((Repost - Please excuse lack of formatting, too difficult to go through all this amount again))

Forest Green, Epping, Essex; 2003

It was late the night a third murder that would become as crucial as notorious took place; quite, quite late. It was that permeable hour when it is not quite today, and not really yesterday. We'll call it 2AM, because we don't really know any better. We are just an unseen presence in this occurence, a floating spectre if you will.

So let us spectate this cold night. Let us descend from thew clouds, and let us veer away from the abusive lights of London, a small common in Essex is our destination. A place that should be deserted now, but this is Essex after all. We know, in our hearts, that it won't be empty, for what use would a story be without characters?

Speaking of which, let's meet them. As we descend lower and lower, our invisible eyes latch onto the target, the small patch of blackened green growing in size; growing, growing, growing. The pasture that should be empty (and it won't be fully emptied after this night for quite some time, I can tell you), is not. Beneath the statue of a distorted musician we view our cast. A man and a woman (isn't it always?); lovers - perhaps drunken lovers.

The man, yes, let's start with him; a fine specimin if ever we saw one. Must be six foot, dark hair, chiselled features, and those wandering hands of the English. His partner, the damsel distressed; average looking woman, I suppose, shoulder length blonde hair, the body of a fifteen year old (for that is how old the girl is), and a giving demeanour. Too giving.

It seems things are moving faster now, kissing and wandering hands is leading to undressing. It isn't our place to watch, we aren't perverts after all, so let us leave the lovers to their destiny.

-----

"Come on baby... The night is perfect... We've had a great time, let's finish it with a bang...."

"I don't know Charlie, your'e only fifteen, it ain't right..."

"Oh come on... I can tell you want me... It's fuckin' obvious!"

The girl, Charlie, giggled as she ran a slutty hand over the mans crotch, feeling his not unimpressive bulge. She was by no means a virgin, it was Essex, after all; but this guy was her first "older man" and she expected a lot from him.

"Are you sure?

"Of course... I've been gaggin' for you all night... We can do it however you want big-boy..."

She grinned knowingly; she'd done pretty much all of it as it was, and was very willing to experiment.

"Well... Okay. How about you get on your knees eh?"

He grinned now. It was so easy. Mind you, he thought, it was always easy in this debauched part of the world. He shuffled onto his knees behind the teenage girl, who had positioned herself readily on all fours;

"I ain't gonna be gentle, Charlie... I stopped being a kid a few years back you know..."

"I know... Just get that thing in me..."

Her breathing was heavy now, and had she have been even slightly aware of the situation, she would have regarded it odd that his was perfectly normal; his entire composure was not like a lust fuelled man, all apart from the raging hard-on.

She moaned as his hardness pushed against her still clothed rear, she felt his hands sliding up her back; then one dropping to pull her panties aside, then back up again, until both rested on her shoulders. She could smell him now, his musk, his pure manhood; and yes! There it was!

At that moment of relief, feeling her prize, something she hadn't expected happened. His hands closed around her throat; and tightened. The clasp knocked the wind out of her, and the fact the mans penis was pushed violently inside her aided her none.

She tried to scream, this was evidently a little more than "rough sex"; the realisation of something darker and more sinister becoming obvious to even her shallow mind. The world got a lot darker very quickly; these were expert murderers hands choking her. She was unconscious for almost a minute before the rest of her body gave up, and she died the evry moment his body achieved orgasm.

----

Now, we can rejoin the party. I expect what was ordained has occured, but I warn you, if you come to view again, the sight may not be pretty. In fact, I can guarentee you it will be anything but. So come, let us leave the clouds again...

The moon seems to be on our side, it shines on the place we wish to see well enough. Look... Do you see? The body? Well, what's left of it. The girl, our Charlie, is dead. Murdered by a man destined for infamy... Perhaps murdered is too light a word, butchered will serve better.

There, to her right are her clothes, neatly folded and stacked; perhaps a speck of blood dirtys them, but maybe not; it's not our place to know. We are just watchers in the dark, after all. Let us note the details, however; as gruesome as the sight is, it is worthy of viewing, at least by those as unbiased and impartial as us; the general public.

Naked, she lies, face down. Why? Perhaps a Psychologist would answer; I myself am unqualified for speculation. Three of the fingers on her left hand have been torn (You can tell they were not severed by the awful state of the remaining stumps. Her breasts are slashed with X shapes; oh, did I say she was face down? Yes, sorry, her neck has been twisted and broken (after death, police examiners will point out tommorow), and twisted round so she lies face down.

Her legs are spred-eagled open almost horizontally, and as with her breasts, X shaped slashes are apparent on her inner thighs. We shan't explore her nether region any closer, for I myself fear to investigate what horror may lie there.

That will suffice for examination now; but let me tell you this: Over the last month, two other murders with striking resemblance have been discovered; both on underage victims - one male, one female (though now two female of course), both sexually active prior to death, both mutilated, both having post mortem necks broken, and in the first case (the boy), one finger removed, and in the second, two.

We will leave now, and perhaps in time, I will lead you to the further developments of the story, but that scene is enough for this night.... So under the blind gaze of the Fiddler, we shall leave poor Charlie, and tommorow her corpse will be discovered by some unfortunate dog-walker, or schoolchild taking a morning shortcut....

[b:eff87261e8]Walthamstow, East London; 2003

Some days after the third murder as detailed [/b:eff87261e8]

An unoffensive and extremely generic Renault Megane indicates left, and consequently turns into the multi-storey car park entrance. The driver recieves the ticket from the automatic ticket machine, and proceeds through the barrier, and begins his effort to find a parking space this Saturday afternoon.

After several tours around the concrete fortress, the car eventually settles in a non-descript spot, flanked by a Range Rover and a Peugot. The car door opens, and a reasonably well dressed man steps out, shuts the door, walks away, depresses his car-button alarm, and goes about his business as the triple beep sounds behind him.

He enters the shopping complex, paying mild attention to the scurrying shoppers on their afternoons chore. He passes Burtons, JD Sports, Starbucks, Costa Coffee, another Starbucks, then arrives at his destination. He walks into the BHS, strolling past the girls eyeing the underwear section, fantasising of the day they earn their first bra, then past the boys eyeing the girls, not caring whether they wear bra's or not.

He walks to the payment desk and smiles at the cashier;

"Hi Gina, can you buzz me through? I forgot some papers last night...."

The pretty girl behind the desk smiles and does as asked;

"Of course Mr.Matthison...

He smiles at her again, and walks through the heavy door into a long hallway, doors shouldering every ten yards or so. He walks down it, not worried about the CCTV cameras watching him, following him. He does work here, after all. He reaches the end of the corridor, a door either side of him. His office is on the left, so he pushes the door open, and walks in. Instead of gathering papers as he claimed, he walks to the desk and picks up the telephone. He dials a number and waits for an answer.

"I'm in my office. Unlock the gate in two minutes."

He promptly resets the telephone in its cradle and opens a drawer.He shuffles about in it for a moment, searching for a blank piece of plastic; and finds it. He shuts the door, picks up a briefcase he had left here, walks out the door, locking it behind his time, and crosses the empty hallway to the opposite doorway.

Apparently a Janitorial closet, this room is seldom used; because in fact, it is a Janitors closet, at least in guise. The man glances at his watch, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to the beat of some unheard song, to the educated listener, it was possibly Velcro Fly by ZZ-Top; and maybe it is something else.

The second hand on his exquisitely timed watch ticks onto the 12, and the man tries the door handle - it gives way to his pressure. He steps into the closet, shutting the door behind him. There is a mechanical noise, something he has heard countless times, and the rear wall, shelves and all, swings backwards by forty five degrees. Mr.Matthison steps through the gap into what appears to be an elevator. He presses the single button on the panel, and is quickly plummeted downwards.

Not ten seconds later, the lift stops, and two mettalic doors slide open, revealing yet another generic corridor. Matthison steps out of the elevator, quite unperplexed - this is his real job after all. He ambles down the corridor, and eventually pauses outside a set of double doors. He lays his palm flat against a blank tile beside the door. A sensation of static electricity coarses over his hand, and then the doors slide silently apart. He steps through.

"Ah John, glad you could make it. There is much news...."

"Hmmmm, didn't somebody say 'No news is good news'? And it is the weekend - you know I was playing squash...."

"Yes, well sorry old man, as I said... There is much news, and it is actually quite, quite good."

"Well before you bore me to death with the technicalities, let me get a drink."

He sets his briefcase down, and walks to a refridgerator in a neighbouring room. He pulls out a drink and returns to the scientist.

"Do tell me this gem you so need to share..."

He sits down opposite the lab-coated man - Dr.Giles - and crosses his legs.

"Its the suit John... The prototype is ready..."

With stoic resolve, Matthison manages to complete the process of sipping the drink instead of spilling it all over his not-too-expensive suit.

"The prototype is ready for testing?"

"Indeed, John. We are planning the first demonstration in about twenty minutes. Thats why I wanted you here promptly..."

"Good God, I never dreamed I'd see it working in my lifetime..."

"Yep, Agent Samuels is going to perform the test. We're going to put him right in at the deep end with one of the captured subjects."

Matthison nodded. He knew exactly what that meant. Samuels, he knew, was an accomplished agent - but still relatively new to the organization. He was being used as a guinea pig; if he was any good, he would know this. This test would be his "Forlorn Hope". If he survived, he would continue his regime in Panopticon; if he survived with a thriving success, he would go on to much higher things within the organization - if he failed, he would be dead.

The subject Giles had referred to was a PCP induced Vampire. Something that had admitted to being Ventrue in Orange Room. Matthison shivered slightly as he considered that thought. He'd been with the organization for twenty five years, and had risen from Agent to Executive Administrator in that time. No mean feat. But Orange Room had earned itself noun status in his mind; indeed in the minds of every long serving member. It was one of the genius concepts of the governing commitee - the echelon one step above Matthison in the rank system.

A horrifying combination of Orwell's Room 101 and the psychological torture from that Kubrick film, "A Clockwork Orange", which was where it had earnt its name. Part of your induction into Ensignship was to have thirty hours "Orange time" (As an administrator, not a victim), and then pass a psyhological test afterwards. Seventy percent failed the fifteen hour test, and were consequently quarantined and used in the food chain as Vampire fodder.

Giles stood up opposite him, looked at his watch;

"Shall we? It will start in a few moments."

Matthison stood up, his legs a little shaky. This was one of those days in a mans career when it all seems to come to a natural conclusion - a true achievement. He had been involved in the original planning for the suit; technicaly known as Stealth Augmented Thermal Recussitation Nano-robotic System, affectionatlly known as Saturn. In short, the suit would fit close to the skin, much the same as a wet-suit - like a second skin, in fact. Yet its features were far superior to anything even researched by other "secret" organizations world wide.

Panopticon knew this, because, after all, who watchers the watcher but yet more watchers?

Saturn was almost plugged into the living specimin donning it. It co-operated with several thousand nano-machines implemented into the subject by intricate surgery; and acted in several different ways.

Its main drive was in the defensive; it possessed immense stealth capabiliy - using the technological ideals begun, and in some respects finished, by the Americans in the eighties. Fibre optic wires laced the material, reflecting imagery of the surrounding area; effectively changing the suit into a pane of frosted glass.

This had one major advantage, and one equally large disadvantage. On all hypothetical simulations, it should be as invisible to the dead, witht heir sixth sense, as to the living - however keen of sight. There was no mystical removal of the physical - it was pure smoke and mirrors stuff. The disadvantage was, that at the prototype stage, any movement would shatter the illusion.

The next feature of the suit was the nano-machine technology included. Should a flesh wound be incurred by the pilot at any time - to the leg, arm, side of torso, and even to some parts of the neck and face; the nano-machines within the body would co-operate with the checmical fuelled tubing, and seek to temporarily heal the wound with lashings of quatrizine and , for lack of a better chemical term, gunpowder.
Any minor bone or tissue damage would equally be accomodated with the pressure manipulation capabilities and yet more high-powered painkillers.

Another major feature of Saturn was its thermal cloaking; insofar as it removed the wearer from all known forms of tracking device using body-heat as its source. Not only this, but all smell was removed other than a slight rubbery odour. Furthermore, the fluid construction of the suit made it virtually noiseless in all situations; even sprinting - the feet were cusioned by thin layers of "super-rubber" - a form of the substance designed by the scientists at the Panopticon that had immense cusion quality in an incredibly thin width.

Included alongside the quatrizine dosage was a substantial amount of anti-serotonin concoction, rendering the wearer not only energized perpetually, but without the dire side-effects of formerly used sleep deprivation drugs. Neither awareness or morale would suffer - the user would simply not need to sleep.

----

Gary Samuels pushed open the door, and stepped quietly into the test arena. He knew that his task was to eliminate any other lifeform in the surrounding area within fifteen minutes. He was absolutely unarmed; but wore the Saturn, and was consequently brimming with over-confidence. This was, in fact, the most expensive suit he would ever wear - it was also the most expensive suit anywhere in the world; totalling in at £4.5 billion over twenty years; Gary Samuels had a right to over-confidence.

He went over his brief quietly...

Eliminate any and all lifeforms in test-area within 15 minutes.

Use only weapons found on site.

Lifeforms(s) will enter 60 seconds after you.

You may use any features of [i:eff87261e8]Saturn at your disposal.[/i:eff87261e8]

He knew what the words meant. One enemy - probably a Vampire; though not too powerful, this was his first non-simulation confrontation.
He needed to do it in less than 5 minutes to be noticed.
There were no real weapons anywhere to be found.
And the enemy was already unleashed, and waiting - with more information that he himself had, knowing the organization.

This did no deter Agent Samuels, rather it spurred him on. He desired victory now. He needed it.

He padded silently along the concrete wall, from the top of which came a faint glow from the window through which the assessors would be watching. He had to find the enemy quickly. Within a minute.

"Already wasted twenty seconds.. Come on Gary...", he said to himself under his breath.

Stooping he picked up a brick, knowing his plan would be incredibly amateur, and only a fool would fall for it; and using this to his advantage. He lobbed the brick twenty yards to his left, and sprinted forwards, hoping the enemy would pause, trying to assess where the noise obviously used as a feint would have come from. From there, Gary hoped, the enemy would attempt to stalk close to where Gary had just sprinted from.

He circled around, his visor on night vision; guessing heat sensitivity would do him no good - and of course he was right. He caught a shadow moving slowly, about thirty yards to his left.

His mind shouted "One minute!", and he smiled - he had met his own personal itinerary. He stepped back against a smashed car, piled up for scenic value, and watched the creature. He flicked over to heat-vision for a moment and got the result he expected - no body temperature. A Vampire. He prayed that it was not too old - but old enough to give him a glorious victory. He felt behind him, and found purchase on a shard of metal protruding from the wreck. IT would have to do.

He crept forward, catlike, watching the Vampire move edgily to the area Gary had began in. He decided he needed to get the psychological advantage here, and convince the Vampire it was he, Gary Samuels, who was the hunter. He paused and whispered the command for stealth, instantly becoming invisible. He then whistled quietly, and watched as the Vampire spun on its heals, glaring right at Gary, but not seeing him. Gary had half expected it to charge him; it did not. Instead, somehow, it became invisible. He switched to tacit-vision, hoping to see the shades left by the creatures movements - there were none.

This was impossible - it showed the slurred movements of dust floating in the air, it showed the history of some creatures journey across the floor before him - but it did not show any humanoid movement.

Though it did not achieve what he had hoped, it was still the movement guidance vision that saved Gary Samuels life, of a sudden a black arc appeared above him, he switched back to night vision, and saw the Vampire standing atop one of the cars to his left, it had not become invisible - it had used some sort of skill to make it run faster than the winds. And now it had seen Gary as he had moved his head. It leapt at him, and Gary managed to roll aside just in time.

He jumped to his feet, lifting the metal rod up with him, making ready to plunge it forwards at chest height with all of his strength - but the Vampire was gone again; but not for long. Icy fingers closed around his throat; it had managed to flank him in less than a second. Still, drilled lessons in the armaments of the Saturn had left him with an exquisite understanfding on how exactly to turn the tide on almost any predicament.

He swung his right elbow back clumbsily, holding his breath as the Vampires dead fingers tried to tear the rubber neckguard away whilst simaltaneously choking him. The creature responded by kneeing Gary in the back, and pulling him tighter - and closer. Exactly what Agent Samuels had hoped for. As soon as he judged enough of the creature was pushed against his suit, he muttered a command with the breath held in his mouth, and the suit fizzled against his skin. The Brujah jolted backwards behind him, having experienced a high-powered electric shock - yet only enough to stun.

Even so, it was enough. Gary turned lithely, and loomed over the Vampire, which was even now regaining its awareness, he lifted his arm, and brought the metal rod down as hard as he could - aiming, and succeeding, for the heart. The rod pushed through the flesh and bone, piercing the blood-pump, and thus parylising the creature.

Knowing to kill the thing would only cost the organization another few weeks in tracking one as violent and powerful, he left it useless and beaten on the training room floor. He did not acknowledge the assessors in the cubicle above him, but simply turned and walked back to the room to remove the suit, guessing he had earnt himself enough praise and respect to keep him in employment for several decades. As he walked, he checked his mental clock "3 minutes, 24 seconds", he smiled. He would certainly have been noticed....

---

"Samuels did extremely well, wouldn't you say Matthison?"

"Yeah. Very good. I'll make sure he gets noticed... And I Want a full debrief on my desk tommorow morning.
Anyway - give me the rundown on Z-division. With the suit almost ready for production, we need the men for the job...."

"Very well... But I must still stress the adequacy our own Agents possess in using the suit both in simulation, and in real-time scenario, as Agent Samuels has just proved most efficiently..."

"I am fully aware of our own Agents abilities, Giles, but Z-division was created for one purpose, and one purpose only - to use these suits... Seeing as we're well ahead of schedule, we won't need to spend more on reclones, so I want an update on them...."

"Ok, ok... Well, as you know, only twenty have been released in England, the other eighty were set free in the US... Of those eighty, seventy eight have fulfilled our criterion, the other two have been terminated. In our own backyard however, there have been interesting developments... Fourteen have met sufficient requirements, the other six have... Well, shall we say excelled? Z-17 is especially profficient... You know the "fiddler" murders?"

Matthison nodded.

"... Well 'The Fiddler' is none other than Z-17... He is one serial murderer that will never be caught, John. And when we trigger the disorder effect, probably next month, his spree will climax - and god only knows what will happen then... I've had the luxury of viewing the Police reports, and the documents I could get from MI6; he has not left a trace of evidence, John... Do you know how impossible that is in this day of forensics? ITs simply astounding..."

Again, Matthison nodded, not sharing his colleagues impartial view of their scientific endeavour - a serial killer was not exactly a success as far as he was concerned. Still, the signs were very, very good. Z-division would be unstoppable when drilled and trained in use of the suits...

[b:0b4791da31]Kensington, West London 2003

9 days after the third murder. [/b:0b4791da31]

3:14am

A phone is ringing, it plays the melody to the bass offered by the snores of a sleeper. The small hours symphony does not last long, much to our dismay; the sleeper wakens and groggily reaches over, and lifts the phone.

"Ugh..?"

"Er, Inspector Fletcher? That you Sir?"

"Ugh.. Yeah..."

*Cough*

"Who is it?"

"Its Sergeant Davis, Sir... Theres been another murder..."

"Oh fuck.. I'll be there in twenty. Send a car Davis."

"Yes Sir."

Fletcher puts the phone down and swings his legs out of bed. A slice of moonlight seeps in betwee the cracks in the curtains, and we can just about see the mans room. It is a single bed, a desk on its right side, on which is a phone, a glass of water, an ash tray and a note pad. Opposite the bed stands a warderobe, which we will soon learn contains three suits, and five shirts. Beneath the window sit three pairs of smart, practical work shoes. There are no posters, photographs, or any decoration other than the plain yellowing wall paper.

The man cradles his head in his hands, yawning;

Jesus, he thinks, Five hours sleep... Must be a miracle.

Detective Inspector Fletcher has not been sleeping well recently. He hasnt slept well at all since that first murder a couple of months previous. He gets up and pulls a cigarette from a box previously hidden to us in a desk drawer, and lights it. As ever, his first inhale causes a venomous splutter, something that will become ever more common as the cancer inside John Fletcher continues to digest him, piece by nourishing piece.

At the crime-scene

"Fucking hell."

Those words stand alone in the early morning air for some moments.

"Do you think it could be a mistake, Sir?"

The P.C asks D.I.Fletcher without much hope - still, he is just a Constable, and Fletcher is a Detective.

"Right now Constable, I don't know what to think. I will, however, endeavour to begin said process once I have a cup of tea in my hands. Two sugars, no milk."

He looks to the P.C authoritatively, the Officer gets the jist, and begins the search for a cup of tea at this ungodly hour.

Another man soon takes the P.C's place beside the good Detective; this man is similar in appearance to Fletcher; tall, medium build, dark features, mid 40s; but this man is not a Police Officer.

"Morning Inspector... Officer Eastwood, MI6...."
The man extends a hand to Fletcher, expecting a gruff curse, and ignorance. Instead he is surprised with a firm hand-shake and a lost smile.
"I was wondering when you boys would make yourselves seen. Christ, I could do with the help."

Eastwood does not display the absolute shock he is feeling; it is a recognised fact that MI's don't get on with Police; the former despise the latters anger at having cases taken away. The Detectives warm greeting instantly leads Eastwood to like this man. Fletcher is obviously troubled, and is not too proud to go without help. Besides, Eastwood has been up to tabs on the case - in fact, he knows more than Fletcher evidence wise (having access to top-notch Government resources), but has been impressed with the few deductions the Detective has made thus far. They have been deductions based on nothing more than good, old fashioned Police instict.

"Unfortunately, restrictions wouldnt allow me to offer assistance until this point... However I have been reviewing the case from afar - and I must say I am impressed by your moves, Inspector..."

"Hah! I'm closer to perfect health than I am to finding this fucker..."

As if to emphasize the point, Fletcher coughs up a hearty chunk of phlegm.

"'scuse me... Shit, Eastwood, I haven't got a fuckin' clue about this.. We have four bodies... Up until the third, each has had a number of fingers removed likened to the order in which it has been killed... But this body..."

"Is there any chance of copy-cat killing?"

"I'd want to say yes... But if so, we have a MAJOR leak... And I trust every Officer on this team. And my trust don't come easy."

"I have to agree... I guess it was a vain devils advocate hope... Still, when will the preliminary Forensic reports get here?"

"Should arrive by fax in an hour or so.... Listen, are you taking this case or assisting, Eastwood?"

The Policemans blunt honesty would normally offend the MI, but this time, it only further endeared Fletcher.

"My orders, and my intentions, are to assist in any way possible. Were my orders to take over, I have to say Inspector, i'd tell the boss to shove it. I've had access to everything you've seen, and I haven't made half the amount of conclusions as you."

"Well, mine ain't substantiated..."

"Perhaps, but a guess is better than ignorance."

Fletcher nodded, and the two men stood in silence, regarding the body, now shielded by a white plastic bivouac, some eight foot in the air. The body was of a teenage girl, and her appearance resmbled the other murders in every way; the thing that puzzled Mr's Fletcher and Eastwood was the fact that there were six fingers missing; not four, as expected.

It meant there were either two more bodies out there, they totally misunderstood the meaning of the severances; or the murderer was trying to keep them busy by leading them astray.

Both mean had secrety decided it was this last motivation. Their reasons were the same; they must be getting close somehow - without knowing it. Though correct in their assumptions - our murderer, the man nicknamed "The Fiddler" (due to the presence of such audiance at the third murder, and the rumours concerning his M.O), who is also part of a secret societies "Z-Division" - whatever that may be; yes, our murderer has removed extra fingers for the pure fun of the hunt.

He hopes his pursuers will reach the right conclusion, and throw a feint of extra manpower in other directions, but continue with vigilance in the same direction. He hopes his hunters are accomplished, because there is no fun in runing from a lame wolf.

"I believe we have a profiling expert arriving soon?"

"Yeah, some big-shot from London is coming in. Can't see how it will help, but I guess gotta try it all...."

At that moment, the P.C from earlier arrives, brandishing a steaming cup of tea.

"Er, Inspector, I got your tea... And theres a young lady waiting to see you. Says shes the Profiler...."

"Ah.. Ok, check her ID then send her over here, Constable."

The PC nods, then walks over to the waiting Miss Hall, and subsequently leads her over to our new friends, Fletcher and Eastwood.

"Gentlemen... I'm Sarah Hall.... Psychological Profiler..."

"Mornin' Miss Hall. Can't say I expected you this early... But i'm glad your here anyways..."

Eastwood simply nods and smiled at Hall, who he has met before, numerous times.

"Thank you Detective, i'm a night person anyway... A little bit of a Heliophobe..."

She smiled a dazzling smile at Fletcher, who had no idea Helio-whatsit was, but it didn't matter, that was one hell of a smile.

"Ok, anyway. If you go ask for Sergeant Masters at the Comms Tent...." He points to a white tent thirty feet away, where a cluster of Police Officers stand, talking on phones and examining documents... "He'll give you all the information you need."

She smiles, thanks him, and goes on her way.

"She's very good at what she does, Detective. I've worked with her many times..."

"I'll take your word for it. Anyway, lets go somewhere we can sit, I want to rack your brains over this..."

The two men walk off to another Police tent, and as they do, we must leave the scene. I believe we have witnessed enough for this night, and it certainly looks as though the plot is thickening with the introduction of one particular Heliophobe.

[b:cacc818c89]The Monday morning after Saturns testing... (The same day as the fourth body is found... ) [/b:cacc818c89]

Matthison paced the distance of the waiting room again. For such a close knit organization, this was one hell of a large waiting room; considering members were called in once in a blue moon. Matthison did not doubt the reasoning behind it was to isolate the waiting parties. He had been instructed to come before the Commitee at 2pm, it was now quarter past, and he had paced nervously ever since a quarter to. The ticking didn't help either. There was something equally suspicious about that clock, he thought.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...., then every few beats, it would slow itself - just a milli-second - but enough to disturb ones mental rhythm. There wasnt even a real consistency to it. He would listen, listen, listen, and just as he gave up on the idea as paranoid nerves, There!, it would slow itself again.

Part of him fully respected such nuances; they certainly removed any chance of mental preparation prior to such a meeting. The Commitee was myth and legend to most of The Organization, and to those who occasionally were interviewed by it, Matthison being one of those, it was more than myth. The men and women who sat on the board of governing - including the General himself - were terrifying. They were psychological genuii, they could extract any piece of information they required; the problem was, they weren't horrific shadowy people; they were normal, civil looking mere mortals; just like everybody else in The Organization. It just added to the confusion and utter weirdness of everything.

A red light flashed above one of the two doorways in the room; the other of which Matthison had entered half an hour or so previously. He stopped his pacing, drew in a deep breath, smoothed his lapels, and marched towards the door.

---

"Do sit down, John."

One of the Commitee pointed to an antique looking chair that would seat Matthison in a position where all he could do was look into the eyes of a Commitee member, wherever he looked. Sighing inside, he tugged the chair back a few inches, and sat down in it. He wanted to squirm, to crawl up; but he knew such thoughts were childish and pathetic; they were thoughts somehow induced by the other people in this room to add yet more discomfort.

"It has come to our attention that the "SATURN" exo-suit has reached testing stage... Would you care to fill us in? I know the general procedure is to have a written dossier produced - which I am sure you have no doubt set about compiling - but it was of our opinion that we should just have an... an informal chat about it."

Matthison opened his mouth, hoping his auto-pilot "management speak" would take over, but was cut short.

"Care for a cigar old boy?", a voice spoke from his right. He turned his head, ready to decline; but some instinct within him commanded otherwise... Would it be rude? Not really... But he was certain everything that had happened to him, since he had picked up his post from the doormat at 7:30am, up until this offer of a fine cigar, had been one long test.

"Yes, I will... Thank you.". he reached out and took one of the pencil thin Creme cigars from the box offered by a man as normal looking as Matthison himself.

A click to his left caused him to turn his head, a middle-aged woman was holding out a lighter flame, he gratefully used it to light his Cigar, and took a deep puff, taking care only to inhale as little as possible. These might be expensive Cigars, but Matthison was no smoker. Courtesy was one thing, habit was another.

"So anyway John, do tell us what you can...."

Matthison pulled the cigar from his mouth and rested it on an ash-tray on the table around which they all sat.

"Well, first off, the test was a complete success. The Agent involved in the test proved most efficient, and carried out orders far beyond expectations. I have offered his name to Ensign Harris - Of course the Agent - ah... Gary Samuels I believe, still has 6 months to go before he is eligible for promotion, but his Psychological Vitae is a grade 1, his loyalty has also been graded top class. He is certainly one to watch... Anyway, I digress...."

He lifts te cigar and takes another drag, relaxing slightly. He wonders why he always gets so clammy before Commitee meetings. Not once has he left feeling anything other than satisfied with his performance.

"As I said, the test was a complete success. Agent Samuels utilised both defensive and aggressive capabilities of the suit - both to optimum performance. The Vampire specimin did gain the upper hand briefly, but Agent Samuels countered well. Of course, the Vampire was one of the oldest we've ever used in a test situation; and i'm surprised it fell for some of our basic tactics. Still, it was a confident and more than adequate enemy, and Agent Samuels still proved true."

"Interesting. We shall keep an eye on this Samuels you seem to be impressed with... Now, what of 'Z-Division', or whatever the rot you call it..."

"Ah yes... 'Z-Division'. Well, Science Officer Giles informed me at the weekend that the American contingent have proved successful; of the eighty, only two have failed. However, here in England - where twenty were released of course - fourteen have been successful, and the other six have far exceeded the predictions we had hoped for.... Their feats have gone far beyond our projections for this stage, indeed even for the closing period next month."

"Would you mind explaining what, exactly, the purpose of this 'Z-Division' is again, John? Of course, we are aware that they are intended as pilots for the 'SATURN' units... But why exactly?"

"Well...", he takes another puff on the cigar, starting to enjoy the warm, fuzzy taste it induces, "Each of the Knights - thats what they will be called once fully operational - were produced as clones about twenty-five years ago. They were brought up under careful control by our Science and Technical divisions, as you're aware; with the single objective of becoming ultimate killers, whilst simaltraneously under our control.

The reason for them being outside, in the "real world", was decided by myself, and the board that was set up three years ago for the purpose of deducing what the best course of action at Optimum age would be - of course, we decided twenty-five would be the prime age for them to take on the Knight's mantle. Originally, this batch of clones were intended as the pilot scheme - the second batch will ripen in three years; and each subsequent batch would be so used in testing the 'SATURN' until the final unit was ready. As it stands, we can expect a hundred functional models within six months... So, the current batch of Knights are going to finish their 'real world' experience soon, and come in for debriefing, and 'SATURN' training.

Regaridng what the reasoning for putting them outside... Well, basically, we - the board - decided upon certain criterion that would inform us as to whether the Knights were actually as blood-thirsty and powerful as we hoped. I'll give you the US conclusion, because that shows the results we had originally hoped for..."

He opens a folder that he had brought in with him, and passes out several A4 booklets to the Commitee, all of which read and digest the facts and figures within.

"As you can see, of the seventy eight that survived - the two that died, for the record, were killed in violent circumstances of their own creation - over half joined various portions of the Armed Forces, hoping to be stationed out in Iraq, of course, whilst technically conscripted in the US Army now, we won't have any problem in making them dissapear from the paperwork. About thirty got themselves in gang-crimes, a fair few of which rose to considerable criminal rank in very short times, earning the respect of the violent with incredible efficiency our Watchers report."

He paused for breath as the people around him regarded him with inquisitive, but not unfriendly, eyes.

[i]"Now, concerning those in the UK... Fourteen pretty much followed in their American cousins footsteps; but six of the twenty, as I have said, seem to have excelled.... Whether it's co-incidence or not, those six were Z-15 through to Z-20.... Giles is looking into a possible difference in Genetic structure, and the Technicians are re-reading the psychological data in search of some anonymaly... Anyway, these six seem to have excelled... I'm sure you're aware of the "Fiddler" murderer at the present, well the actual murderer is Z-17; his weekly reports completely agree with information the Police and MI6 have gathered. He is leaving enough evidence for the investigators to pursue him, and yet not enough for him to ever be caught. We are aware of Vampiric interference beginning, at present we don't know where to locate the interlopers, but they will be wormed out soon enough. To be honest, i'm not sure a Vampire would want to go up against Z-17 at present. His bloodlust is exsquisite; aside from the "Fiddler" murders, he claims at least fifty six other kills in the UK and in France since January... All of which we have been able to sufficiently evaluate. We had projected a kill ratio of 1 per five days; this was worked out by the Technicians - and so far all the American, and fourteen of our the English based have met this requirement exactly - Z-15 through 20 have each killed approximately once every other day... What we have in our grasp, members of the commitee, are pure killing machines...."

Around him, the Commitee members nodded and murmured their approval.

"Once the 'Disorder Effect' occurs, in about a weeks time now, I believe, all ninety-eight remaining Knights will return to the fold, each will then undergo intensive chemical and mental preparation, effectively giving them a dependance on anger and rage, whilst simaltaneously having complete loyalty to The Organization - almost a love for it - they will then be trained with the 'SATURN's, and then, and only then, we will have a small army more than able of complete and utter genocide...."

Matthison had lowered the timbre in his voice at the end, hoping to leave his closing sentence on a note of potential magnificance; and it just about worked. The Commitee looked suitably impressed.

"Well i'll be blown. It looks like the ever-competent John Matthison has gone and brought the whole project forwards by fifty years. Whats say a round of applause eh chaps?"

Matthison was somewhat stunned as a man looking well over seventy stood up after finishing his praise, and began clapping; around him, the remaining members of the Commitee stood up and joined him. Matthison stood up and held his hands out, as though in surrender.

"Please, please... I was just doing my job...", he spoke, quite unbelieving of what was happening. Eventually they ceased their applause.

"The point is John, old boy, you've succeded where several others have failed before. You're quite our hero... Anyway, enough of the frivolties, you've done your job, and we're bloody happy about it too. So, get back to it now, and give us a full report on everything you just told us - lets say in a weeks time...."

Matthison smiled, it was one of the better rewards, he had learnt, when the superiors extend a report so significantly.

"Well John, thanks for coming, i'm sure we'llbe seeing you soon enough."

Matthison half expected to be offered a botthle of Champagne on his way out, such was his jubilance. He left the room, walked through the insanity inducing waiting room, and headed for his office. No Champagne, but boy oh boy, was he gonna have a drink on this one.

----

"It has to be said the chap has done well..."

"Quite, quite... But do you think he is being over zealous in his projections?"

"No, I shouldn't think so. He seems quite the pragmatist if you ask me..."

"Yes, but this 'Z-Division', do you seriously believe it will be sufficient to fit the requirement of the Knights? It was always my understanding that the Knights would be somewhat Honour-bound rogues, not mindless killing machines...."

"Don't be ridiculous. The point of a 'Knight' is to be able to kill without thought that which we instruct it to kill. Honour is not necessary if obedience is present..."

"I suppose so... Still, it seems as though we are veering away from the old ways..."

"Of course we are you bloody fool! We've all been in this Commitee since it began... Hellfire! Half of us have known each other since last century! The old ways have been and gone... We have to forget them... To combat a modern for, one must use modern devices - that should be our motto now, not some antiquated pledge of chivalric nonsense...."

This argument will continue long into the following day, where the seven Commitee members will do nothing but debate the subject. They are a very pure form of democracy; at least amongst themselves, eventually a decision on the aims of The Organization will be reached, and stuck to quite rigidly.

[b:184904e609]Millwall, South London, 2003

10 Days after the fourth body was discovered [/b:184904e609]

"Are you absolutely certain the DNA matches?"

"One hundred percent, Inspector. I am of no doubt that the sample I tested came from the same source as the semen extracted from all victims so far..."

"Christ.... Well, thanks Dave. I'll catch up with you next week."

"Ok Inspector, see you."

D.I.Fletcher hangs up the telephone and turns to re-examine the astounding scene. It is not, technically, a crime scene; though after an anonymous tip-off was offered in a 999 call, Fletcher had no choice to investigate further.

The whole case was as mystifying as what lay before him now; four definite murders, all almost certainly carried out by the same man, and from each scene, the only worthwhile evidence was DNA, and whilst it was good for corroborating intra-case facts, it was pretty useless in establishing who the miscreant was - what could he do? DNA test the whole of London?

Beside him, the phone rings, and it startles the Policeman; for a moment he had been lost in thought.

"Fletcher speaking...."

"Inspector? It's PC Mills. Ive found that reference you were after..."

"Go ahead, Mills."

"Its from a book called 'The Odyssey', by Homer, one of the Ancient Greeks...."

"Thats the one set after the Trojan war, right?"

"Thats right Sir...."

"Ok, Mills, was there any more to that passage?"

"Yeah, what you have there is only the first sentence in Odysseus' closing account of Circe... The whole statement reads..."

Fletcher hears Mill's clear his throat almost dramatically. His copper's instinct tells him Mills had probably been a good actor in his youth.

"Ok...

'We made our way to our ship and the beach with heavy hearts and many tears...'

Thats the bit you have there, and it goes on;

'Meanwhile Circe had gone ahead and tethered a ram and a black ewe by the ship. Seh had slipped past us with ease; when a god wishes to remain unseen, what eye can observe his coming or going?'

Thats it..."

"Hmmmm, ok Mills, can you run checks on 'Circe', the relevance of the sheep, and while your at it, geta copy of the book and put it on my desk."

"Sure thing, Sir."

Fletcher hangs up the phone once more, musing over what it could mean. First things first, though; aside from the semantics, what does it say about our friend?. the Policeman thinks.
He is well read, and wants us to know it... He hasn't quoted the Bible, that would just be cliche... He also has delusions of grandeur by the looks...

He coughs, and laughs quietly to himself.

"Shit, why am I doing that bitches work for her?"

He instantly regrets thinking this last sentence out loud; though he doesnt recall actually mouthing the words - still, he was heard, by none other than the bitch herself.

"I didn't realise I had made such a negative impression on you, Inspector? Still, as our relationship must remain professional, I see no reason to keep such feelings from one another. You think me a bitch, and perhaps that is fair. I think you a tiresome, old fashioned chauvenist. Now we are more revealed, I believe you have some new evidence to share with me."

Fletcher sighed, it was just his luck to put his foot in it at this point; he had no idea how she had found out his feelings concerning her initial diagnosis of the murderer; he had been impressed, but rather sure she was going down a number of blind alleys. What was needed was insight into where the bad guy would strike next, not as to whether his parents neglected him.

"Yeah, you can see it for yourself..."

He points to the wall, upon which the phrase 'We made our way to our ship and the beach with heavy hearts and many tears...' is written in blood - the "Fiddler's" blood.

"This is quite interesting... From 'The Odyssey', I believe... Tell me, Inspector, what information have you gleamed from this?"

"Well, we now know our murderer is right hand dominant - or at least ambi-dextorous. He appears to be average height. Obviously well read."

"Yes, yes; but what about your personal deductions, Inspector?"

She smiled at him, and despite his dislike for the woman, he felt honour-bound to reveal his own beliefs.

"Well, I can't say much for his sanity - thats your job - But, this guy knows what hes doing. He quoted a specialist text; not the Bible, he knows doing that would be just like every other serial killer... He wants us to follow him; he's leading us to something, something he hasnt done, but something he will do, and he knows we want to stop him. It's all a game for him, he is accepting of the fact we might stop him, but he doesn't think it'll come to that. In my opinion, this guy is absolutely mental."

She nods at him, scribbling down notes as he speaks. Regardless of her feelings for the Policemans antiquated sentiments, she respects his deductive mind. Not enough for her to like him, but he earns her respect, at least he earns the respect she will offer to a mere mortal.

"I have someone working on the reference, though I doubt it will offer much more."

"I have to agree, Inspector. I think it was, as you said, a demonstration of his intellect."

However, Miss Sarah Hall had her suspicions. Circe was 'The Dread Goddess', a lone power living alone, who would lure Sailors, seduce them, drug them, then transform them into animals. More importantly, Circe was the daughter of Helios, the Greek sun god. At present this was just co-incidence, but her Primogen had put her on this case for a reason, and Sarah was beginning to see why. This might just be another murderer, but maybe not.

"Either way, it seems as though the murderer envisions himself as rather powerful; and leading us, as you say. I will have my evaluation on your desk the day after tommorow. For now, I believe I have enough. Good night, Inspector."

He nods, not speaking. She seems to follow his own train of thought; still, he isn't sure. Is there more to this? He cant tell. Besides, its late, almost morning in fact. If he wants to be of any use tommorow, he decides, he may aswell get a couple of hours shut-eye.

So he leaves the scene, says good-night to the lone PC on sentry duty, and heads home, to a dreamless, and equally restless nights sleep.

[b:2776c065d9]"Serpent's Lair" Nightclub, East London, 2003
The following night [/b:2776c065d9]

The music is loud, the dance-floor is packed, the bar is six deep, and pretty much everyone is happy. A depressice sounding man sings above the furious drum-beat, accompanied by industrial-trance synth melody. Who are we here to see? Quite a few people, actually. As you might have suspected, this is a Vampire club - the name doesnt leave much to the imagination as to who might run it. And of course, its going to be packed with Vampires, mortals who wish they were Vampires, and mortals who are as good as Vampire food. So lets meet our first group of players in tonights fiasco.

"Who you got your eye on big-E?", the orator whispers, knowing the woman he speaks to can hear him just fine over the cacophony.

"Long, tall and ugly over there.", the woman nods in the general direction of a certain Gentleman we are getting to know and love.

"Heh. Thought he'd tickled your fancy. Who's gonna hook 'im?"

The woman, Big-E, real name Eleanor Small, and not nicknamed out of humour - she really is big, massive in fact. Though pity the fool who mentions it. Big-E surveys her team, a rag-tag bunch of independent freaks content to wander around aimlessly, working for Cammarilla to keep themselves free, but more often than not, working for themselves. Big-E may not be glorious in the looks department, but she has a natural aura that just makes you want to agree.

"I think Honey and Moonshine can reel that sucka' in. Tell 'em to take 'im back to their place. You an' Twix go wait for 'em. I'll be there after, I got some business down wit' Snakey."

"Sure thing boss. I'll see ya in an hour...", he walks off, as we won't get much chance to learn his name, for our information, he calls himself Goodman, though he is anything but. A rapist in life, and as good as in death.

Eleanor watches the man she fancies sucking dry for a moment, and for a second she thinks he notices her; their eyes meet for a moment longer than a regular glance. No way, she thinks. He ain't no Vampire, ain't a chance he senses me..... She looks away, and wanders off to find the patron of the establishment, theres a big shipment of coke coming in, and Snakey wants first dibs before the grease-monkeys can get their hands on it.

Of course Miss Small is quite right about her intended prey, it is no Vampire. At least not in the sense she means. True, the creature lives, breathes, sleeps, and will, we must assume, die of natural causes one day. Still, he does possess certain traits that would earn him a title not too dissimilar to Vampire - he murders, he revels in the slaughter, he does it from necessity - not enjoyment - at some genetic level, he is meant to slay. There, I suppose, the similarities stop.... Well, he is not really quite human, either. We already know he is part of some elaborate experiment set up by a top-secret organization; so lets fill in some blanks, shall we?

'The Fiddler', our Z-17, is also known as Jake; its the name he offers those who ask, and so far he hasnt needed a surname, and probably never will. He is twenty-five years old. He is an identical replica of ninety-nine other people in the world; well ninety-seven, two are already dead, though he does not know this (nor would he care if he did). Whilst he is mostly human at genetic level, certain differences were made in his creation.

He has a dependency on killing; the instinct that has been subdued in our placid race, was re-awakened in these abominations. They are pretty much amoral, they kill because they must, not because they know it is wrong; to them, it is like breathing. Quite natural. They are also the sort of being Adolf Hitler would be proud of, aside from hair and eye colour. Six foot, two-hundred pounds, all honed into muscle. Their make-up is so refined that they do not need to exercise to retain their peak physique. they are literal super-men; able to tear human limbs from their sockets, able to sprint at full pace for almost a minute, able to hold breath for several minutes. As a side note, their sensory faculties are pristine; equal to a Vampires in almost every way. They also have a minor sixth-sense in adolescent formation; something neither they, nor their creators, are aware of. It will serve them well, though, of this we can be sure. Moreover, the clones do not feel pain, it is a sensation they cannot comprehend or understand - like morality, it is a thing they do not need.

As part of the 'Z-divisions' training, they were instructed in Vampirism to a substantial level. They were given practical demonstrations on the strengths and weaknesses of several "Clans", details on how to differentiate, and above all, a severe hatred of anything undead.

Now we are better acquainted with Jake, and those of his ilk, let us reconvene in the "Serpents Lair". Two very attractive young ladies (though, in truth, they arent very young at all - though they are both yet to see their first century), strut towards a man they do not know, a man who will kill both of these over-confident creatures.

"Hi there handsome. Im Honey, this is Moonshine, and you must be Lucky?"

Jake looks up from his drink, a Pepsi, and regards the two women. He had expected them; the fat-cunt, as he thought of her, had been mingling with these earlier, and had obviously taken a fancy to him - wanted him for dinner.

"I guess I must be. Buy you a drink?"

He stands up, and pulls out two stools for the girls to sit on. Jake is completely sexless as far as being attracted goes, but he is fully awre of how to simulate attraction, how to act in awe, and how to react to two females flirting so obviously. For that they are; the two girls sit, hand in hand, gazing at Jake.

"Sure, i'll have a Virgin Mary... So will my lil' Sis too, I think"

Jake, Z-17 we must remember, looks to the other girl, so far speechless - apparently called "Moonshine". Their names are stupid, he thinks. Honey is dressed in a single-piece white silk dress, revealing her substantial cleavage, and long, creamy legs. Her shoulder-length blonde hair curves perfectly around her feline face. Moonshine, on the other hand, is dressed in punk-bondage gear. Shredded leather trousers revealing fishnet clad legs, no doubt as exsquisite as her partners, a tartan bra barely holds her large bust in place; and dirty jet-black hair frames her face, which is covered in make up and piercings. This girl, Jake knows, but doesnt care about, is beautiful in a completely different way to "Honey". The Angel and the Whore, everything a man wants in a woman, or indeed, in two women.

He nods as "Moonshine" favours him with nothing more than a slight smile, and wanders over to the bar. He knows he will be carrying to glasses of blood back to the table with him, the aroma is obvious, and he knows some intoxicant will be currently dissolving in his Pepsi. He knows he is probably immune to whatever drug awaits him, but he will need to play his part.
Get outside wherever they take me, kill them, then finish the job inside., he thinks as he walks back to where they await him.

He gives them their drinks, then takes his own, smelling it unnoticed before sipping. He was right, it is drugged, but it is a date-rape chemical he is perfectly immune against. He knows how to act though, and will do so perfectly.

They make small talk for a few minutes, and he is distinctly aware that 'fat-cunt' has gone behind the scenes, so to speak, and the other two - male Vampires - have left. Probably waiting for him.

As undesiring of sex as he is, he still knows how to play this particular game; he had very intensive training in Vampiric seductions.

"Alright girls, how much is one night gonna cost me?"

They look at each other and giggle.

"Don't be silly, Mister. We ain't gonna charge you a penny... We were kinda wonderin' how much you might charge us..."

They grin at him, and he has no choice but to respond in like. He makes sure he releases the desirable amount of pheromones, knowing such creatures can smell them as well as he; in fact, his emulation of the seducted is text-book perfect. He is falling for their trap in a way so technically correct, that one might think such experienced Vampires might note the ease at which it occurs. They do not suspect a thing, of course. As powerful as they are, they, like most of the dead, have grown arrogant and self-sure.

They leave the club together, and many a male patron looks greedily as they leave arm in arm; "Christ, i'd give me right nut to be that guy...", "I wonder how much those whores are costing him...", "That is one lucky fucker...", are just some examples of what the men share with each other, not knowing that the "lucky fucker" is possibly intent on, indirectly, saving them from deaths many similar to themselves have experienced in the past.

"So my place or yours, ladies?", Jake asks, knowing they will suggest their own.
"Ours...", Honey whispers into his ear, taking his hand and placing it on her rear. Flanking his left, Moonshine slips a hand down the front of his trousers, feeling him, and the part of her that still enjoys the pleasures of men marvels.
"Not far is it? I'm gettin' kinda hot her..."

"No, ain't far... Just the other side of the Church there... Number one-o-six Wilson Avenue...."

He smiles slightly at his fortune. He can finish the job before reaching the abode now. He turns his head, and whispers something in Honey's ear, she in turn giggles. His right hand travels to Moonshines bottom, squeezing one of the tender, and equally cold, cheeks, and they walk on a few steps. He senses both women stiffen as they walk past the Church, and realises they will be a little weaker here, so best to make use of the advantage. His hands stray to the small of both womens backs, and he receives no discomfort from either creature, nor would it matter now, its really too late for these girls. They are dead literally and figuratively now.

He pauses, and as the girls take one more step - their last - he flicks his wrists, and two razor sharp steel blades flex silently from his wrists. In one fluid movement, started with the extraction of such lethal weapons, he jams them into the Vampires backs, severing their spines perfectly. This wound, he knows, would kill a human, but not a Vampire. Still, it will still prevent them from moving any other way than down. With lack of finesse, the two Vampires collapse, quite surprised, onto the ground. Even so, they focus their blood-powers into healing the grieviance caused by this... mortal.

They no longer care about bringing it back for Big-E, the humiliation of being so caught, and the instantaneous aroma of blood, gives rise to fury within the Cainites. It will not help them, as a further stabbing to their chests leaves them both immobile - the knife blades snapped at the hilt, remaining in their hearts.

Honey stares up, paralysed, watching the man (she spits the word in her mind), he has not even broken a sweat. How could IT take both of us? She wonders briefly, then watches as the human lifts her friend and clan-sister, Moonshine, and throws her over the Church's threshold. Even before the cadaver hits the ground, the mortal is lifting her, and doing exactly the same. Pain burns through her body and soul alike; the knife acting as a stake agonising in itself, but the holy-fire issued from the hallowed ground she has no choice but to lay on is worse. Much, much worse.

Jake vaults over the metal fence, landing between the two damned Vampires. He decides to cause a bit of havoc in the underground;

Let the Police find these, oh Please... Let them find the bodies before sunrise... That will be sso much fun....

It would be difficult to realise that the bearer of these thoughts is, in fact, completely sane. Sane, at least, by his own mind - he is, we must not forget, not exactly human in the same sense as you or I. What is sane for him, is quite the opposite for us.

He grabs the two women by their hair, and drags them to the wall, knowing it will shield them from the sun till at least midday, by which time he is reasonably sure this place will be finished with by the Police. He leans down, crouching over Honey, and takes her right hand in his.

"I must apologise, but I must admit, I am not attracted to you at all, Miss Honey. What I do now may hurt you a little, so please refrain from screaming."

He is quite aware she is able to do nothing of the sort. He grips her fingers, one by one, and tears them from her dead hand. He can tell from the glare in her long-deceased eyes, behind the shock, she is horrified, and this pleases him a little. He sets the digitless stump down, and removes four of the fingers from her other hand. He moves to the girl formerly known as "Moonshine", and removes all ten of her pretty little fingers.

Then, without such courtesy as a goodbye, he leaves, and heads for 106 Wilson Avenue. Just the other side of the Church, apparently.

For the moment, we shall leave the story. I can tell you, though, that three more deaths occured at the hands of Jake that night; and unsurprisingly, it was the remainder of Big-E's coterie. The last three corpses were lain on the rooftops, so we know they shall not be missed. Where the story will pick up, however, is on the discovery of the technically-murdered Mss's Honey and Moonshine. Jake left the Vampires as they were with absolute intention; he was reasonably sure the undead would become aware of the "murders" almost as quickly as the Police - whom were tipped off some minutes after Big-E, the fat-cunt, died.

((Courtesy of Gabriel))

About thirty yards to his left, a deer bounded through the underbrush. It wasn't visible of course, not even with his night-vision goggles in place. But the relative sound and estimated distance between each shudder of leaves and branches certainly gave whatever the source of the sounds the impression of a deer, and it WAS the time of year when they were most plentiful. Perhaps he would take a hunting expedition at some point, he WAS approaching one of the two off-days he was allocated each month after all.

Agent Samuels purged such leisurely thoughts from his mind for the time being however. He did have a job to do after all. As he scaled his way up the brushwood covered hillside, the weight of the rifle in his right hand jerked reality back into his perception. With any luck, this would play out easily. It seemed to him at times, that he had spent the last 18 months in Panopticon trying to break free of luck's grasp. Each agent was trained to perform to their fullest, with such a degree of efficiency that they would compensate for any lack of luck the team may experience.

At last he found himself at the knoll's peak and positioned himself at his designated spot, just left of a thicket of trees, behind a outcrop of rocks. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he was several seconds ahead of schedule. Had he really been moving that fast? He would simply have to give the rest of the team time to position themselves. For now he'd examine the landscape for any irregularities from their layout.

From his vantage point high above the isolated dirt road that separated his position from the tiny shack wherein sat their objective, he could survey the surrounding landscape. Located in a particularly lonely stretch of woods, the tiny shack that was designated as a strip club to the government could not have seen much business even on it's good days. It was a dismal structure, almost reminiscent of early 18th century American architecture. Entirely constructed of crudely cut timber, the building was arranged roughly into a square-like shape. The only irregularity came in the form of a small protrusion of walls on the side that served as the club's entrance, the same side the team had designated Side 1. The tiny foyer-like area, which stretched no more than 8 by 8 feet, held the front door and undoubtedly separated newly arriving customers from the main stage that filled most of the club’s interior.

Side 1 ran roughly parallel to the road, and the interior was only visible through two mud smeared windows. Sides 2, 3, and 4 ran clockwise respectively, with each corner being labeled with it's adjacent walls. So the corner that sat where Sides 2 and 3 intersected was collectively called Corner 2-3. The doors and windows were marked similarly, each being noted with both it's location and side. Thus the first window, going from right to left on the first wall was designated Window 1-1. Doors were treated similarly. From Sergeant Riley's briefing, the team also learned that because of the primitiveness and remote location of the club, the architects had no access to electrical power lines, and thus ran off a generator that was held in a small shack several yards behind Side 3 or the side furthest from Agent Samuels position.

Samuels set his rifle down against the interior of the rocky enclosing and used his night-visions zooming apparatus to peer through the closer of the two front windows to look inside. Several figures, unaware of their new company, sat inside, seemingly playing a highly animated game of cards. Just as Sergeant Riley had specified there were four figures. Two of them were dressed alike, in sleeveless undershirts and had shaved heads. A third figure was clad casually, in non-descript wear. The forth, an incredibly obese figure, was obviously their target.

Horatio Dekker was a somewhat notorious crime figure, especially amongst the vampire underworld, was the source of no small amount of violence in the human and undead world alike. Recently, his reach had been solidified in the small arms trade through considerable use of intimidation and murder. Generally, this would be a job for M16 or other government agencies, but as no one aside from Panopticon had picked up on his recent activities, and no other agencies were prepared to deal with this particular SORT of criminal, it fell upon their shoulders. The personal danger was of course that Dekker seemed to be supplying some of Panopticons most personal rivals with better equipment.

Atop all this, Dekker was a member of what the vampires called the "Giovanni" crime family, and had stirred up a rather heated rivalry between his clan and local Brujah. The Brujah were another group that had been presenting certain challenges to the organization as of late. The higher ups deemed it necessary to spark a catalyst between the two rival groups in hopes that they would at least considerably weaken one another's ranks, if not wipe each other all together.

Dekker himself, a massive wad of flesh, was known to inhabit strip clubs, and for some reason or other this tiny club, known to few as The Two-Bits seemed to be a personal favorite. Intelligence reported that the owners, both mortal, were under Dekker's sway and had offered him safe asylum from his enemies. And so the rotund Giovanni had disappeared several weeks ago and was held up here, engaging in various vices and levels of debauchery.

The strike plan was fairly generic in it's simplicity, or as Sergeant Riley had put it, Straight shooting. Samuels would perform his usual role as sniper, thus the hilltop position. Upon the signal he was to carry out the actual hit, through Window 1-1. Dekker and his cohorts held weekly poker games and customarily sat at the same table, just off of the left of the main stage. They had not failed to be there tonight. First however, Agent Phillips, who specialized in electronic systems, would perform the simple task of disconnecting the generator. Even now he crept alongside Side 4 and neared the generator shed. He held in his hand a rather large axe, being put in use to simulate the Brujah's stereotypical violent and brash method of getting things done.

With the lights out, the next stage would fall on Agent Michaelson, an officer plucked from M16's ranks for her expertise in explosives. She had positioned herself near an open window on Side 2, and would be filling the club with several well placed pipe bombs. Samuels nearly smiled as he recalled her objections during briefing to using such primitive explosive technology. Great, I spend years studying this stuff just so I can heave around pipe bombs like any a punk off the street...

The entire plan was to confuse and frighten the inhabitants of the small shack into chaos, sending them running from the building, or in Dekker's case, at least a quick waddle. The back door had been blocked off, so their only recourse, short of windows which the obese Giovanni would certainly NOT fit through, would be to flee from the front door.

That's where Samuels came in. His rifle was custom designed to fire a small but highly balanced dart. The rifle's power could be adjusted for range and weather conditions. The power had been carefully calculated to his position so that once Dekker came scuddling out the door, the dart would penetrate his heart, but not exit the other side. Paralyzed, Dekker would then be subjected to a rather brutal beating compliments of Gamma Squad, who even now sat in the very van that had dropped off Samuels, Michaelson, and Phillips only ten minutes beforehand.

The plan was a bit uncouth for Samuels taste, but Sergeant Riley had emphasized the importance of making it look like a Brujah attack. Again, they would defy lucks abstract powers and make this work and undoubtedly be...

"Prometheus in position..." the voice crackled in Samuels headset. Prometheus, bringer of light, could be none other than Michaelson of course.

"Ares in position... " Phillips whisper came through. Samuels lifted his rifle and instantly the darkened landscape was illuminated with the scope’s clarity. The crosshairs fell over the front doorway and he whispered.

"Thanatos in position... " he responded.

[b:4b446faa7b]Less than an hourafter the bodies of "Honey" and "Moonshine" are cordoned by the Police; four hours until sunrise. [/b:4b446faa7b]

"Um, we could have a problem, Ma'am."

"What do you mean Sarah? I am quite busy."

"Well, two more bodies have been discovered... And they are Kindred."

"Bloody hellfire... Are you at the scene?"

"Sort of... The bodies are beside All Saints Church.. I can't actually get in. I can't be spotted by the Inspector, he'll wonder why I cant..."

"Fuck. This is bad. Find out what you can on them. I'll send someone to you. Stay alert, Sarah, this is serious."

"Who are you going to send? What can we do?", the Toreador is becoming agitated - she can sense the same precursor to fear in her Primogens voice.

"I'll send Mr.Grey. He owes me a favour... Find otu what you can, then get somewhere secluded, he'll find you."

"Alright... Ok... Mr. Grey...", Sarah begins to ask another question, but the other end of the line goes silent. She sighs emptily and pockets the mobile.

Right, Sarah... Where to begin?

She espies a PC crouching under the Police tape, leaving the Churchs grounds. She walks to him, empowering her credentials - she knows she is capable of a decent amount of persuasion, but Police Officers are often strong willed individuals, especially about their work. Still, she does have a right to know.

"Officer?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"I'm Sarah Hall, the Profiler...", she flashes him an ID card.

"Ah, yeah. What can I do for you Miss?"

"Have there been any photographs of the bodies as yet?"

"Hmmm, I saw the photographer around somewhere, so I expect so, yeah."

"Ok... Do you know when the Coroner will arrive?"

"I think shes already here, Miss.", he turns and looks over to the crime scene.
"Yeah, shes over there with the D.I."

"Ok, thank you Officer."

"Want me to get her for you, Miss?", the Officer replies, and Sarah regrets using her blood-powers, knowing she was alreay entitled to the information she has gleamed. His over-zealousness to help could be costly.

Quickly she stops him, "No, no. That will be all Officer.", she rewards him with a dismissive smile and walks away. A plan is hatching in her mind. If she can find out the appearance of the "deceased", she can find adequate replacements, and Mr.Grey can commandeer the Coroners ambulance, a body-swap can take place, and the Masquerade will remain intact. She hopes.

She walks around the several vehicles and clusters of Officers performing the menial security tasks, looking out for the Police photographer; she doesn't know who it will be this time of night, they change so frequently - probably can't stomach it, normally being nothing more than glorified media graduates, and not specialist Police Officers.

A shred of luck is with her, she spots the photographer, a man she has met before, and worked her seductive charms on often to obtain pictures for her private collection.

"Hey! Hey Tim!", she quickens her pace, hurrying over to Tim Woodrow, the Police Photographer, who is little more than a Media graduate, however, this one has a stomach for gore, in fact, though none of his colleagues know it, he has an obsession, a wicked obsession, with death, but that, my friends, is another story.

Tim Woodrow looks round at the sound of his name being called. He then sees Sarah hot-stepping towards him, and his pulse quickens. Against his own will, she has previously cooked him up into an emulation almost as strong as love. The emotions, unfortunately for those who still feel them, do no dissapear as quickly as with those who stir them.

"Hey Sarah... Wondered when i'd see you again.", he says smiling.

"Yeah long time no see. Listen, I ain't got long, I got a pile of paperwork as big as you-know-what...", she winks at him, stirring up the false memory she implanted of numerous oral-sex sessions within him; massaging his male ego.

"Have you got time to print me a couple of the cadaver shots? I need them to work with..."

"Course, anything for you..."

He opens his satchel, and pulls out the digital camera, along with the portable printer.

"So...", he speaks as he works. "You reckon I can take you out sometime?"

She favours him with a winning smile.

"I'd say yeah... Except i'm kinda with someone...", she forces a blush and turns away, mimicing embaressment.

"Ah fuck. Well, you know, a mans gotta try..."

"I'm flattered Tim... But you know me.. I always wanted commitment..."

He sighs, the sound of the expensive light-weight printer drones in duet.

"Yeah, I guess..."

He places the first of the print-outs in her hand.

"The murderer is one sick-puppy, ain't her?"

"Damn right... I tell you, Tim, I am tripped out on this case... I never seen anything like it before...", she lies.

"Me neither...", as does he.

The second photo prints out, and he gives it to her.

"Thanks a lot Tim... I owe you... But I have to make some serious tracks..."

"Thats cool. I'm on a deadline myself... Look, call me up sometime, ok?"

"Yeah... Give me a few weeks to dump this guy first, ok?"

They laugh, and part their ways. Tim Woodrow intends to go home and masturbate over images of dead-bodies, whilst Sarah Hall scurries to a nearby park to meet the shadowy Mr.Grey - a local creature of myth.

She sits on a bench, scanning the surroundings for the infamous Nosferatu; the cool night air helps the haunted atmosphere instigated by a light mist, creeping purposefull over the dew-infested grass. She turns her head to the right, and sighs instinctually, mulling over the nights events. But before the thought can be concluded, she utters a slight yelp - someone, Mr.Grey we must presume, is sitting beside her.

"Jesus.... You terrified me..."

She finds it difficult to meet the gaze of the man beside her, he seems perfectly normal looking... Except that she can't quite focus. His features seem to shift from one thing to another.

"That was my intention, dear. One does not earn a title such as mine by being pleasant."

"Um, right..."

His obtuse manner nerves her; she knows the stories about this particular servant of the Cammarilla. Cunning and dangerous in equal parts - he, or it if you prefer, for there is a strong asexual nature regarding the Nosferatu, is renound, even amongst his own Clan.

"What seems to be the troule, my lovely young thing?"

"Erm, well, that Police cordon over there... There are two bodies... And they are Vampires. I smelt it in the air as soon as I arrived... And they have been dumped in the Church grounds..."

She hands the two photographs to the Nosferatu.

"Ah, poor, poor Eleanoar. She has lost two beautiful allies, it seems. For she will surely not let them continue to exist once they are freed from the paralysis we intend to liberate them from..."

"Who is Eleanoar?"

"Eleanoar is the rather charismatic Brujah that leads these two unfortunate beings... May I ask, as time is short, what plan you have concocted?"

"Well... I thought that maybe you could somehow take possession of the bodies enroute to the Coroners... I will attempt to find two mortal look-a-likes to replace them with...."

"A fine plan, little Lady. Yes, fine, if not predictable. Of course I shall assist you in this. I suggest we rendevouz outside the Coroners in approximately one hour... I, of course, will not be able to kill the actual Coroner, so you will need to use your own wiles on her once she awakens from the sleep I lay her to... I am sure you are quite capable. For now, I shall leave you. Do not be late, my dear, time is essential..."

She opens her mouth to reply, but the Nosferatu has gone. Not dissapeared exactly... faded... dissolved... escaped. She can't quite explain how.. But it matters not, she is feeling more confident now - the Nosferatu's own rubbing off on her.

We have a choice now, my friends. Do we follow the adventures of the young, but not stupid, Toreador, or those of the intriguing Mr.Grey? I must vote for Miss Hall - she is far more a central character in this tale; the Nosferatu may yet crop up again, but we can rest assured he is experienced and professional, and will indubitably not fail on his own mission. The task set before Miss Hall is more central, however. This is because we cannot predict her future - she is not set upon a pedestal of victory and experience; this story will either give her a name, or be her end, of that I can assure you. So let us follow her, for now.

She walks down the empty path, in the direction of the local Bus terminal, about the only place at this hour she will find mortals still around - its well past the closing time of even the late licensed clubs. She examines the photos as she walks, thinking.

One blonde, one brunnetter. Clothing isn't important, they'll have to give up their clothes once we re-awaken them. The piercings will be difficult... I'll have to make them before the mortals are killed... As long as there are two reasonable matches, I can take care of blood and DNA matches later... Just a physical match will do...

She puts the photos in her pocket, and as she does, her mobile rings. She takes it, and answers.

"Hello?"

"Sarah? Its me."

"Ah, hello Ma'am."

"Whats news?"

"Mr.Grey is currently taking care of apprehending the bodies, I am in search of two replacements... I'm gonna meet him at the Coroners in about three-quarters of an hour..."

"Fine... Fine. Any luck in finding suitable replacements?"

"Not yet, i'm just coming up to the Bus station - about the only place i'll find mortals at this hour... I figure I really only need girls that match hair colur, eye colour, general physique and so on..."

"I presume you will deal with other extenuating loose ends?"

"Of course, Ma'am..."

Miss Hall skipped across the road, avoiding a bus swerving out of the terminal.

"Well good luck Sarah. I am sure you are aware of the magnitude of this situation, and trust it is in capable hands. I do not need to emphasize enough just what will happen, should you fail."

Sarah does not answer immediately, she is contemplating the various humilitions and grieviances that will follow her remaining unlife should she allow such a royal fuck-up to occur.

"I will not fail, My Lady."

"Good."

With that, the Primogen hangs up, as does her subject, whose worry has doubled in the past minute. She enters the bus shelter, scanning for humans. Fortunately for her, there are a fair few around, and it smells like they are the dregs of some party, too drunk to sleep, and too tired to not give into the temptation of "resting their eyes" in a comfortable plastic bus-terminal chair.

Sarah Hall walks down aisle after aisle, her nerves twanging against her soul with each footstep. Each drunken teen is simply not close enough to what she needs.

It wouldn't be wise for Sarah to despair yet, though, for such sentiment may discourage the powers that grant her small mercy. Out of her line-of-sight, two young women walk, hand in hand, one blonde and blue eyed, the other jet black (not natural of course) with cat-like green eyes.

Something like a vibration flows through the Toreadors body, she twists, an urge to look behind her is undeniable - and there she sees her salvation; the two girls described. She knows she has no time to waste, the Coroners is ten minutes walk - and even though she has more than twenty minutes to spare, better to be early than late.

She musters every ounce of blood she can spare, with the sole intention of having these women - already high on a cocktail of Mushrooms and Marujana - obey her for the next thirty minutes. Striding elegantly, with an aura of intent and determination, she approaches the girls, meeting the blonde - the one she recognises as the more dominant - with a surly gaze.

"There is something the two of you must see... You must come with me, it is something beyond excellence..."

The command works, barely. Though the girls would desire to obey such an instruction were the Toreador to entwine it with regular Toreador grace, their light-headed drug induced state of semi-euphoria tips them over the edge. The suggestion sounds simply great to them, what would be the sense in not going with this regal looking woman?

Fifteen minutes later, outside the Coroners Ward

"You girls wait here, I have to go get your surprise..."

"Ok Miss... We wait... here.", the brunette replies, her speech slurred and slow. Miss Hall slips down the alleyway, having sensed some presence there. She has also smelt petrol fumes, indicating a vehicle has recently shut down close by, presumably in the neighbouring garage.

"Are you here, Grey?"

"It's Mr.Grey, my sweet little thing. And yes, I am here. I see you brought two adequate replacements. Lead them inside - through this door - I have shut down the security system temporarily; however a security guard will pass through the laboratory in approximately twenty minutes. So again, we must hurry."

Sarah walks half-way down the alleyway and beckons the girls, who come willingly enough, stil semi stoned, and still under her spell. She leads them inside, hoping the odd surroundings do not push them from their mild slumber too soon.

She walks into a cubicle, and converses with Grey quietly.

"We're going to have to give the brunette piercings before death... Two in the nose will suffice, the photo's aren't specific about the ears, and hers are already studded...."

"I shall leave that in your hands, my dear. I will awaken our good friends and instruct them succinctly. I trust you can handle these mortals."

With that, he fades again, and moves next door, to awaken the two kindred so foully bested.

And here, we will once again part our intrepid characters, suffice to say, the bodies are successfully exchanged, and poor Miss Honey and Moonshine are taken back to await interview with the Toreador Primogen. For the moment we can do nothing but assume all will be well, and that the Masquerade is upheld; apart from the deaths of two innocent-enough young women, the night has been quite successful all round, wouldn't you agree?

[b:9cf30302b6]Panopticon HQ, East London

The following morning; April 3 2003 [/b:9cf30302b6]

Little more than silence is present in the halls of John Matthison's department. Of his five immediate sub-ordinates, only one is on site; Ensign Harris, and he is awaiting his squads return from active service - their mission, to eliminate a certain Giovanni.

Matthison, meanwhile, is slunk over his desk, sleeping. Not for long, however. A red light begins to flash behind him - it is surrounded by various other lightbulbs, all dramatic red, of course. Beneath it is a small placard reading Front Desk. After five pulses, a buzzing sound joins in accompaniment. Two of these are sufficient to waken Executive Administrator from his slumber. He groggily looks up, realises he is at his workplace, notices the red illumination flickering reflexions about the room, and turns his head.

Understanding dawns, and he picks up a telephone on his desk, and dials two digits. There is no dialtone, the other end is picked up immediately.

"Mr Matthison Sir?"

"Ugh.. Yeah, it's me...", he clears his throat.

"Yes, it's me. Whats the problem, Agent?"

"We've got a Code Amber, Sir. It's Agent Darius..."

"Isn't an Ensign on duty to deal with it?", his temper permeates through his calm voice - such events are what Ensigns exist for.

"Only Harris Sir, and he's on Strategic advice. Everyone else is on field duty this morning Sir..."

"Bloody hell... Ok, I'll be there in five. Get the relief on back-up."

"Already done Sir."

Matthison hangs up the phone, cursing his staff shortage. Why does it have to be his department with such a security problem. All he will be of use for is paperwork. He just hopes Darius is only in primary stages, and not too late for remission.

He stands to leave, then thinks again. Better to have the Technicians on alert, they will indubitably be required. He takes the phone again, and dials another combination of digits.

"Matthison here, let me speak to the senior Technician please."

"Yes Sir, right away."

The line goes dead for a minute, and Matthison silently thanks the gods that the infernal hold-music from the upstairs shopping centre does not effect the phone lines down here.

"Sergeant Thompson speaking, Sir, what can we help you with?"

"Prep up Orange Room, Sergeant. We have a code-amber."

A moment of silence. Matthison hears an intake of breath, and fully sympathises.

"Yes Sir. Do you have the interrogation subjects ID?"

"No, I'll deliver it personally after I have seen us down to Yellow, though."

"Very well Sir."

Matthison hangs up the phone again, and takes his side-arm from the coat rack, buckling the leather strap around his shoulder. He hasn't used the Beretta in over six years of Administration, and only chose to retain it over the now standard issue Ruger out of fond memory. He slips his jacket on and leaves his office, heading for the entrance-way, where an Agent entering the premise has failed one, or more, of the numerous security tests.

He reaches the security office, slides his ID card through lock-panel, and enters. Inside, the Agent on duty stands and offers a salute.

"At ease, Agent....?"

"Agent Green, Sir."

"Ok, at ease and give me a status report Agent Darius."

Agent Green takes his seat and presses some keys on the computer before him. Presently, a sheet of paper slides out smoothly from a printer. He picks it up and recites the details thereon.

"At precisely 0900 hours Agent Darius entered the outer perimeter, having cleared the upper security. He then proceeded out of the elevator and up to the main gate. His ID card passed, and he was admitted to the examination room."

At this point Agent Green and Executive Administrator Matthison look up through the one-way mirror, and see Agent Darius sitting worriedly in the Examination room.

"He took all tests as required, and the results were as follows:

Optical: Pass
Palm Print: Pass
Blood Test: Negative
Speech Test: Pass
Nano-Chip: Pass

Due to procedure, I opened up the B.A.P, and the results were a pass. The specific results from the Science Department won't be ready for another ten minutes."

Matthison looks at the digital clock beside the computer monitor - 09:12.

"Ok, what about the relief?"

"They are on there way Sir. Coming over from Sector-6."

Matthison nods and steps forwards, and picks up a microphone.

"Agent Darius, this is Executive Administrator Matthison. Attention!"

Promptly, Agent Darius springs to his feet, at a perfect state of readiness.

"Now listen Son. There seems to be a Sanguine infection in your system, at present we're at code-amber, and as you well understand, this is all protocol. The Science Department will have specific results shortly, so in the meantime, you are going to be accompanied down to Orange Room. Do you understand?"

The Agents answer was amplified through the speakers inside the small Security Office, he understood.

"I want you to continue with Protocol 6A. In a few moments Beta Squad will arrive to accompany you; there I will be waiting, and the required interview will take place."

Matthison puts the microphone down, and can well see the pain in Darius' eyes as he begins removing his small-arms and civilian possessions.

"This is not what I need this morning."

Agent Green does not reply, rightly assuming the Executive Administrator is talking to himself.

"Send Beta Squad directly to Orange Room, Green. I want this done with ASAP."

"Sir."

Matthison leaves the room and walks along the silent grey corridors, in the direction of the Technical Department. Half way there, his pager buzzes, and he steps over to one of the phone booths flanking the corridor, depressing the required digit.

"Matthison."

"John? It's Giles. I have the results from your code-amber."

"Ok Giles, tell it straight..."

"It's a Stage 1 infection. Indeterminable race; but with an hour in Orange Room and a week under observation, he should be fine again. Though obviously he will need to be relocated abroad."

"Yes, I'm fully aware of procedure thank-you. Set up a recovery room, he's going straight in."

"Sure, John."

Matthison hangs up, sighing. Though a necessary part, anything to do with Orange Room is undesirable. He cannot, however, fault its success rate.

He opens a door and enters thr room, and is greeted by a congregation of plain clothesed men and women; four of the former, two of the latter. They all stand, but do not salute - these are Technicians, non-military (though of course, Panopticon is not technically a Military Organization itself) personel.

"Ladies, Gentlemen. Sit please.", they do so.
"As you are aware, this is a code-amber, and we have the task of cleaning out Agent Darius system of all infection, both Physical and Mental. Due to the hurried process, I am unsure if all of you have previous Orange Room experience...."

A murmur of affirmation is uttered, and Matthison continues slightly heartened.

"Very well. Let us get this over with."

He takes a seat beneath the glass window; one-way of course, and looks into the Room. Within it is a secure chair, much like a Dentists, except any Orthopede who worked in this room would be of unsound mind; the chair is fitted with strong leather belts to secure the patient, along with various unsavoury looking electrical fixtures.

Beside the Dentists chair is a metal stool, which sits in front of a bare metal table. Other than the large mirror on the south wall and a single door, there is no other decoration or object. This door opens, and Agent Darius walks in, completely naked, terror clearly evident by his demeanour. The compliments of Beta Squad file in after him, encircling the room. In the adjacent study, Matthison rises, and exits, only to reappear a moment later in Orange Room.

"Thank you Beta Squad, that will be all. Please return to relief duty - will the Picquet of the day remain, however."

Of the eleven agents in the room, nine leave. Agent Darius sits himself obediently in the Chair, and Agent Hill shuts the door behind his comrades, then stands to a brisk attention to one side, taking care not to consciously witness anything.

Matthison walks up to the Chair, noticing and respecting Agent Darius' resolve to the inevitable - the man has already begun strapping himself into the clandestine seat. Matthison double checks the buckles, then goes about securing the Agents wrists and neck, loathing each leathery squeak and each death-toll of the buckles fastening.

As he finishes, the door opens, and one of the Technicians walks in, wheeling some medical device before him. He is followed by two more, one pushing a trolley containing a computer, the other with a clip-board, which she passes to Matthison.

The Technicians go about setting the equipment up, pushing needles and probes into various parts of Darius frightened body. MEanwhile, Matthison reads through the notes.

Subject: Darius, William James
D.O.B: 15/04/1978
Blood Type: AB-
Agent, 1st Class; Delta Squad

Ensign's Notes

Agent Darius shows Grade 1 Loyalty and Commitment. His Psych. Evaluations prove predictable, with slight chances for late-stage A.H.S, depending on development. He shows adequate ability; and makes an excellent Agent. Will grow into a perfect Sergeant, but not Officer material.

Initial Phobia Response: 6HT-FTT

He nods, passes the clip-board back to a Technician; it is in fact Sergeant Thompson with whom he spoke earlier, but let us not concern ourselves with such frivolties. He then sits down on the stool, looking at Agent Darius from his left side.

"Now, William, whilst my colleagues go about their work, I want you to detail any odd meetings you have had recently. If nothing strikes you as peculiar, then mention anything outside of the regular - including anyone you came in contact with on mission."

Agent Darius sighs, closes his eyes, and begins the story he had hoped he would never have to tell; he knew he had been foolish - but honesty now would save him, this he knew.

"Alright, I've just finished my rest-days. I've been seeing this girl on-off for a couple of months; she shops upstairs, and we got talking when I was doing my cover work. Anyway, we have been meeting up after work every now and again... But I finished it about a fortnight ago; anyway..."

His voice is becoming slurred as the cocktail of chemicals promoting truth-telling begin to take effect.

"...She called in on me unexpectedly, I made it clear I wasn't after commitment, we had a shouting-match... Then my memory is pretty hazy... Thats about the only event I can think of..."

Matthison has heard what he needs, he nods to one of the Technicians who consequently induces a high dosage of tranquilizer. Agent Darius eyes close. He drifts into a forced sleep.

"Alright, begin the Phobia."

Matthison stands and steps away. A Technician programs the computer to disturb the sleeping Agents sleep with aspects of his particulat phobia; known as "6HT-FTT" to those without clearance into what that precisely means. The agents themselves are not aware of what their fears are classified as, so as to prevent any misuse of information.

The sleeping man will now undergo twenty minutes of very vivid nightmares that will heighten his adrenalin, push his heart-rate to dangerous levels, cause him to soil himself; in effect, placing him ona physical knife-edge - and from this high, he will be awoken, and short-living posion will be pumped into his veins, establishing a torrent of pain that will seer through his body, testing his nervous system to its limit.

As soon as the chemicals causing the agony subside - and it will be a clear and obvious severance - he will be filled with euphoria inducing substances, lifting him from the plateau of torment.

Why, I hear you question, should a man be put through such see-saw emotion? The answer is complicated; but in short it is this: Agent Darius has been identified as possessing contaminated blood. Contaminated by a Vampire - what Cainities would call a blood-bond, or perhaps Ghouling - it is necessary for the subject to associate the Absolute Negative (the title given to the level of pain and fear induced) with the relationship he, or she, believes caused the infection.

Moreover, Vampire blood is something of an enigma, even to the Science Division at Panopticon; it does not seem to willingly follow emprical laws. A contaminated victim cannot simply be drained of blood, and refilled with cloned, and thus pure, blood; the psychological effects - compliance, lust, ignorance of duty, and so on - still remain. Contaminated blood, whilst de-oxygentated and dead, slowly reproduces when in contact with regular mortal blood, and when regularly re-inforced with similar samples, accelerates into infecting every tissue cell in the subject - not creating a Vampire, but a slave, a puppet.

For absolutely un-scientific reasons, three instigations of dead-blood will always cause the subject to act in absolute obediance with the donor. Neither quantity nor quality matter, just three separate instigations, separated by approximately twenty four hours in introduction.

The horrors of Orange Room have proved 100% successful in removing the Psychological dependency of an infected host, and its blood can easily be removed and replaced with cloned, pure replacement.

Whilst the nightmare visions, and agony, are running through the subjects system and consciousness, the Administrator present (in this case, Executive Administrator Matthison) speaks, his voice the only other sound present; and he, or she, lists commands, strengthening the association between Absolute Negative and the subjects cause of infection.

Once the agony subsides, as mentioned, euphoria inducing drugs are introduced, and a monotone recording is played, repeating the codes of honour relating to Panopticon - not with the purpose of re-inforcement, but with relaxing. All Agents naturally develop a sense of security and safety when within the Organizations confines; and the codes become synonymous with their Mothers soothing voice.

Once the subject is stable once more, electronic information is sent directly to his consciousness, in effect, forcing images and sounds to be digested, totally out of his control. This broadcast will be a mix of fantasy and nightmare. Falling in love with a rat, playing Football with the subjects Mothers head, an orgasm of blood; the chaos will increase steadily, and as it does, the body will begin to react - thrashing, struggling, trying to break its bondage. And it will do so. The moment of freedom is vital - the subject must feel it can escape the perverse world imposed by the Technicians; that is the reason for the archaic straps. Once they are broken - and this is the stage Agent Darius is approaching now - an electrical surge will be sent through the various wires and cables attached to the subjects body, and he will be paralysed once more.

At this point, the subjects sub-conscious will cease its stuggle, it will cave in, rendering any hope futile. The body and mind will be at the mercy of those in charge - and the subconsious will be fully aware that it is the Organization carrying out these atrocities, and that is crucial. Once this despise is present - recognised by certain brain-waves recorded by the psycho-computer present, a chemical mixture is induced which blocks the relevant receptors, effectively breaking the links between the rational mind and the subconscious. The rational part will then be fed yet more perversities; but in such a way so it recognises the meaning - there will always be a theme, personal to the subject, that will bring to its attention whatever the cause of its infection was; and at this point, the hatred will once more be released, but now diverted by the rationals control, and focused on the 'true enemy'.

And the torture will be almost complete; from Absolute Negative to euphoria, and back down to chaos - and from there a forced focus of emotion; and then the subject becomes clear what, exactly, caused its contamination - the initial deduction is often wrong (though in Darius' case, his suppositions of the odd girlfriend were correct, she was a control-freak Toreador Psychological Profiler with a deepening obsession with the good-looking Agent) - but the psychological clarity so forced opens up the vast avenues of memory, where the turth is so often hidden from view - and this information is recalled, and eventually passed on to the relevant parties, and swift revenge taken on those who would, albeit inadvertantly, cause harm to Panopticon's Agents.

The horror of the ordeal does not seem so great, one might think - but from a personal level, the screams, the madness evident in the subjects eyes, the limited knowledge of Absolute Negative; these things lend to a terror that is well respected, and rightfully so. Though Panopticon cannot truly know that what they deem Absolute Negative is indeed the ultimate horror, there are few, undead or otherwise, as able to open up the neural pathways that lead to a creatures deepest fears and pains.

A subject, whether part of the Organization (and thus subject for its own safety), or not (most often to torture Vampires for information), will truly believe that its skin is being torn from it inch by inch, or that the great multi-armed beast chasing it is really just behind, or that the infinite chasm down which they fall is actually devouring them, a mile at a time.

And now, let us rejoin the overseers and patient...

"Ok, wake him up."

The Technicians do so, using a painless electrical surge to force Darius into a sedate consciousness.

"William? Can you hear me? Blink twice if you can..."

For the subject will not be physically strong enough to utter, nor move for some days to come.

Agent Darius blinks twice, slowly.

"Good. The tests have been successful. You are going to the labs now, you'll be out of operation for a week or so; and after that you'll be on light-duty for a month...."

Matthison stands, and puts a hand companionably on Darius' shoulder.

"You held yourself with dignity, Son.", he lies. "Now, go back to sleep, you've done well".

He leaves, knowing the Technicians will be able to finish the job well enough; and he despises protocol - why should an administrator be forced to oversee such horror? Why not an Ensign, or even one of the Technological Officers? He knew his anger was ill-founded; he found it difficult enough to stomach with his experience, and whilst not arrogant, he was sure of his own abilities - and rightfully so - not much scares John Matthison, and he knew it. He thinks, realising this, that perhaps, after all, forcing a mere Ensign, or non-military Officer to take responsibility for such occurences might not be quite fair.

[b:27493f8f4a]Lancaster House, West London

April 6 2003; 22:30 [/b:27493f8f4a]

This is a beautiful house, its owners have varied over the centuries it has stood; Counts, Barons, Dukes; and now it is owned by an attractive young woman, known to her Estate Agents as "Ms Sascha Granger". Though adopting "Ms" as a pro-noun is quite acceptable in modern London society; she has in fact born more titles than most of her acquaintances combined - Ms Granger is formerly Countess Du Basle, she is formerly Baroness Fernandez, she is formerly Duchess Kensington; titles she had gained with Marriage, and lost with supposed death.

Of course it is now quite obvious that the resident of Lancaster House is quite extraordanairy - and let us quell the suspese as to the true nature of Ms Granger; she is a Toreador, indeed, she is The Toreador in West London, the Primogen of that fair diocese. And, as much as she would delight in showing us around her formidable estate, she is currently busy with two young ladies we have met previously - one Miss Honey, and one Miss Moonshine.

"Ladies, I see you are well recovered."

Ms Granger speaks from behind her desk as the two Neonates are led into her study by a servile butler.

"Please, sit down.", she gestures toward two fine looking chairs, and the young Toreadors, of no political allegiance, take them.

"Now, after having you saved - and the Masquerade along with it - I believe the two of you owe me life-boons.", she smiles, and with aristocratic ignorance, completely dispels the memory of Sarah Hall's endeavours in the matter. The two women look at each other somewhat nervously, then Honey replies.

"We are eternally grateful for what you did, Madam...."

"...Granger. I am Ms Granger, the Toreador Primogen of this borough; and you two owe me your allegiance, along with your unlives."

The size of what has happened finally settles on the pair, having no knowledge as to their situation for the past few days of respite and recovery from near-death.

"We offer you our service, Madam... But, we beg for vengenance on the one who nearly claimed us..."

"I expected as much, and of course, in a way, I will grant you revenge - but on my terms."

Ms Granger stands, and circles the desk; she stands between the two young women of the rose.

"But before we delve into business, I wish to hear your tales; you intrigue me."

The Primogen leans back, resting against the antique desk; she presses a button, and promptly a butler enters; three glasses of 'African' are requested, and quickly brought forth, and the three women drink.

"Ok...", Honey begins; and tells the tale of her creation, and that of her Sister - Moonshine - also. The Primogen listens, but without much interest; the story is one so common to her ears; a lust filled Vampire creating whilst under the belief of viewing "perfection"; Granger realises she knows, or knew, these Toreador's Sire, and had him put to death some years passed - out of the eyes of the Cammarilla, of course.

"An interesting unlife you have led, Ladies. And now on to the matter at hand."

She returns to her seat, resuming a business-like position.

"After our discussion here, you are going to meet with a colleague of mine, who will aid you in remembering all you can of your attempted-murderer; but for now, I wish for you to share all you can with me...."

She pauses, sipping some of her vitae, and then looks to Miss Honey, silently proposing that not sharing right away would be a mistake. Honey crosses her equine legs and recalls what she must.

"Alright... Well, he was a mortal... As embaressing as it is. Big-E - that's our.. I mean was our Misstress... wanted him to feed from, and sent Moon and I to seduce him... We often did her dirty work, she ain't the prettiest picture. Anyway, he seemed normal enough - very willing to help, bought us drinks without question, all that... He musta been six foot, well built. Not exactly attractive... But not ugly... I dunno, hard to explain... He was kinda average... I mean like really average lookin'. Nothing special about him either way... Anyway, we were headed back to our place, small talking, and then it happened. And he was quick... Very quick. He cut our spines with scary speed and power... Not something I've found in Kine, and then he paralysed us... And the events after that, I reckon you know better than us..."

Ms Granger nods, thinking over the limited information. Vampires defeated by mortals - and she did not doubt it was mortal that bested these, for no self-respecting Cainite would lie about this - was not an unheard of thing; it was rare, truly, but it happened. Though two at the same time? And the Police had labelled the 'murders' carried out by "The Fiddler", that horrific murderer. She knew she possessed the only living eye-witnesses to this sadist, a sadist she was developing a fascination for.

"I do not disbelieve that it was a human that attempted to end you. However, I want it caught alive - and not out of civic duty or pity for the Kine. This human knows about us, and must be caught before more damage is done. You will meet with an assistant of mine in a few hours, and he will learn all that can be learnt from the two of you. After that, I will decide how best to capture this thing..."

She stands, and so do her new-found Clan sisters, already becoming aware of the protocol in mixing with undead as old and powerful as the one they share the room with.

"Well, I must be about my business. You will be summoned when required, Ladies. Until then, feel free to abuse my hospitality."

Honey and Moonshine bow slightly, somewhat anxious to leave the presence of this woman, and exit. Ms Granger sits herself again, and swivels in her chair, looking out of the large window behind her desk. She lulls into deep thought, considering what, exactly, this thing could truly be.

A Werewolf, most likely, refraining from its true shape., she thinks. Or perhaps a hunter - though quite unconventional... If not quite unstable.

In some respects, she is quite correct in both guesses - the thing we know as "Jake" or "Z-17" has been created for the hunting and slaying of Vampires, and is not entirely mortal, like the Garou; and yet it is neither. In time, more truth of what "Z-17" is, at a base level, will be revealed. I can make it know that five members of "Z-Division", those numbering from fifteen to twenty, are not like their clones; they possess a fundamental difference which will be shown in time.

((Coutesy of Gabriel))

The surrounding trees shook, the rustle of their naked branches drowned out by the shattering of glass. Fire belched from the windows, and as Samuels slipped his finger over the trigger he could faintly make out the sound of profanities being screamed.

Holding his breath, Samuels kept his sight steady on the front door, awaiting the massive figure of Dekker to emerge. Fate, as it seemed, was not obliging and as the sound of falling glass gave way to the dry crackle of fire within, Dekker did not erupt from the door.

His earpiece sprang to life, picking up a frantic conversation between the other team members.

"Ares! He's gone out back! Out back!" Even as the frenzied information reached Samuel's now adreniline filled brain, he could make out Dekker's form in the woods behind the shack, his massive girth propelling him foward through the underbrush.

The stark contrast of Samuel's muscular form instantly launching itself down the face of the hill and shooting past the shack was barely noticed by the other fleeing inhabitants of the building. As he punctured the treeline and flew silently through the trees he wondered where a back-door exit had come from...the recon reports showed no way in or out of the building aside from the front entrance and the windows. Dekker couldn't fit through the windows on his best of days!

The snap and rumble of breaking wood and crunching leaves echoed all around him, but he zeroed in on it's source and proceeded towards it. Although he possessed the obvious advantage of speed, Dekker had quite a headstart, and was still several hundred yards in front of him. He seemed to be heading Northwest, and if Samuels continued his foward path, eventually he would intercept him.

((Ok, still need people to do some postin', both Gabe and Eveshka have agreed to post; presuming RL asphyxiates their posting ability. So, in the meantime, whilst I endeavour for my narrative-grail, any and all other volunteer posters are welcome.))