Pandora stepped out of her beat up old Honda, her heels clicking on the concrete sidewalk. Just another lonely night. Of all places, why did she choose to make her home in Cascadia? As a programmer, she could work from anywhere. Cascadia was a place with no familiar faces, no one sneering, knowing what she had been 7 years before. Here, no one knew her from Eve.

A place, as good as any. Pandora looked off in the distance, surveying the night. A half shelled building sat on the other side of a vacant lot, half rubble- she wondered what had happened- it reminded her of the buildings she had seen blown up in the old war movies her father had been so keen to watch. Sometimes, in that lot, she saw, or thought she saw- the face of a child peering out at her from behind a tree, or a well dressed man out the corner of her eye- standing in front of the rubble, or in the middle of the field, watching her. She would look again, and see nothing. It seemed... Haunted.

Ghosts aside, the rent was cheap, neighbors friendly enough, the condos well maintained.

When she had asked the landlord about the old building, he told her it had been blown up in an explosion some years before the condos were built. As to the purpose of the old building- he only returned a glazed look, as if that part of is memory had been simply erased.He would suddenly get a horrified look, and quickly change the subject.

Maybe tomorrow, she would see for herself. Pandora quickly locked the car, and walked the stairs to her condo. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, carefully locking it behind her. Home late again, the cat would need feeding.

"Pussy?"

"Meow?"

The little tan Siamese curled around and between her legs, purring. She picked up the cat and headed for the kitchen. She had found pussy at the edge of the field across from the condo 3 months ago, and had taken her home- she was now clean, and just starting to look fed, her ribs barely showing, where before there had only been a dirty thin coat stretched over a frame of bone.

"Hungry?"

"Mrrow!"

"Yes Pussy, right now." Pandora opened the cupboard and took out two cans, setting them unopened on the floor. "Chicken, or Tuna?"

"Rrow.." Pussy batted at the tuna can.

"Tuna it is." Pandora opened the tuna can and emptied half of it into a little bowl.

((now is a good time to jump in.))

((trying to think of an angle! soon as i do i'm in!

((Likewise....but with who - Ports or Finn!? ))

The panicked wail of tires gripping wet asphalt reverberated through the neighborhood as Tyler wrenched the Jaguar XKR into a turn at a blantantly high rate of speed. The machine responded with all the precision it had been built for and like a cat shifting directions mid-air, made the 90 degree turn into the alleyway that ran alongside the apartment building deftly.

The custom-built engine's pulsing drone dropped to a purr as the young Ventrue pulled up alongside the apartment building's maintenance door and shifted the car into neutral. He glanced down at his phone and for a moment the car's leather interior shone brilliantly as he accessed his calendar, spilling the sharp light of the LCD across all surfaces. He navigated to his current appointment, which simply read "New Condos Update - Urgent".

He took another long inhale from the cigarette that dangled between his lips, sucked in sharply, rocketing the brakish smoke into his dead lungs like a water slide and then flicked the butt into the alleyway.

"This should only take a second." Tyler stated flatly, leering up the illuminated windows that shone like lanterns in the ill-lit burough.

"What's this one? Another hold out?" Jules asked from the passenger seat. He was still scrubbing ferociously at the quickly drying speckles of blood that dotted his t-shirt. A little sloppy, but he had done good work tonight.

"Nothing that serious." Tyler slipped his phone back into his pocket and stepped out of the car. Jules followed suit. "Hey..." he said, looking at the youth over the car's roof, "...where are you going?"

"I was going to..."

"You're not gonna do shit. You're gonna watch the car." he grumbled, slipped another cigarette from the pack and popping it between his lips.

"Watch the car? I'm pretty sure Mr. O'Brien said that I was shadow you and..."

"Yeah?" the hiss of butane and a spark and the cigarette glowed a sinister light, "That's what I thought too. But apparently we've got different definitions of the word. See, when he asked you to shadow me I don't think he meant go talk to the Marina Master's assistant and turn his face into hamburger meat. So...NOW you're just going to sit in the car."

Jules shot a furtive glance down at his bloody shirt, resigned himself to the fact that he had fucked up, and fucked up royally and that the chances of redemption tonight were slim at best.

Tyler reached through the window, into the back seat and grabbed the plain black duffle bag, navigated it through the window and slung it over his shoulder. Satisfied that the new lackey that his boss had so needlessly imposed on him now knew his place quite clearly, he stepped through the maintenance door and into the condo building, a faint dancing trail of cigarette smoke following behind.

A short walk later he stood in front of a door simply marked "Office". Inside, he found the building's landlord hunched over a cluttered and ancient desk, alternating his attention between an old fashioned ledger and a stack of bills. His portly face rose as Tyler approached and the surprise was evident in his meaty features.

"M..Mr. Tyler..." he managed.

Tyler let the duffle bag fall to the floor and pulled up a chair in front of the man's desk.

"For Christ's sake Dean, Tyler's my first name."

Dean, the landlord, eyeballed Tyler's lit cigarette, but said nothing. His face slackened a bit and he began to seem more at ease.

"Sorry Tyler...what can I do for you?"

"Nothing Dean. Mr. O'Brien wanted me to bring you this." he said, motioning towards the duffle bag. He shot Dean a grin, displaying two sterling white rows of teeth, a cigarette clamped tightly between them, "Sort of a welcoming gift."

Dean straightened up in his chair and craned his neck to get a view of the bag. His thick eyebrows furrowed.

"Oh, well that's uh....that's very nice of him."

Tyler was already elbow deep in the bag. Like a magician at a birthday party, the wiry youth began producing items from it's interior, which he set on Dean's desk. He handed Deane a new laptop and an iPhone, items which the old man studied curiously and then looked at his visitor with an inquisitive expression.

"So if you need to get in contact with us. You use one of those two items. Only call using that phone and only email using that laptop. See that?" he pointed at a small black rectangle, protruding from the laptop's side, "That's the broadband card. It gives you internet access anywhere. Only use that network. Don't plug that laptop into any other network. Got it?"

"Got it."

He didn't get it.

"Repeat it back to me."

"I uh...only email you from this laptop using this band card."

"BROADband card." Tyler emphasized. What a fucking waste of time.

"Broadband card." the old man repeated dutifully.

"Right. And don't try to use the broadband card on any other laptops. The phone only has one number in it. It's not Mr. O'Brien's and it's not mine. But the person who answers will know how to get in touch with us." Tyler stood and walked towards the door. The landlord nearly toppled his chair trying to get up and follow.

Tyler turned and said over his shoulder as an afterthought,

"Oh yeah. And don't try to make calls to any other number from that phone. It's rigged to explode if you do."

Dean looked at between Tyler and the phone with apparent horror.

"Explode?!" he cried.

"No, I'm just fucking with you." Tyler laughed. "Oh, but on Tuesday next week, we're sending an electrician and security expert out. He's going to perform some routine upgrades to the building. Do me a favor and help him out with anything he may need."

Dean closed his eyes, flashed a nervous smile and stepped between Tyler and the door. He held out a diplomatic hand.

"Tyler...listen. I can't express enough the deep DEEP appreciation I have to Mr. O'Brien for stepping in with the bank when he did. I mean, I would have lost this place without his intervention. That said, I guess I had kind of assumed he would be more of a 'silent partner'. I mean, security upgrades, electrical work? Shouldn't I be involved in these kind of decisions? I mean....listen no offence....but I sort of have my own way of running things. Ya know?"

"Listen Dean," Tyler moved past the rotund businessman and open the office door, "Mr. O'Brien isn't a silent partner in anything. He only invests in what he deems profitable or potentially profitable. Now, have these condos been particularly profitable under 'your way of running things'?"

Shades of crimson crept into the old man's cheeks.

"Well...the past few years have been..."

"Right. So that must mean he sees potential." he ran a hand through his thick hair and stepped into hallway, "And believe me. He'll do whatever he has to in order to see it realized. So do me a favor, huh? When the guy shows up on Tuesday, just play nice. Otherwise I'll cut a new fucking smile in your throat."

The flush left the landlord's cheeks and his knees turned to gellatin. He stood slack jawed at the threat. What had he gotten himself into? These guys were psychopaths! This wasn't what...

"Jesus Dean, I'm just FUCKING with you man!" Tyler laughed and slapped the weakened landlord on the shoulder. He spun on his heels and retreated down the hallway towards the maintenance door, a thin trail of cigarette smoke still dancing in his wake.

Tyler burst from the building with an air of exhuberance, slamming the heavy iron maintenance door back with such force that it rocked on it's hinges before settling into it's slow return.

Old Dean had been so frightened he had nearly shat himself! Mr. O wouldn't have any problems keeping his new vassal in line, which meant no more trips for Tyler out to the bumfuck projects in the foreseeable future. But more importantly, it was the final task on his list for the evening and THAT meant the rest of the night was free for a level of debauchery that would make Bacchus blush.

He could taste the heroin-laced vitae on his tongue, and something deep in his dormant chest awoke. He send his cigarette butt sailing into the alley's darkness and whipped another from the inner pocket of his lambskin coat (a hideous old relic he had dug up from Caine knows where) and lit it up. The tar would find precious little living tissue to build tumors with. Who would have thought dying would have such health benefits?

He reached the car and slid into the drivers seat, startling a snoring Jules in the process. The lackey rubbed his eyes wearily and looked to Tyler.

"Everything go alright?"

"More than alright. We're golden. Where can I drop..." his phone chirped to life in his pocket. The number was familiar and almost never welcome this time of night. He emitted a sullen groan and answered, his forehead resting on the top of the steering wheel. "This is Tyler."

From the passenger seat, Jules thought his recognized the faint, tinny voice of Mr. O'Brien on the other end of the line. The words were too muffled to make out completely, but his tone was serious enough.

"Yeah. Went fine. Nope. Where? What the's number? How many? Gone gone or just gone? Got it. No, I've got it under control." the phone disappears back into Tyler's pocket and he opened the car door, walking around towards the rear of the vehicle. Jules followed suit dutifully.

"What's going on?" Jules asked. Tyler popped the Jag's trunk and began rummaging around.

"We're on cleanup duty. There's a bunch of smackheads holed up in the building and Gabriel wants them out." he pulled out a pair of black, woolen gloves and tossed them to Jules, followed by a ski-mask. "Don't put those on till we get to the condo."

"Are we gonna kill these guys?" Jules asked, his heart beginning to thump in his chest.

"No. Gabriel wants us to play nice. We just want to send a message." Tyler donned his gloves and reached into the trunks interior once more and brought out a matching pair of snub-nosed pistols. His eyes shone excitedly as he thrust one of the guns into Jules' palm, "But the message needs to be crystal clear."

((Ugh.....not what I wanted but its better than nothing))

The street smells hadn’t changed. Six years to Kine would feel like a lifetime. To a Kindred, however, it was something more akin to ten minutes. Sure, some of the buildings had changed, either through the renovation of old structures but more apparently through the introduction of new ones being seemingly scattered throughout the city like grass seed on a sun scarred lawn. Some of the ‘seeds’ had reached dizzying heights, but even those that hadn’t brought a touch of the gleaming glass and steel to the older crumbling neighbourhoods. There were, however, still places that the ‘greater good’ couldn’t or most often wouldn’t reach.

The underground garage seemed to inwardly groan at the strain as the exhausted strip lighting was forced into illumination, casting an acrid chemical glow across the sunken burial chamber. In the centre of the garage something vast and alien stood silently, covered by a dusty tarpaulin. A hooded figure stepped confidently up to the hidden leviathan and pulled the tarpaulin free revealing a deep red VW camper with a difference. The four huge wheels and the raised chassis gave the camper van an insistence that it be allowed to run free. Chuckling to itself, the figure looked at the keys it held and having swept the inside free of dust climbed up into what was now more of a truck’s cab than a driver’s seat....

A second figure emerged from the shadows, his face similarly hidden but the movements he made suggested he was deformed somehow. Regardless, he held a monkeywrench in one hand and a torch in the other. He nodded to the first figure both as recognition and in greeting.

The ‘driver’ slid down from his seat and pulled the hood back revealing a shaven head and two silvery bird-like eyes.

“So, what’s the damage, Guido?”

The second figure’s features became a little less hazy before his ‘mask’ resumed to conceal his appearance once more.

“Well I adjusted the shocks like you asked, she’ll take pretty much anything you throw her over...and I installed the reactalite glass you wanted so you don’t need to pull the curtains shut if you need a snooze.” He stopped abruptly as the silver eyed stranger interrupted.

“What about the engine? I told you I wanted something bigger, that gambling bastard never could outrun the cops in her.”

“V10 do ya? You noticed that you’ve only got one seat up front now? Well I had to use some of that space to make the new engine fit. She may not be pretty but she’ll leave anything short of a Koenigsegg trailing behind.”

“Not pretty? Don’t listen to him, Big Red, he doesn’t know beauty when he sees it.”

“So, tell me again, how did you get her off that gypsy bastard?”

Silver Eyes smiled, “Won her in a card game....she’s my baby now, ain’t that right, Red?”

“Good to see ya anyway....what you got planned?”

Silver Eyes grinned toothily, “Oh a little this, a little that. Say, get the door for me....I think its about time Red and I went for a drive....”

"I'm Beat. Good night Pussy."

Pussy ignored her, happily devouring the soft tuna. It had been a long day- her nerves were still a little rattled after her encounter with 'Angel', and she hoped he was just the nervous cowboy type, not the aggressive stalker type who might shadow her until he'd found where she lived. She had no interest in handling another 'James'- The reason her gun was always loaded, and within reach.

Pandora turned on the light over the stove, and turned the kitchen light off, Glancing out the window as she closed the blinds, she noticed the light in Dean's office still on. She wondered what would make the landlord keep such late hours- almost 3 AM now. Dean, after running her credit, was the only person in town who knew her secret. His only reaction was a surprised look, a raised eyebrow, and an 'OK.. umm.. credit looks good!' He didn't ask her business, and kept what he knew to himself. She decided it would be safest to stay out of his. Everyone has secrets, especially in Cascadia. He wasn't the addict or dealer type, and that was good enough for her.

She Hung her leather on the back of the most convenient dining chair and headed for the bedroom, pulling her black tank over her breast to reveal the scar left by the 'oh-so-godly' James. When she met him, he'd claimed to be a vampire hunter. Vampires? Really? At the time, she'd thought he was good for a laugh, and a free drink.

One slip was all it took to send the 'Hunter' after her. After stalking her for weeks and slipping threats under her door, he'd dragged her into an alley and stabbed her- Just below the heart, missing vital organs by centimeters. she landed a swift left on his jaw, knocking him back a few feet, and then finished him off with his own knife. Some vampire hunter.

The ER Doctors- and the Police, told her how lucky she had been. Lucky not only that he had missed, due to a minor birth defect, her heart beating on the wrong side of her chest, but that the bartender rushed out, calling 911 after hearing her scream. Although she moved to Cascadia shortly after, since that night, faces seemed to appear in the shadows- along with the eerie feeling she was being watched.

She traced a fingertip over the scar and hoped he was burning in the special hell made by his very own loving 'God'. She tossed the tank into the hamper on her way into the bedroom, then sat on the bed to remove her jewelery, setting in on the nightstand.

The smack-heads downstairs were usually passed out by now, but the sounds of their argument coming up through the floor told her somebody missed their fix. Pandora considered silencing them, but instead took off her bra, slipped out of her jeans and into a nightgown, then lay awake in bed.

Tyler took the stairs at a light jog, the pistol in his coatpocket bouncing at his hip. He whispered over his shoulder to Jules.

"Alright, so when we get up there just follow my lead." the old sensation of adreneline almost manifested itself in his veins. The work wasn't glamerous, but it could be fun.

"So we're not killing anyone, right?" Jules sounded nervous and that was bad for business. Itchy trigger fingers were great for film villians, but in real life it meant a lot of risk.

"Fuck no. When we get in, you just do crowd control. I'll sweep through the rooms, make some typical threats, and maybe smack them around if they need it."

They reached the top of the stairs and the duo set off towards the target condo. The shadows stretched long in the twilight and the walls pale and faded. His tongue rubbed like sandpaper on the roof of his mouth and his temples throbbed, and had his tear ducts remained active, his eyes would have welled up.

"Christ, I'm hungry." he murmured.

"I can't believe you can think about eating man. I'm about to fuckin' throw up over here." Jules replied, his hand wrapped so tightly around the pistol's handle, his knuckles shimmered line bleached bone.

"Believe me, sometimes it's ALL I think can about."

Tyler stopped in front of the junkies door, cast a final look in either direction down the hallway and placed his ear to the door. The doors were little more than particle board, and did virtually nothing to obscure the sounds within.

"...fuckin' BULLSHIT man. That's the second time the cops have pulled me over this WEEK. If I hadn't just sold the fuckin' ki to Ray I would've had it on me..."

"...fucked up man. Fuckin' asshole cops...."

"...yeah but how do they KNOW? The car's totally legal! I swear to fuckin' Christ someone's tippin' em off..."

Tyler pulled his ear away from the door and tugged the black ski-mask down over his face, then waited as Jules did the same. A quick nod of affirmation and he rapped on the door with a gloved fist.

The muffled voices inside fell abruptly silent, then gentle footsteps towards the otherside of the door. The young Ventrue slipped a gloved thumb over the peephole.

"What the...oh man. Who is it?" Tyler recongized the voice as the recent victim of the traffic stop.

"Golden China derivery." he responded.

"Golden China? What the fuck is that? Chinese food?"

"Yessir. One order Kung-Pao Chicken, one Beef-n-Noodles."

"I didn't order Chinese man." he sounded impatient, but stoned enough not to suspect anything.

"Ah yessir. One order Kung-Pao Chicken, one Beef-n-Noodles."

"Jesus man!" the doorknob's lock snapped open, followed by a deadbolt. A moment later the door itself opened just a crack, barely enough for the slightly acrid smell of marijuana to briefly come drifting into the hallway before being overtaken by the rank stench of crack-cocaine cooking on the stove. The door stopped short, held in place by a chain-bolt, just below which a reddened, puffy eye appeared. "I told you man, I didn't order any..."

The eye grew wider.

In an explosion of movement, Tyler's shoulder careened into the door. There was a shriek as the door collided with the condo-dwellers nose and the tiny golden chain links on the final lock exploded and sailed through the air like confetti.

Tyler and Jules emerged over the threshold, pistols aloft. The occupant, a grungy unkempt thing of about thirty years of age, stumbled backwards his nose pouring blood like a faucet through his cupped hands.

The stoner gasped as he felt himself nearly lifted from the floor and dragged down the hallway by the intruder, the barrel of a gun nestled tightly beneath his chin. Together, like a pair of dancers (if one dancer was supposed to be bleeding and covered in a fresh, warm layer of piss) the two entered the living room. Behind them, Jules shut the door and re-secured the locks.

Tyler scanned the rooms occupants. Three scrawny stoners in their early to mid-twenties, all baked, and all terrified. With a shove that only SLIGHTLY harder than necessary, he flung the fourth into their midst, then crossed his arms thoughtfully, the hand holding the gun tap-tap-tapping on the sleeve of his jacket.

"Alright fellas, bring it in! Bring it in! Take a knee, helmet's not a chair! Take a knee boys." the four youths sat on the floor and stared in stunned silence, their gaunt faces drawn tight with terror. Tyler lowered himself to his haunches, sitting on his heels. He leaned in towards the four, "Lets chat fellas."

"Listen. I know you guys are a little freaked out right now. I mean," he waved the revolver towards Jules and the trail of broken chainlinks in the hallway, "I know this shit's gotta fuck you up a little bit, right?"

Four blank nods.

"So I'm going to level with you guys. I mean, I'm gonna lay this shit right out on the line." he rested his chin on the barrel of the pistol and gave a thoughtful pause, "What separates us from the animals?"

Four blank stares.

"Nobody?" he pointed the pistol at one of the crankheads, "You. Any guesses?"

The man shook his head vigorously, indicating a negative.

"Communication guys! C'mon. Think about it." he motioned this last point home by tapping the pistol against his temple, "I'm not talking about grunts and squeeks here. The ability to express COMPLEX fuckin' ideas to one another in a constant and more or less universal method."

He stood upright and paced before his captive audience.

"I mean...the ability to collect and relay ideas and concepts are what allows each generation of humans to build on the accumulated knowledge of the previous generations. Something that we take for granted EVERY FUCKIN' DAY. The ability to communicate."

He squatted down in front of the stoner with the battered nose.

"You, lunch box. You read National Geographic?"

"N...n...no. I..."

"I read some shit in there the other day that blew my FUCKING mind. Do you know why some scientists think cro-magnon man outlasted neanderthals?" he paused and waved his guns between the four, "Any guesses?"

Four blank stares.

"Cro-magnon's voice boxes developed a bit higher in the throat than the neanderthals. That gave them the ability to form a wider range of sounds, which led to..."

He shot inquisitive glances at the four hostages.

"S...speech?" offered one.

"Yes! Speech! Exactly! It allowed them speech. And speech allowed them to communicate more effectively. They could say, 'Oh shit, the woolly mammoth's are on the move. If we wanna eat we better follow them!' or 'Guess what? I just figured out THIS is how you grow wheat!' The point is...just that simple phisiological alteration allowed all of this."

Four blank stares.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is this fellas. If for some reason the neanderthals had won out....if a meteor had come roaring through and smashed cro-magnons like a bug, and human history had followed stemmed from those hairy neanderthal bastards..."

He leaned in close to the pusher with the broken nose, so close the scent of drying blood stung his nostrils. He gently placed the barrel of the gun against the quivering man's forehead. Deliberately, he pulled the hammer back on the pistol. The man's face blanched.

"...I would have no choice but to come in and splatter your fucking brains all over the wall."

The pistol slipped away from the man's head and Tyler uncocked it.

"But I don't have to do that. Because you and me? We can communicate. So when I tell you that the party I work for doesn't want a bunch of dope fiends in this building...when I tell you that the second I walk out this door, I want you miserable fuckheads to gather up your shit and get out...when I tell you worthless mosquito-dick cunts that I want you to march downstairs, leave this months rent in the office and then disappear FOREVER...don't you think it behooves you to listen? Don't we owe our ancestors that?"

The four men nodded vigorously.

Satisfied that his point had been made, Tyler decided it was time to get down to business. He stood and looked at the group of men, pistol dangling loosely by his side. The pistol pointed at one of the terrified men.

"You. Lets go. Into the room." he motioned towards one of the small, cluttered bedrooms that stood off the main living room.

The whitened, shivering man gasped and his eyes darted back and forth, weighing his options at a manic pace. Tyler pointed the gun.

"Don't...freak." the authority in his voice was stern and clear. What the room's remaining occupants couldn't detect however, was the blood magic being emitted. The drug dealer seemed visibly calmer already. Obediently, he stood and turned towards the room. "Grab that bag."

The man picked a mangy backpack that had been sitting on the couch behind them. The zipper undone, Tyler had noticed the rather large and varied cache of narcotics it contained the moment he had entered the room.

"Keep an eye on these guys. I'll just be a second."

Jules nodded a confirmation.

Inside the small bedroom, Tyler motioned for his captive to take a seat on the floor. He shut the door behind him and with his foot, crammed several wads of dirty laundry under the door. The bedroom was rank with the stench of rotting food, stale cigarette smoke, and the body odor of it's inhabitant. Luckily, Tyler didn't have to breathe.

He took a seat on the bed, directly in front of the man.

"Open the bag and dump everything."

The man complied and Tyler watched as a treasure trove of high-grade opiates and pills spilled tumbled across the floor like Jacks. Tyler did a quick visual inventory.

"What's that? Heroin?" he pointed to a small balloon of white rocks.

"Yeah. Heroin." the junkie said nervously, "Look...if you want this stuff just take it. We won't..."

"What's this?" Tyler grabbed a small vial from the floor. "Jesus...morphine? You guys don't fuck around, do ya?"

"Look dude...take it and we'll leave. You'll never see..."

"You ever made a speed ball?" Tyler retorted, ignoring the man's plea.

"A...a speed ball? Y...yeah sure."

Tyler tossed him the vial and motioned towards the tiny balloon with his gun.

"Make one up."

The junkie looked uncertain.

"I...I need to grab a spoon and some water..."

Tyler pulled an empty soda can from the nightstand and held it between two hands. He tore the bottom from the can and shook off the excess liquid before handing it to the man.

"Grab that water bottle behind you."

The junkie complied nervously. The bag contained the remaining components of the volatile process and Tyler watched impatiently as the man heated up the tiny white rock in the bottom of the can, added a little water and then sopped up the potent stew with a tiny cotton ball.

Pulling a syringe from the bag, he pierced the heart of the cotton ball and drew the brackish brown liquid into the heart of the needle. Half full, he plunged the instrument into the small vial of morphine and completed the deadly cocktail.

He hesitated and then presented the needle to Tyler. The Ventrue waved his piece towards the junkie.

"You do it."

"W..what? No man. I've been off heroin for like 6 months...I can't..."

Tyler cocked the gun. The junkie was on the verge of tears now, his reddened eyes lined with moisture.

"Jesus man. Okay man. Jesus." he sobbed, "Can I at least shoot it between my toes? I just don't want to fucking track marks..."

"I don't give a shit. Just shoot it." Tyler snarled, his appetite now wrestling for control.

The junkie shot the toxic mixture in between his toes and slowly melted onto the carpet behind him. His eyes fluttered wildly as his mind erupted in a euphoric climax.

His prey sedated beyond resistance, Tyler tossed the pistol onto the bed and tore his mask off. Then, nearly consumed with desire, he descended on the writhing junkie.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He emerged from the room alone and with his mask back in place. The revolver was tucked neatly back into his jacket pocket. He glided past the three men and strode towards the door, his head swimming joyfully. Every dead nerve ending in his body felt as though it were tingling and in utter ecstasy.

"Lets go."

He watched the derelict from an alley across the street. His hood hid his face from even the faintest invading light, but it did little to hide the silver eyes that scanned the building that housed his custom base. He wasn’t proud of it, but in today’s financial climes a Kindred, especially one that was supposed to be long gone, couldn’t allow things like principles to stop him making a fast buck. He listened to the sounds emanating from the ruin before pulling his senses back. A rat skittered past his feet, it couldn’t have been the one from his first moment of unlife but it looked awful similar. The similarity was enough for him to summon it to his hand. The rat, blissfully ignorant that it was being played, happily hopped into his outstretched palm. Even when he spat “Fuck you ya dirty little fucker!” at it, it didn’t realise it was about to become lunch. Hungrily he twisted the tiny body before sinking his fangs into its oil stained, shit crusted fur. The rat squealed uselessly before going limp. He tossed its body into the alley for its family to cannibalise, wiped the grime from his mouth with his sleeve and felt the meagre but still potent blood refuel his spent cells.

Having waited long enough he checked the street was clear, cocked the shotgun he had brought and jogged to the door.

The hallway's ensconced lights blurred and stretched like supplicants as Tyler strode down the hall, a hapless passenger behind his own eyes. The potent cocktail of narcotics and bravado propelled him into an existence that seemed accelerated, exaggerated and any other -ateds one could imagine.

He descended the rotting stairs nearly too quickly for Jules to follow, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. He flew from the stairwell into the hallway, bracing himself against the hallway.

The heavy iron door at the end of the hall slowly opened ever so slightly, revealing a sliver of night. A frail, hunched figure slide through the crack and stood in the dim lights several yards from Tyler and a panting Jules. She stepped into the jurisdiction of the wall sconces, the light splashes across her ancient face and filling every crag and wrinkle.

Weary eyes traced Tyler's robust figure, then turned wide and wild. She shrieked in horror and half ran, half tumbled back towards the exit, the bag of groceries Tyler had failed to notice spilling across the floor. Amongst the low-fat milk and Wheat Thins, the young Kindred stood perplexed.

In his drug addled stupor, he retraced the path of the old woman's eyesight. Handsome face, chiseled and sturdy torso, hipster attire....the pistol still hung loosely in his hands.

"Jules! Did you see that shit?!" he cried, a wide feral grin exploding across his lips.

(( ok.its been long enough. What's next))

Jules' face, now crowned in crystalline beads of sweat, emerged in the hallway's sickly white light. Exasperation and fatigue hung from his face like celebratory banners as he leaned against the wall, stuffing his mask back into his coat pocket.

"Fuck man...fuck..." he rattled, his hands white and trembling, "...this ain't the way the Old Man would want it. He finds out we're stealin' stashes and scarin' old ladies he's gonna..."

Later in his short life, Jules would recall the next millisecond as a definite contender for the longest millisecond in history. He vaguely felt his feet leave the floor as Tyler slammed his body into the wall, driving the breathe out of his lungs in a spasmadic burst. When the shock melted away, only jittery nerve endings remained, wracking his torso in white hot fiery pain.

"C...CHRIST TYLER!" he cried. But Tyler seemed not to notice, his face peering intently down the hall, eyes drawn tight. He held Jules firmly in place with a single arm...a single fucking arm!

A moment later, the sounds of bootsteps clamoring down the stairwell. A hair of a second after, the junkie with the shattered nose appeared near the end of the hallway, his eyes wide and wild.

Even from a distance, Jules could make out the sickly jaundiced yellow that was spreading beneath his eyes. His face looked drawn and panicky. But worst of all, he held a shotgun within his frantic grip. He locked eyes with Tyler, the caked, drying blood beneath his nose looking like a painted-on goatee.

"MOTHERFUCK...!!!" he blurted, and Jules watched in what appeared to be slow motion as he brought the shotgun to bear at hip level. His vision seemed shaky, fragmented. As though someone were showing him a slide-show of the final moments of his life.

Tyler single pistol shot was deafeningly loud in the tiny hallway and seemed to send a ripple through the drywall. Part of the junkie's neck disintigrated away into a chunk filled mist that spread out on the wall beside him.

The shotgun clattered to the floor as the would-be assassin collapsed at the knees, his feet folding beneath him and his head falling forward to the filthy carpet below. He looked like some wounded pilgrim praying to a god that quite clearly wasn't listening.

Tyler let go of Jules and approached the man, arms loose at his side. Jules could see the junkie writhing and squirming weakly, his hand holding his shattered neck. He felt sick.

He just had time to throw his hands over his ears before Tyler fired the final shot and the man's movement ceased altogether. Jules was shaking visibly now.

"W...w...we were j..just supposed to...to...to send a message..." he stammered.

Tyler's face bunched up in confusion. He squat next to the dead man and grabbed him by a lock of greasy hair, lifting his head back and displaying his face like some hunter who had just bagged a buck. The man's face was....empty.

"If that's not a message...fuck me if I know what is." Tyler said.