether.” Sebastian announced, to no one in particular. It was the first time he had said something that even approached the topic at hand and it brought the conversation to a halt. Seemingly stunned by his own success at halting the talk, he looked about the table as if seeking permission to continue. “Look here then,” he said, the petulance draining from his voice as he spoke, “San Francisco is not like other cities. Here the beggar is king. You are all working at controlling the Mayor, the city council, the businesses, the society matrons and the politicians. And that is exactly what the Cathayans are doing. You control the United Service Workers Union, so they took control of the Confederated Health Care Workers union. They built a political machine so now they have the mayor under their influence and got their own police chief installed, a Chinese woman. They also have the port authority and numerous other positions. You counter by getting your wunderkind, Ventrue, ghoul, playboy Garret Newman elected as a city council man, but what next? Your respective law firms fought it out, now one of them is dead and you control the silicon valley hi-tech industry, but so what? What has it accomplished? Have you won back San Francisco? Not a chance. Neither of you realize that in San Francisco is the folks who are traditionally disenfranchised who make things happen; people in San Francisco want to be different and they do that by embracing differences. You want to control San Francisco, you need to control the queer folks.”

“Sodomites?” Winder asked incredulously. “You want us to base our power in cursed Sodomites?”

Sebastian’s pursed his lips. “I was among those god-cursed Sodomites once.”

Winder recoiled a bit but regained her composure quickly. “Yes, I am aware. A grave disappointment to your fellow countrymen, so grave indeed that you had to flee your native land and spend the rest of your living days in Paris if I recall.”

“Qui,” he replied insolently, “and such days they could have been. Paris is a lovely city but alas, I spent my years there mostly feeling sorry for myself and lamenting my lot in life. I should have enjoyed it while I could. Be that as it may, what I am telling you is still sound. You would do well to seize control of those folk in San Francisco who are discriminated against the most by the rest of the world; its those folk who rule San Francisco politics. This is a city built with a soft-heart for the oppressed, and a cold-heart for those in power. The Cathayan’s ignore this; they look at the city and its institutions like you Ventrue do. All you see are those glass and steel towers of downtown or the faux classic edifices of the Civic Center. You miss the real heart of this city, the Castro, which is most ironic because you live in it. Do you what the single largest even is in this city every single year? That gay parade they hold. Its grown from a small picnic in the park to a three day long extravaganza of, well, whatever they want, in a mere thirty years. Then there is film festival, a lovely think you know, especially as most of the good films are shown at night. Anyway, before I expound upon the loveliness that is the Castro movie palace, let me conclude by saying that if you want to control this city, control that group, that community as they call themselves. And the best part is that you will be unopposed; the Cathayans disdain these people even more than you do. You can form a powerbase right under the Kuei-jin’s noses without them ever realizing it. Do that, and you can get your wunderkind ghoul elected Mayor, not just into city council.”

Silence followed. Prince Winder sat down, her eyes searching Sebastian’s face for some sign of humor or deceit. Sebastian’s outburst had caught Michelle’s attention; she had never had cause to put the thoughts together coherently, but now that Sebastian had, she could see the truth in it. Once the gays and lesbians had been discriminated against terribly here, but now they dominated local politics and more importantly, the general concept of liberal thinking was considered morally right in the City. Here, vampires and heretics and witches were not the enemy; racism, chauvinism, nationalism were and to that list of age old hatreds were added new hatreds like homophobia. Michelle looked across the table at Sebastian with a new found respect; the man was more than just a font of biting sarcasm and witty retorts it seemed.

Kelvin broke the silence. “So, Sebastian, if we wished to use this community, as you suggest, who do we need to gain influence with?”

“Well…” Sebastian answered, stalling as he thought through the question, “I suppose the leaders of the community.”

Prince Winder rolled her eyes. “And who would that be? If you had suggested some decades ago that I should gain control of the American negroes, I would have known I had to gain influence with the likes of Martin Luther King, Jr. and that Malcom X chap. Even now I could look to people like Jesse Jackson, or that new politician, Obama. But who in your world of sodomites do we look to?”

“If you go calling them sodomites you are not going to gain influence with any of them.” Sebastian replied testily. “For a woman who maintains such a cosmopolitan air about her, your attitudes are surprisingly dated.” Without letting her retort he continued. “I do not think that this community has a leader like those you mentioned, not at the moment, and it might never. Its too fractured. There are gays, and lesbians, and bisexuals and transgenders, and intersexed and who knows what else and each group has its own speakers, activists, playwrights, musicians and culture. They only seem to band together for political purposes. So, I suppose you need to gain influence over their politicians. There are some state senators and city council members who are among the ‘sodomites’ you know.” Sara flinched at the jab but did not riposte. “I think you need to infiltrate and subvert all the communities”

“Very well then.” The prince said simply.

“Hmm?” Sebastian asked without asking. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we will subvert them all. Of course, we need to know who these communities are, so, who are they?”

Sebastian could not conceal his surprise. “Well, they…uh….well yes…I suppose we need look only so far as their own labels. This LGBT, which stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender. So, infiltrate those four communities and you will have your powerbase.”

“So be it.” Winder announced. “Though I may not have turned my attention to these sodomites in the past, I have lived in the Castro long enough to see that many of the females find me attractive. I will infiltrate the lesbians then. Sebastian, I would presume you can gain us influence with the male sodomites?”

The Irish expatriate crossed his arms. “I will do nothing of the kind if you keep using that word.”

“What word would you prefer than, love?”

“Lets try ‘gay.’ It has such a happy ring to it.”

“Very well, you will gain us influence with the gay.”

Sebastian sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, as you command my dear Queen, I shall rally all the world’s ‘gay’ and bring them to your pseudo-lesbian banner.”

“Good.” Sara said simply with an amused smile. “Now then, what about these bisexuals? Who are they and who should go amongst them?”

Sebastian peered over the table at Michelle. “Her I think. Our shy French lass has several centuries of rather debauched experiences with men and women, thus making her somewhat uniquely qualified to enter that community.”

Sara nodded but it was Kokopell Mana who spoke up first. “No.” Said the deformed old Nosferatu. “She is for the two-spirits.”

“What on earth does that mean dear? Who are the two spirits?” Prince Winder asked, impatience evident in her tone.

Sebastian answered. “Two-spirits are how natives of American describe those we might call transgender or transsexual. Its not an exact fit, the concepts are different, but for one who labels all these people sodomites, I am afraid the subtle distinctions might be too…subtle.” He smiled.

Kokopell Mana tilted her head. “The two-spirits are born with the spirit of man and woman. They are both, and they are neither.” She pointed to Michelle. “This one is of two-spirits, so it is to the two-spirits she should go, to lead their kachina.”

Michelle frowned. “What are you talking about? I am not of two-spirits. I am not even of one spirit anymore.”

For the first time in hours Mirko spoke up. “Maybe she means you are hiding something.” His voice tumbled through the bunker like stones falling on the ground. “Maybe you are still that cursed Setite in disguise.”

Anger swept over Michelle. “I am who I am.” She hissed. “I’ve fought the anathema. in France, just months ago. This all of you know.” She looked around the table, challenging any of them to contradict her. “And all of you know that the anathema could not have taken my form again. I have been before the Inner Circle on this matter and I am who I say I am. The Tremere can confirm this; my blood is Ventrue, not Setite! Do not suggest such lies about me again!”

Mirko did not flinch or get angry or even argue. He just looked at Michelle for a moment, then sat back in his chair and leaned up against the wall.

Her beautiful face alight with anger, Michelle turned on Kokopell. “Why do you say this about me? I am not a, whatever you call it, a two-spirit or a transgender. I was born a woman, I died a woman and I am a woman still. And I was never possessed of another spirit; the anathema did not possess, she imitated me. I spent the better part of a year in torpor with a stake through my heart.”

Kokopell nodded as Michelle ranted. “Yes.” She said softly. “But you are of two spirits. You have blue blood, but you have a black heart.”

Michelle let loose a stream of curses in her native tongue and rose from her chair, a delicate hand moving swiftly to the hilt of the sword she had carried into the bunker. Eyes wide, Prince Winder leapt up and put a hand on the irate Ventrue’s shoulder. “Enough. I know, through more than one source, that Michelle is who she appears to be. After what happened with the Anathema, no risks were taken, no tests were left undone. She is Ventrue. But…” Sara paused. “We still need someone to approach this transgender community if we are to heed Sebastian’s plans, and it might as well be Michelle. Kokopell Mana has demonstrated considerable wisdom in the past, even if it is not always decipherable at first. So, I am going to trust in her opinion, just as I am going to trust in Michelle.”

Mirko snorted incredulously from the darkness, but said nothing further. Kelvin nodded, while Luna and the others seemed to await Michelle’s reaction.

“D’accord.” Michelle said finally. “Alright.” Her hand let go of her sword’s hilt and she sat back down in a whirl of black silk and auburn hair. “Who are these people anyway, and how do I find them.”

Sebastian raised a hand in a distinctly effete manner. “I can show you dear. You are going to love them, they are good people.” He looked up at Prince Winder with an insouciant smile. “They are about as far from the likes of noble Ventrue as you can get.”

((holy shit. welcome back baby. Missed you)).

((thank you, I am glad to [i:371f1424f8]be[/i:371f1424f8] back - I missed you all too!))

((more posting!!! bring it to 2006!!!! allow me to offer a humble suggestion

********Two years later*****************

is how your next post should start! :D

[i:1fde229a7b]Author's notes: I had to change the dates - I was incorrect the first time, it was supposed to be 2003, prior to the election of Garret Newman as Mayor. So I have made just a couple edits. The next post is also in 2003. I have perhaps two more posts after this one and we will be in 2006. Thanks for your patience. Also, you may notice that there is no Mayor Garret Newman in real life San Francisco; our real mayor is Gavin Newsome. Clearly a huge difference. ;) Many people, locations and restaurants, etc. will have their names changed to protect...well, me mostly. Its a parrallel world, inspired by ours, but not quite the same...

Ciao! M.
[/i:1fde229a7b]

Fall, 2003.


Infiltrating the transgender community presented a problem neither Michelle or Sebastian had anticipated; the Sabbat. The Sabbat’s local sect, a pack called the Killing Spree, had already infiltrated San Francisco’s Tenderloin neighborhood, a low income patch of downtown that served as a sort of a “trans-ghetto.” The neighborhood was San Francisco’s highest-crime rate area, filled with transgender prostitutes, massage parlors, sleazy porn shops, crazy homeless persons, drug-dealers, drug-addicts, petty thieves and dark, dingy dives where all the above came together to drink. Aware that it would be an easy feeding ground, the Cathayans made the Tenderloin off limits to the kindred. They did not, however, regularly police the neighborhood’s borders. The city’s remaining anarchs moved in and with them, a small pack of Sabbat led by Consuela Maria Martinez. Martinez had been promised elevation to the ranks of Bishop if she could spark a war between the Cathayans and Camarilla in San Francisco. Given the pre-existing tensions between the two disparate groups, this task did not seem terribly difficult. The hard part for Martinez would be surviving the war to reap her reward. Accordingly, her plan called for a favorite Sabbat trick; a mass embrace.

Michelle knew all this because there was a traitor amongst the Killing Spree. His name was Carlos Griffouliere, a Lasombra. Carlos had inexplicably managed to maintain some level of humanity despite his embrace and indoctrination into the Sabbat’s ranks. He despised their bloody tactics and their horrid goal of openly enslaving all humans. He also did not care for how they treated their fellow kindred; if Martinez had her way, the vampires created in the mass embrace would all meet their final death shortly after the Camarilla-Cathayan war was started. The Sabbat cared nothing for those vampires they created but who had not yet gone through their rites. Such vampires were entirely expendable in the minds of the Sabbat leadership; nothing but fodder. For Griffouliere, this was unacceptable.

Despite his misgivings, Griffouliere was Martinez’s number one lieutenant. His blood was almost as strong as hers; he was intelligent, resourceful and diligent, but most of all, he commanded considerable loyalty from the other members of the pack who saw him as a trustworthy leader. Ironically, the pack’s loyalty in Griffouliere was based in the very quality that led him to be a traitor; his humanity. He treated the members of the pack well, he listened to them, he led from the front and he never abused his position of power. All in all, the pack should have seen it coming.

Griffouliere had met Michelle awkwardly to say the least. As Martinez’s number one lieutenant, he was in charge of security in the neighborhood. One night one of his pack reported two kindred had entered “Mothers”, the most infamous trans-club in the city and probably in the nation. Mothers had four floors; the ground floor was a typical saloon, long, narrow, with a bar stretching from one end to the other dotted with little electronic poker and trivia games. At one end was a small stage where they held a rather pathetic drag show every Friday and Saturday night. One level up was another bar and a dance floor with a DJ. The dance floor was ringed with mirrors and in the middle was a small stage with a pole. On Thursday nights they had trans-girl strippers doing their thing; no matter the night, however, this was the floor which most of the action happened on. A level up from that was the lounge area, complete with fire place, couches, another bar and a pool table. Each the first three floors had its own feel, its own bar and its own music; the one thing they all had in common was trans-girls. If you wanted to find a trans-girl, this was the place. Many of the girls, probably most, were working girls. Though the guys always wanted it for free, if they could not get it for free, they would pay. Guys came from all over the bay area, indeed, all over the country, to sample the selection. Known as trannychasers, they were both reviled and desired by the girls. Without the men, most of the girls would not be able to make a living; but many of the men were less than kind.

The fourth floor was a mystery. The stairwell went all the way up to four, but the door was always locked. The elevator would go to four as well, but only with a special passkey. None of the patrons seemed to know what was on the fourth floor and none of the staff talked about it. It was the club’s singular great enigma. But this was not the kind of club most people admitted going to, unless they were a trans-girl, and in that case, no one listened to you anyway.

Amidst the frenetic sea of trans-girls and trannychasers, Sebastian and Michelle stood out immediately. They looked a straight couple, and in this place, that meant they were tourists. Carlos found them standing together against one wall near the dance floor. At first he thought they were just straights come to gawk at the “exotic” girls, but the woman was just a little too beautiful, too graceful, and too pale. Then the man with her whispered in her ear, she laughed, and he saw her fangs. He only glanced at them for a second but by the time he looked up the woman was staring straight at him. She knew he knew. He began to move but she was already on him. She was close, pressing against him with her soft body. He had not even seen her step away from the wall yet she had already crossed the room. She whispered in his ear. The words were lost on him but he recognized the accent; it was French. Wheels began to turn in his mind. Martinez had spies watching the Camarilla, a whole separate Sabbat pack led by a female named Scarlet O’Toole. They told Martinez that the Ventrue had sent their new Justicar to San Francisco; a French woman who had recently fought with the Setite Anathema, Kemintiri. As Michelle nuzzled in close on his neck, Carlos Griffouliere realized that this was the moment he had been waiting years for; with his help, this Justicar could bring down Martinez, scatter the Killing Spree and save those doomed to die in the mass embrace and the war that would follow. Of course, Carlos had also realized he was mere seconds from being drained. Opportunity never came without risk it seemed.

*****************************

Michelle was not the Ventrue justicar, but she played the role long enough to convince Griffouliere to turn to the Camarilla and betray Martinez. By the time she revealed that she was not the justicar, Griffouliere was already committed. Though disappointed, he was not overly concerned; in their brief time together Griffouliere came to believe that title or not, Michelle could overcome Martinez. Indeed, except possibly for that Gangrel beast Mirko, Griffouliere believed Michelle to be the most dangerous kindred in San Francisco. And so it was that he set about undoing the plans of his superiors…

*******************************

Michelle sat behind the tinted windows of a black Land Rover at the intersection of Polk and Post. Across the intersection, just down Post Street, Mother’s sat in between a fire department station and a corner grocery. Trans-girls were working the far corners, coming and going to and from the club. Dealers plied their trade on the same corners, casually talking with the pimps and johns who walked by. On the near corners, the young hip 20 and 30 something straight kids looking to hear some music and feel the vibe of the street scene lounged around in front of the half dozen clubs that made up the lower-Polk. The intersection was more than an intersection of streets, it was the intersection of worlds; the world of straight hipsters, with their clove cigarettes, $180 designer jeans, and trendy tribal tattoos with the underworld of San Francisco’s trans-prostitutes and petty drug dealers. Here the straight kids could get the feel of the streets, but do it safely so long as they did not wander east, deeper into the Tenderloin. Michelle signaled her driver, a bald, muscular, goateed ghoul named Johan. He drove the Land Rover across the street and pulled up in red zone just beyond the fire station. Michelle slipped out of the SUV and walked down the street towards mothers. She was wearing tight, black leather pants, boots with chunky heels, and a deep red corset trimmed with black lace and tied with black silk ribbons. In her hands she carried a long black leather coat. She walked past the open garage doors of the fire station and the gawking fire fighters, and stepped into Mothers.

The thin woman at the door asked her for the $10 cover; though trans-girls were the lifeblood of this club, none of them got in for free unless they worked here. Michelle did not pay; she stared into the eyes of the thin woman briefly, whispered in her ear, and then moved on. She did not bother with the elevator; she went straight to the stairwell. A rotund man with graying hair and a gray beard was carefully making his way down the steps after having a few too many. His eyes fell on Michelle and his face lit up. “Hello!” He said cheerfully. “If I wanted to lavish you with all the attention a woman like you deserves, how much would that cost me?”

Michelle walked past him, sparing him but a brief glance. “Just your soul.” She said non-chalantly.

The man was entirely non-plused. “Great! I was not using it anyway. Does this mean I’m getting it for free? Where should we go to party? I have a room nearby! And my god you’re gorgeous.”

Michelle ignored him and kept walking. The rotund man, out of shape and inebriated, could not follow quickly enough and soon lost interest. At the fourth floor landing Michelle stopped in front of a black metal door. She rapped on the door with the long thin object she carried. A tiny window slid open in the door, like some prohibition era speak easy. On the other side she could see Griffouliere’s eyes. The window slid closed and the door opened. Michelle looked about warily and unwrapped the object in her hands. It was a sheathed sword. Carlos ushered her inside and Michelle complied.

“Martinez is back there, in the big room, with her newly embraced cannon fodder. She is teaching them the basics of shadow-play.” By shadow-play he meant obtenebration, the Lasombra’s signature power.

“Security?” Michelle asked, her eyes roaming around the hallway.

“That would be me.” Griffouliere replied sardonically. “The rest of the pack is out and about. Martinez feels safe here, surrounded by her bonded neonates, with me watching the door.” As Michelle drew her sword Carlos put a hand on her shoulder. “Remember what you promised me.”

Michelle looked back at him. “And what was that?”

“A minimum of bloodshed. I did not come to the Camarilla just to jump from one group of butchers to another.”

Michelle nodded. “I know, you …”

“Traitor!” Someone screamed, interrupting her. Michelle turned to see a man coming out of the room down the hallway. He was 30ish, rough looking, wearing dirty jeans and an even dirtier motorcycle club vest. His red, feral eyes bore into Griffouliere with unbridled hatred. “Goddamn no good traitor!” The man reached for a pistol tucked into his waistband at the small of his back. He never made it. Michelle moved with a speed the man could not hope to match. By the time his palm settled on the grip of his 9mm, Michelle had eviscerated him, slashed his throat and run her blade through his heart, sending him to his final death. Michelle was committed now. She drew upon the strength of the stolen blood flowing through her undead veins.

Shouts of alarm came from the room beyond and Michelle went towards them. The chamber was large, filled with pillows, divans, velvet curtains, black lace and fine paintings. It was nothing like the other levels of the club other than it was unusually dark. A woman-child looking no more than perhaps 16 years of age, dressed in black and red much like Michelle, pointed at the door and hissed; “Destroy her!” Michelle recognized Griffouliere’s description of Martinez instantly; embraced while young, Martinez was hardly a girl-child any longer. There were five other people in the room, Martinez’s first class of expendable neonates. All but one instantly reacted to her order and charged Michelle. The fight was over almost before it began; though outnumbered four to one, Michelle had centuries of experience and powerful blood. The four neonates were sent to their final deaths in seconds. The fifth neonate, a tall willowy girl in a halter top and mini-skirt, used those precious seconds to flee the room in the opposite direction. Martinez, on the other hand, was no neonate and she used those seconds to conjure the shadows that were her servants. Living darkness crept from the walls and pulled at Michelle. Tendrils of seemingly insubstantial shadow gripped her limbs and an inky blackness descended over her. Though she had not drawn breath in five centuries, she was suddenly feeling as though she was suffocating. The shadows blinded her, bound her and smothered her. She fought back with all her will, using her blood to keep her strong, keep her from sinking into the seductive darkness that tried to claim her. With a Herculean effort she began to walk forward. The shadows gripping her pulled harder in response. Michelle knew they were a manifestation of Martinez’s will, powered by the Sabbat leaders own stolen blood; the question now was simply who was stronger. In the black Michelle bared her fangs and set herself to one singular purpose – destroying her enemy. Outside the inky cloud, Consuela Maria Martinez did the same, drawing upon all that she knew of her clan’s discipline to destroy the interloper. Lasombra darkness tore at hardened Ventrue flesh, but in the end, it was Ventrue blood that won; Martinez, had been instructing her neonates in shadow-play and had used much of her blood already this evening. Michelle on the other hand had been fresh and was possessed of more powerful blood being lower in generation. The shadows began to dissipate as Martinez could no longer maintain their conjuration. Michelle broke through sword in hand and rushed at Martinez with all the speed she could. Martinez was no fool, however. She had saved just enough blood to power her own celerity-enhanced dash and dash she did; straight out of the chamber down the far hall where the neonate-girl had run moments before. Michelle followed, bloody sword in hand but Martinez escaped behind a steel door. Michelle tried to force the metal portal, but it would not give. She hissed at the vault in anger, and then ran back down the hall to where Griffouliere was just now entering the main chamber.

“You killed them all.” He said in shock. “All of them. You were only supposed to kill Martinez.”

“I had no choice. They attacked me, at her command. Its unfortunate, but its reality. If we had not been seen, then maybe things would be different, but we were and its done. Now, Martinez made it down the hall and closed some huge metal door in my path. Where does that hall lead? Where is she going?”

Carlos looked up from the carnage around him. “Nowhere. She is going nowhere then. That is a “safe room” she had installed. It’s a fortified hidey hole.”

“How do I get in?”

He looked around room once more, and shook his head. “The pass code is 7439987542.”

Michelle sprinted down the hall and tried the code, desperate to get to Martinez before Martinez could drink the supply of blood that was surely stocked in the safe room. She punched in the code but the door did not open. She tried again and again the door remained closed.

“Dammit Griffouliere! That code does not work! Get down here and open this thing!” She yelled. Carlos came running; though upset by the deaths his betrayal was meant to prevent, he knew this had to be finished. He punched in the code and again the door did not open.

“She must have changed the code from the inside.” He said as he tried the numbers again anyway. “She must have heard Louis yelling ‘traitor’ and figured out it was me.”

“Can she see us? Does she have cameras in there?” Michelle hissed angrily

Carlos shook his head. “Not yet. The room is new, not everything is done.”

Michelle pulled out an ear jack from the décolleté of her corset. She put the ear jack on and pulled out the small throat mic and affixed it. Quickly she contacted Johan and his team down in the Land Rover. In minutes, they were upstairs and their tech specialist was working on bypassing the safe room’s door. Johan also brought blood packs for Michelle. She pierced them with her delicate fangs and drank them dry while she waited. Minutes passed, then an hour and then two.

“Carlos, you know her, what is she doing in there?” Michelle asked.

He shrugged. “Drinking up her emergency blood supply I suppose. And probably calling the rest of the pack. If she has to, she will wait us out. Knowing the pack it will take them all night to regroup. If they cannot mount a counter attack before the sun comes up, she will just stay locked in there and wait until tomorrow night. The pack will come eventually. If need be, she can wait a long time in there.”

Michelle and Johan sent two of the ghoul team to keep watch on the streets. Daniel, the tech specialist, kept at the door, while Johan set a booby-trap up in the hallway. Michelle paced outside the door, sword in hand, ready just in case Martinez decided to sally out. Griffouliere squatted along the hall and spent his time watching the Ventrue and her ghouls work. They were trapped now, between Martinez in the safe room and the rest of the Killing Spree who were somewhere down in the streets massing for a counter attack. Though he did not want to see anyone else killed, kindred or kine, he was ready for a fight; in his hands was a mean looking short barreled shotgun. Another hour passed.

“Its done I think.” Daniel said with a smile. “It’s not a bad installation they did, but we’re past it. Anytime you are ready, I can unlock the door.”

Michelle signaled Johan who moved up and readied himself behind her. Griffouliere stood, pumped a round into the chamber of his shotgun and stepped up behind Johan. Michelle drew upon the power of her blood and nodded to Daniel. The tech specialist crossed two wires and they could all hear the doors bolts retract. Michelle opened the door with one hand and entered, sword held ready in the other. She expected pure, inky, evil darkness but was greeted by soft red light instead. The safe room was small, no more than 8’ by 12’ on the inside. There was a refrigerator, some cabinets, some electronics, a monitoring station whose monitors were all black, and a couple of comfortable couches, a gun-locker, a toilet and sink and some plastic storage bins. The only person in the room was the tall, willowy neonate Michelle had seen fleeing the main chamber earlier. The girl was lying on one of the couches, eyes closed.

Johan entered the small room behind Michelle and trained his stubby assault rifle on the girl’s reclining figure. “Is she dead?” He whispered.

[i:1fde229a7b]Dumb question,[/i:1fde229a7b] Michelle thought, [i:1fde229a7b]the girl was undoubtedly dead long before she ran in here. The question is whether she has been drained.[/i:1fde229a7b] Of course, she knew that was what Johan was really asking. Michelle walked up and put her sword to the woman’s breast and pierced the skin just a little. A tiny drop of blood trickled out.

“Do it.” The woman said softly. Michelle blinked. The woman’s eyes opened now, but only halfway, like the sated, soft eyes of lover rolling over to her mate just before dropping off to sleep. “Go on.”

“Where is Martinez?” Michelle asked.

The woman smiled slowly, softly, and then pointed at the floor. Michelle kept her sword at the woman’s breast and looked down. There, on the floor, was the black and red dress Martinez had been wearing, now empty save for dust.

“You lie.” Michelle said plainly. “This is a ruse, and not a particularly clever one. Tell me where she is or…”

“Or what? You’ll destroy me? I’ve already told you to go ahead and do it. You’re going to anyway.” The woman smiled again, revealing her fangs.

Michelle looked at the dress on the floor again and then at the neonate. This time she used her auspex powers and instantly she knew the neonate was not lying; black lines pulsed through the woman’s aura. “Diablerie!” Michelle exclaimed. The woman on the couch did nothing. “How did you do this? You were her bonded slave weren’t you?”

The neonate turned her beautiful face to look at the floor, long locks of raven hair spilling out around her. She laughed lightly. “Yes, well, she thought so anyway. She certainly told me so, but I never felt it. I suppose I’ve always been a bit headstrong. She rushed in here, shut the door and went straight for the blood. She keeps it locked so it took her a second to fumble with the keypad. I figured she was low on blood and low on power so I bit the bitch and I was right; she did not have the blood to fight me off. I guess she used it all fighting you. It serves her right for doing what she did to me. She took my life, so I took hers. And the best part is, she is the one who taught me how to do it!” The neonate laughed.

“Diablerie is nothing to laugh at, childe.” Michelle cautioned.

“Diablerie? I don’t know what you are talking about. If you mean killing her, my drinking her, I didn’t laugh when I did it, I came. It was the most powerful orgasm I ever had. What do you care? You’re here to kill all of us aren’t you? I saw you cut down the others.”

“I did at that.” Michelle said. “But you ran. Why?”

“I could tell you were too strong.” The woman replied simply.

“How?”

“I don’t know, I just could. Now, you are spoiling my death. I did not want all this talking and chatting. It was supposed to be more poetic than that. I am in here, enjoying the afterglow of the most fabulous orgasm I’ve ever had, and you just come in with your little sword and one stick and its over.” The woman made herself comfortable on the couch. “So, do it already.”

“No!” Griffouliere interjected. “I forbid it.”

[i:1fde229a7b]This was getting weirder by the second[/i:1fde229a7b]. Michelle thought. “You forbid it?” Johan quickly switched his aim from the woman on the couch to Griffouliere.

Carlos saw Johan move but did not dodge or counter, instead, he lowered his shotgun. “Yes. As much as I can, I forbid it. I betrayed my pack to save lives, not to see them all killed. If I wanted all these neonates dead I could have let Martinez send them off to die in her little war.”

“She is a diablerist.” Michelle stated plainly, her sword still on the breast of the woman.

“So what?” Carlos asked. “She diablerized your enemy. I know the Camarilla, especially you elders, consider diablerie the worst of sins, but this one has no clue what she has done. Do you think Martinez ever told her about it? Do you think Martinez told them anything about kindred society? She knows nothing. You can’t hold her accountable for this.”

Michelle regarded Carlos coolly. “I can and..”

“No! You can’t.” He snapped back. “I won’t have it. You kill her, then all that I have done was for nothing and if that happens, then I am not with you. I told you, I am not jumping from one band of heartless murderers to another. If you have any humanity, this is the moment you show it to me; otherwise, I am not with you. And yes, I know your man has his gun to my head and you have your sword. I am sure I’d be destroyed in seconds. But on my soul you’ll have to do it.” He raised the barrel of the shotgun just slightly to emphasize the point.

Michelle and Carlos locked eyes and held each other’s gaze. Johan kept his rifle pointed at Griffouliere’s head while Daniel, the tech specialist, moved into firing position with his own weapon. Griffouliere knew he was surrounded and outgunned, and that Michelle alone could defeat him easily, but he refused to back down. His honor was at stake. Something good had to come of this betrayal; someone had to be saved.

“Nice weapons.” Said the woman on the couch, as if oblivious to the tension in the room or the blade at her breast. “That’s an SOPMOD M-4 isn’t?” She asked Johan. “Its got the KAC accessory rails. And what have you got mounted? An M203 and a reflex sight? Oh, and the suppressor. Very nice. Not something you see on the streets every day.” Johan frowned and shot the woman a look, while still training his weapon on Griffouliere.

Michelle looked away from Griffouliere to the woman on the couch. “What is your name childe?”

“Brandi.” She replied with a smile. “I would compliment your sword, but I don’t know much about these European type blades. What is it? A rapier?”

“Qui.” Michelle said with a nod. “Now, are you willing to be [i:1fde229a7b]antitribu[/i:1fde229a7b]? I assume, as you are the childe of Martinez, that you are Lasombra and Lasombra antitribu rarely live long, but if you will come to the Camarilla I will spare you.”

The woman did not reply immediately. She regarded Michelle seriously and silently, as if studying her. The suddenly a smile crossed her face. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I only speak English, sorry. So, put what you just said entirely into English and I’ll think about it.”

“She knows nothing of the Sabbat, or the Camarilla or the Lasombra or the Ventrue or any of the clans.” Griffouliere added quickly. “Martinez saw no reason to give a proper education to her expendable foot soldiers. All she taught them was how to feed and how to fight.”

Michelle lifted her blade from the woman’s breast and sheathed it. “I am not going to destroy you. You’ve not even been given a chance and Carlos is right: If we slay you out of hand we are no better than the Sabbat we destroyed today.”

Brandi sat up for the first time. “I won’t be your slave either. I’d rather be destroyed.”

“I am not going to enslave you.” Michelle said simply. “I am not going to bond you or bind you. You are free to go. You should know, however, that your crime of diablerie is visible to all who can perceive your aura. Any who see it will destroy you. If you choose, you may come with me and I will protect you. My protection does not come for free, however. I am at war with the Cathayans and the Sabbat, two groups with dire plans for the people of San Francisco. Help me fight them, and I will bring you into the Camarilla and you will not be alone. I will not lie; you may not last long. But it’s a chance. On your own, well…I doubt you will get far. You know nothing. I don’t mean any insult by that, its just the truth.”

Brushing back her black hair, Brandi smiled. “No insult taken. How long do I have to think this over.”

With all the sympathy she was capable of mustering, Michelle explained the dire facts. “You have until I walk out the door. I am sorry, but I cannot hold the offer open any longer. It’s now or never; we have to fade back into the night before the rest of the Killing Spree return or the Cathayans show up. After that, it’s unlikely we will see each other again, and even if we do, we will not know who might have gotten their hooks into you. So, you have to decide n…”

Brandi cut her off. “Fine, I am in.” She said with a smile. She stood and towered over Michelle. The girl had to be six feet tall at least, and in her cheap heals, she must have been 6’4”. Tall, thin, beautiful with long, messy raven hair, she looked like one of those super-models Michelle saw in the lingerie catalogs. “Now what?”

Michelle found herself in awe of Brandi’s height and it took a moment for her to recompose herself. “Qui, qui…we go. We go back to our haven. And..thats it, we go. Come, follow.” She shook her head and walked out of the safe room. Griffouliere put a hand on Michelle’s shoulder and looked at her with soft brown eyes. “Gracias. You are a woman of your word, and of humanity. And because of that, I am in also.” Michelle just nodded.

As the group filed out of the small fortified room one by one, Brandi tapped Johan on the shoulder. “Um, if we are going to war, can I get a few weapons also? A SOPMOD M-4 would do, but there are a few other things I would like as well.”

Johan gave her a lopsided grin and stared at her barely covered breasts. “Ja, most likely. We have access to almost anything.” He looked her over appreciatively; her resemblance to a lingerie model was not lost him in the slightest. “How do you know so much about weapons?” His eyes dropped to her breasts again, but he forced himself to look her in the face.

“I was in the army once.” She explained.

“You?” Johan asked incredulously. “What did you do?”

Brandi slowly eased out of the cramped safe room’s portal, stretching out her long, shapely legs. “I was a sniper in a recon unit.”

Johan scoffed. “Bullshit. They don’t let women become snipers in recon units.”

The tall, beautiful woman stopped and looked back at Johan with a stunning but mischievous smile. “No they don’t, but then, I wasn’t a woman back then.” She let that sink for a moment and then began to laugh.

Down the hallway Carlos chuckled. What kind of women did Johan think were hanging out in this place? Had he paid no attention at all? Michelle was even more amused than Carlos, but for a different reason; this pair of Lasombra antitribu, which included a humanistic crusader who could successfully take the moral high ground even as he betrayed his former comrades on one hand, and a suicidal, transsexual, diablerist prostitute on the other, were the veritable antithesis of those uptight, blue-blooded, aristocratic, overly-ambitious sycophants of impeccable lineage commonly found in a respectable Ventrue elder’s coterie. But then, Michelle had never been particularly respectable Ventrue elder. [i:1fde229a7b]C’est la mort[/i:1fde229a7b] she thought, [i:1fde229a7b]at least it won’t be boring.[/i:1fde229a7b]

((AHEM! *bump*

((I am still here, and still writing - just hard to find the time upon occasion. The story is coming, I swear. I won't leave you hanging (..in mid air, above the burning silhouette of Cherconeaux, like I did last time...hee hee)).

((good and err...i won't artfully provide the appropriate distraction so that my compatriots can serve you a well deserved defeat.



like last time :D

((Defeated?!? I am never defeated! I only choose to not to triumph by conventional means, instead selecting the more subtle path.))

[b:706d0415c3]2003[/b:706d0415c3]

The Sabbat reprisal came quickly but ineptly. Deprived of their leader and her lieutenant, the Killing Spree struck back like an enraged, but blind animal. They did not know precisely who killed their would-be bishop, but they knew the slayers were vampires and that meant Camarilla. Accordingly, they struck back at what they knew was a valued Camarilla friendly asset in San Francisco; Sebastian’s Alexandrian club, which was in turn home to the infamous Vampire Club. The Killing Spree knew what most vampires knew; the Alexandrian club was located in a large, turreted, red brick building in the Marina district of San Francisco not far from the Marina Safeway. This made it stand out as typical Marina architecture was pastel colored apartment buildings and houses done in an eclectic Spanish-Mediterranean style. What the leaderless Killing Spree did not realize was that there were [i:706d0415c3]two[/i:706d0415c3] large, turreted, red brick buildings in the Marina, both near the Safeway and naturally, they burned the wrong one.

From the roof of the Alexandrian Club, Sebastian watched the blaze light up the night sky, yellow flames glowing orange against the thick, roiling, low hanging fog. It had taken him almost an hour to realize that it was the old San Francisco Power, Gas & Electric building that was on fire. He sent a servant down to make inquiries and found out very quickly the firefighters already suspected arson; something to do with a pile of empty gas cans, wicks, and other incendiaries as well as a shovel planted prominently in the grounds outside, soaked in blood. Sebastian chuckled on the outside but cringed on the inside. The shovel he supposed was the Sabbat’s equivalent of the KKK’s burning cross. Clearly this was a revenge attack aimed at his club; it just missed. He was not happy. Carlos Griffouliere joined him on the roof and watched as the firefighters battled the out of control blaze just blocks away.

“I do believe that Michelle’s plan to save us may lead us all straight to hell.” Sebastian quipped to Griffouliere.

Carlos nodded. “Perhaps, but the Camarilla believes in her, so I will trust her as well.” He said seriously. A playful smile crossed his face. “Even if she is French.”

Sebastian, watched in the distance as a stream of water arced across a smoky street into a blazing windo. “She is not French.”

Carlos frowned. “She sounds like she is French. And she is from France, how is she not French?”

“She is from Alsace.” Sebastian explained.

“Alsace is in France.” Carlos replied.

Sebastian nodded. “Yes it, is.”

“So, she is French.”

“No, she is Alsatian.”

“Same thing!” Griffouliere insisted.

“Not at all.” Sebastian said. “But, ask her yourself. She is coming up behind us.”

Griffouliere’s face fell and he spun. Michelle was indeed coming across the roof towards them, a bloody sword in hand.

“Ask me what?” She purred.

“Whether you are French or Alsatian.” Carlos explained with a furrowed brow.

“Yes.” She said simply. “Our little Sabbat problem is at an end for the moment I believe.” She lifted the sword and in the glowing orange light of the fire-lit foggy night Griffouliere and Sebastian could see fresh blood running down its length. “Without their leaders, they did not seem to have the foresight to think that obvious targets might be watched. Several escaped of course, they are fast and certainly they are survivors, but I think their time as any kind of force in the city is at an end for the foreseeable future.”

“How comforting.” Sebastian replied. “What’s next on your little agenda of damnation?”

Michelle smiled. “We go to war with the Kuei-jin. First, we solidify our hold over this queer community you have shown us. Next, when they have their festival or parade or whatever it is next summer, we use that to bring in reinforcements. And to make a few more as well. Then…” She trailed off and looked out upon the flames in the distance. “Then we will strike.”

Sebastian’s gaze followed Michelle’s. “They meant to burn down my club, you know, they just got the wrong address. The Kuei-jin will not be so incompetent. Before I help you and your Camarilla any further, I want your word that my home will be protected.”

Michelle laughed lightly. “My dear Sebastian, wasn’t it you who first said ‘I find the best way to keep my word is never to give it?’” She smiled, looked him in the eye and licked the blood from her blade. Without another word she turned and left, disappearing into the dark.

The Irish poet’s eyes blazed for a moment as she left but then cooled. “Well then, I am sure nothing will come of it. The Kuei-jin would not want to destroy me or my club anyway.”

Griffouliere snorted. “That’s rather optimistic don’t you think?”

Sebastian turned back to watch the fire that was now finally being brought under control. He stared into it, indeed through it, to a moment of his own past. “Perhaps, but then the basis for optimism is and always has been sheer terror.”

((i love this thread.