They struck in the deepest of night. Never a chance. By the time the authorities were alerted, they were gone and the clock was ticking. They broke into the building; following the footsteps of the assailants. Armed men; Venice's best. Up flights of marble stairs, through the gleaming halls of the bank. They found the corpses of the guards – drained of bodily fluids and left broken by a strength no man could ever have. And they probed further, breaking into vaults and searching them. It was all gone. Every last cent. And that was when they found it – youthful faces, staring at the numbers as they filtered down, counting the last seconds of existence. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. They turned to run, screaming like babes. Five. Four. Three. Biting, clawing at each other in fear as they sprinted past the savaged corpses; oblivious now to the horrifying implications. Two. One. Zero.

The explosion was heard as far as Rome.

There were no survivors.

--

It would be the end of him.

It would be the end of them all. His view was somewhat pessimistic as he stepped from the airplane, amidst a constant flow of the kine. He paused, nonchalantly scratching an oddly pale complexion. Easily mistakable for tiredness at a range or by a careless glance. He still hadn't gotten used to their stench – not even after nearly a hundred years. Even worse, it seemed to get worse as the human race expanded and discovered new and ever more innovative ways of shredding, choking, drowning or otherwise killing themselves. A slight smile. Not that he wouldn't be there to give them a hand.

He offered the lurking vehicle behind him one last glance, before turning and following the others. He wouldn't ever get used to flying. And this had only been his second time; and his first out of dear Italia. Not that it worried him too much. Marco had been here for the best part of a week already, and had assured him that there was nothing to worry. Perhaps finding their sire would not be as hard as he had originally anticipated? But, even when they did find him... it was nonsense. They would have a hard time, to be sure.

Through the passport control, flashing stolen credentials for a momentary second in the official's face, before passing him by. Around the corner he waited, sliding back against the wall. His eyes closed, and he relaxed... a quick, sharp mind changed the worker's memories with a practiced ease – editing and deleting any recollection of the pale, Italian face that had just passed by. Another smile. Better safe than sorry, after all. He doubted that his sire would bother being careful; he never was one of paranoia. And even if he was, why would the elders really send two fledglings after him? It was a preposterous idea – a thought that all three of this particular wild goose chase no doubt held. But, they had their reasons. He hoped.

Down, picking up his luggage on the way with one easy movement. He stepped out through revolving doors that glimmered even in the ugly electric light that he was only too glad to be rid of. He stood there for a moment, savouring the night air as more mortals rushed past him on every side. And then he let his head slip from one side to the other as his eyes adjusted superbly to the night, scanning the area for a face he recognised. Where was Marco? It was not like him to be late. Already he felt the sense of foreboding rising in his dead stomach; ugly and menacing. But he shook it off, and concentrated on what lay ahead of them. For now Dante Giovanni had joined his brother.

The hunt could begin.

*WHOA!!!* More? ::pleading voice and eyes:: Please, sir. Could I have more? :shock: :shock:

OOC: Hehe, thanks. I'm waiting for my friend's miraculous entry as Marco later on, though.

If he hasn't posted by... when I get back, I suppose I'll do some more...

EDIT: There we are. Hope you enjoy!

IC:

It took him less than two minutes more to make an informed decision. The most part of the one hundred and twenty seconds was spent worrying. The foreboding grew within him; a leaden lump, weighing him down and threatening ever more to crush him. Finally, he had enough. Marco was late, and that wasn't like Marco. Never in all the years that he had known him – and there were quite a few – had his sibling been late. And now... It had taken perhaps twenty seconds to make a hasty phone call to Marco's apartment. Either he wasn't there, or he wasn't answering. Either way, the situation was rapidly growing more dangerous. But, in any case, it would be suicide to stay out here for too long. New York was, after all, one of the largest cities in the world. And with such a large population, there was a good chance that there was a another large population, suckling from the underbelly of the masses of kine like some insidious parasite. Which, Dante supposed, he was. At least in a manner.

A taxicab was called. The glitz of 'the big apple' slid past through the windows of the black car – at least, it did so in the brief moments that the car was actually moving. 39 St. Paul's Street was relatively close to the airport; indeed, it had been chosen for that particular reason. The driver had tried numerous times to strike up a conversation with the brooding stranger; simply to be waved away by an imperious (and strangely pale) hand. The accent of these strange people irked him somewhat – already the confines of a headache where threatening. The rest of the journey passed without a word as an uncomfortable silence fell on the cabin, suppressing any other would-be attempts at speech; punctuated only but the rhythmic drumming of Dante's long, slender fingers on the slippery leather of the back seat. And finally, the cars ground to a halt, crunching gravel beneath them. The door slammed before the driver could even turn, leaving nothing but a faint breeze. A rap at the window; a cold hand, pushing a pile of crinkling paper notes into the surprised man's face. He tried to protest, spluttering words in the whining accent of his – but to what, exactly? He was gone again, melting into the shadows without a backward glance. And the queerest thing about the whole situation was that, on being questioned on the origin of all the money, the driver proved unable to recall any defining features of his mysterious client, save pale skin. Strange indeed.

Why the humans laid so much worth on their paper stamps Dante would never understand. Haste forced such thoughts out of his mind; and he afforded only a brief second for the necessary but shoddily done editing of the man's memories. He moved with a fluid grace, although now tinted with urgency. Eyes snapped from side to side, penetrating the gloom in seconds and searching it for any strange movements. Number 35... 37... 39. He took a moment to take stock of the building. It was a concrete monster, perhaps twenty stories high. A flat. An overgrown front garden, sprouting all manner of strange plants and strangled by ivy covered the shoddy paintwork that was peeling, even though it still smelt faintly of new paint. One hand hurriedly unlatched the gate whilst the other swung it open; six nimble steps over the moss-covered stones that marked the barely visible pathway to the doorway; framed in that ugly electric light.

A sharp eye ran down the list of names, accompanied by a finger. T. Dooran, L.Alesbury... M. Giovanni. Fourth floor. And that's when his nose caught the scent; ever so light, wafting down from above. The smell that brought adrenaline pouring into his veins. The smell that sharpened his vision, made him dribble with saliva. The smell that brought something dark up from within... Blood. Precious vitae. Kindred blood. He gave a snarl; bringing his frame against the door, he felt it budge as he rammed a heavy shoulder into it. It shifted... Again. He hurled himself back, against the weak, worm-ridden wood. It exploded around the bolt, hurling the metal implement to the ground. He burst into the lobby, sprinting over the shattered wood. Shouts and screams erupted from the rooms around him – garish light flared down the corridors, stabbing into his panicked eyes. Up one floor. Doors opening below. Another floor. Someone stood in his way, shouting something inaudible... Iron-strong hands gripped him, hurling him to one side. Up another flight. The drum of footsteps behind him, and above... And another sound that brought his mind back to earth. The distant wail of sirens. Marco.

And finally, the fourth floor. It was deserted, cobwebs hanging from corners, dirt streaking the weak plaster of the walls. Number nine; his room. The door ajar – golden light spilling from within. Dante leapt forwards, the phantasms of his fears snapping at his heels. He smashed the weak wood of the door aside, spinning into the room. For a second more he was blinded by the light, stabbing in on all sides. And then see saw it. Saw it soaking on the carpet. Saw it splashed over the walls. Saw it dripping from the ceiling.

Blood.

Ye Gods! What a feast! :shock: Keep it coming!!

OOC: More-ness...

IC:

Blood.

BLOOD. Basic emotions roared through his mind, firing adrenaline and causing every nerve in his body to fire up; his sense magnified tenfold. The room burst into perspective – each colour as clearly defined as never before. But all it did was magnify the red that was pulled over the walls. First things first. Footsteps came thundering from below; a clatter that burst into his mind, rending and tearing at his sensitive brain. He swung the door shut with a snap of an extended hand, ramming the bolt across. It wouldn't be long before the police came here. He had witnessed the power of the portable battering ram before, and had no wish to relive that experience. No time.

Six steps across the room, eyes sweeping everything, scanning it for every clue. Every minute detail under insane scrutiny before being carefully filed away into the sharp mind of the Giovanni. To the computer; his hand hesitated, trembling, at the power button, before deciding better. No time. Pale hands came up, lifting the tower with him; eyes searching the inside. Down it came, carefully. A hammering at the door, slamming into his mind and causing him to wince. No time. Dexterous hands gripped the sides, heaving as screws were wrenched out of position. He lifted the case off, discarded it to one side without another thought, and heaved the hard drive from the machine. Checking it for damage (and finding none), he slipped it into a satchel by his side. And then came the sirens again, tearing into his mind and making his vision swim. Lights flashed off the whitewashed walls, illuminating the brutal scene in a starkly frightening stab of red and blue. No time.

He scanned the room once more; into the second of the two chambers. A bedroom. The bed was thrown aside by one careless flick of his arm, the weak framework splintering as it was forced back against the opposite wall. And there. The black leather book that his brother had used for a diary for all these years. Marco would never have left it. And deep inside, another question arose, although it was smothered by the drumbeat of adrenaline. No one who knew Marco well would have left it here for others to find, and anyone who searched the apartment would have found it. Two conclusions; the assailant could hardly be his sire – and they had left in a hurry. Although whether this was comforting or not Dante could not place, now was not the time. A shout from outside – drowned out by the screaming of the sirens. But one word caught his sharp ears and made him curse in that fluid tongue; the tongue that reminded him of warm, beautiful Italia. And to think he had left Venecia for this hell-hole.

This... America.

((very impressive! well done!

NS!!! :shock:

OOC: Sorry about not updating this. Been kinda hectic lately, birthday (yaaay!) and all...

I'll try and update later today.

Take your time. Some things are worth waiting for. This is one of them. :)

OOC: hehe...

Sorry for the wait. Internet went down 24 hours ago. But to make up for NTL's shortcomings, here's a monster post.

IC:

Antonio Giovanni smiled. It had been an age since he had allowed himself such a small liberty; ever since the birth of the ill-fated pair. Well, their end began tonight. Their sire lounged opposite, thrown across a leather couch, a crystal glass filled with intoxicating vitae hanging from one pale, spidery hand. Antonio caught the other's eye, and let the smile grow further, revealing sharp, deadly fangs. He stood – a graceful movement, casting the leather armchair to one side, slipping around the side of the oaken desk and heaving the heavy curtains closed over a night-time Venice. Now he turned, nodding to the ghoul that lounged in the corner. A door slammed, and the two of them were alone.

“Well, Luigi. It appears all has gone to plan.”

The other shifted for the last time, doubt splitting his features for a fraction of a second. He sat up, downing his drink in one swift gulp and placing it to one side.

“Not quite, old friend. I am afraid the younger of the two escaped. I was in a hurry to hunt him down, and I fear that Dante will already have left the scene of the crime now, perhaps carrying more information than we would wish him to have in his possession.”

A pause. “True, Luigi, that is a thing worth worrying about – but not now. You know of the escapee's whereabouts?”

“And what of Dante?”

“We will deal with him later.”

“In that case, I know not where he has fled. I did my best to finish him, but they have both grown stronger in my absence. But...”

“Yes?”

“I know of how to finish him.”

“Please, explain, old friend.”

“I have contacts in the New World, and have spent a while there, even before laying this trap. I know of one vampire... a Tzimisce--”

“-- A Fiend? Come now, Luigi, we are surely not so desperate that we would invoke the aid of the Sabbat? Imagine if the Camarilla caught word of this. We are ill-prepared for a war, Luigi.”

“Ah, Antonio. He is... different... yes. As independent as the useless Caitiff, Gunner is.”

“And he will kill the two interlopers?”

“... Not exactly. In order to understand what I am offering, you must delve into his history somewhat. Gunner has never been... entirely sane. Perhaps that is why the Fiends chose him, although not even they predicted what would happen. Throughout his mortal life he was obsessed with power. Military power. He worked on a number of government projects before he fell in love with a dream. He was a molecular biologist, working at the top of his field on Project: Exodus. He never supposed at first that slight alteration of DNA could result in what it did. The government were convinced that with a slight alteration of genetic patterns one could force almost total obedience upon a human being.

The government, however, soon realised that too many funds had been poured into it; they pulled the plug, detonated the research facilities and buried the accounts of their actions. But Gunner was infatuated by the possibility of all this power; shortly after faking his own death he returned to the destroyed facility, and secretly continued work on the government's secret Project: Exodus. He would steal out in the nights and take corpses back to his labs, dissect them and study them. By this time he was entirely unhinged and possessed by a desperate need to know the truth.

And then, a mere fifty years ago, they found him. I do not know exactly how long his sire stalked him before finally moving into the laboratory. He confronted the deranged scientist and showed him the truth about the Cainites and offered him immortality. This was, of course, the Fiend's last mistake. Through the power of kindred vitae Gunner finally saw the chance to fulfill his dreams; accepting his sire's proposition, he was blooded that very night. I am led to believe that his sire lived for no more than two nights afterwards, before having a stake rammed into his heart whilst asleep, and being fed off by Gunner for weeks. His sire was quite the vampire, and before long he realised his true power and potential.

Project: Exodus began again with intensified speed and research; and it did not take long for him to create his first group of ghouls. And that is where my research ended, and where it becomes the current situation. He has over twenty 'operatives' currently active; desperate for more vitae – so desperate that they obey his commands to the letter. Project: Exodus is done, and now his organisation has been named: the Worldwide Response Agency. The WRA is, broadly speaking, a mercenary service known for amazing results – the ghouls masquerade as well-trained agents among the criminal kine, and the money that flows into his system of banks, scattered across the world, is blood money. I know not what he wishes to do with it, or why, but he is the key. And all he wishes for it is--”

“-- Payment.” A cold smile flitted across Antonio's white lips, “And we have no trouble organising that.”

---

Night fell over Project: Exodus.

Gunner would never get used to the mess. He slipped carefully between the scattered tiles, wet with algae. Through the double doors, leaving them swinging in eerie harmony behind him. An electric light flickered before him, casting mocking shadows across the ghoulish scene. He slipped by the long-unused cafeteria where rows of bowls still sat, smothered in a heavy layer of dust. Through the silent corridors as the phone rang in the distance, the high-pitched electric wail vibrating through the silent compound.

The room was dark, save for the full moon that peaked through the heavy cloud cover, throwing gentle rays through the jagged hole in the roof. In the corner, a red light flashed, illuminated a dirty sign above it, writing hardly recognisable. Line 3. Across the room he skipped, shadows slipping, sliding and melding about him, a childish grin splayed across his features, spotless lab coat fluttering out behind him, making him look for all the world like a ghost. Up came the receiver, placed delicately by his ear. Then silence.

There was a shuffling on the other side, and another pause. And then, a thick Italian accent came trembling down the phone line. “Hello.”

A childish smile. “Oh, hello there, Mr...”

“Is my name of importance to you?”

“Yes, if you wish the WRA to be of any use to you.”

Another pause. “Very well. This is Antionio Giovanni.”

“Oh, my. A Giovanni? How interesting. I haven't heard from your clan in... too long, sir, too long. Tell me, how are the Necromancers holding up these days?”

“That is hardly of your concern, Gunner.”

“Ouch. Snappy. Where did you get this number?”

“That, too, is of no importance. It is plastered all over the criminal world, no?”

“True.”

“But, enough chit-chat. Let us get to business.”

“Now you're talking like an American. How charming.” A little giggle.

“We need a double hit.”

“Okay. Who?”

“Marco and Dante Giovanni.”

“Oh, my. Clan killing itself, eh? Perhaps things aren't so good over there?”

“It is none of your concern.”

“Armed?”

“Marco no, but Dante could possibly be. Marco is also wounded.”

“Excellent. Location?”

“New York, the last we heard of them. Dante took a flight there from Venice Airport not three hours ago.”

“Ah, excellent.”

“That will be...” Muttered calculations. A smile at the edge of his lips.

“Seventy thousand dollars. Cash. When the job's done.”

Another pause, and possibly a curse. “Very well. We will be in contact once the job is done. You have forty-eight hours.” Slam. Silence reigned again.

Antonio Giovanni pulled a hand over his face, and sighed.

“Slippery bastard. Drives a hard bargain.”

Luigi gave a slow smile, reclining nonchalantly back onto the sofa.

“But he is reliable. Mark my words, old friend, in forty-eight hours, the upstarts will be long gone, and we can proceed smoothly...”

Sorry about this but im afraid i have been very lazy and have not created a post yet.
Although never fear for there will be one here before the weekend is out
Apologies again