The New York boondocks at Midnight; a dark patchwork of shadow upon shadow, different shades of black weaving together to create a tapestry of darkness. Few dare to walk these streets after dark, their warning tales ripe with robbery and abuse, but even they do not know the true depths of their fear. Muggers, murderers, rapists and pimps – these are but mundane bogeymen compared to the other predators who stalk these near-forgotten alleyways.
One such creature emerges from the remains of a boarded-up factory, a crumbling reminder of when this suburb knew better days. His mind is filled with thoughts of blood and killing, of death and betrayal; but most of all, his mind burns with hunger.
He is not small. Several decades of unlife have honed his muscles until he is taut and firm, masking the fact that his heart has not beaten for almost forty years. His clothes, although slightly ragged, reflect the modern fashions worn on the streets – a faded T-shirt and scuffed jacket over frayed jeans and stained boots. In those boots is hidden a knife, its edge sharp and keen, for he is proud of his handiwork, and killing is his art. A rat scurries past as he kicks over a trashcan for the sheer thrill of it. Tonight is a good night to feed.
Several streets away, three unfortunates huddle down in their scavenged and patched-up coats, desperately trying to keep warm as they gather together around a spluttering brazier. One of them,armed with fingerless gloves and a balaclava against the freezing November weather, throws a broken piece of chair leg into the flames and comments for the sixth time how cold it is. The other two mumble sagely in agreement and attempt to return to the shivering semi-consciousness which they call sleep.
The big man is hungry. He raises his nose to the wind and sniffs once, twice; there, three alleyways down, the unmistakable scent of unwashed bodies – unwashed, blood-filled bodies, waiting to be split open and drained of their valuable sustenance. With any luck, they'll be half-drunk and near comatose. Not only will it be an easier kill but he will gain the effects of their cheap whisky. It's far better than holding back the bile and trying to chug the stuff down neat.
Grinning to himself, the brute moves at lightning speed to the mouth of the alleyway, his supernatural vision allowing him to peer into the gloom and pick out the shapes of the three homeless men. The knife slides from his boot-sheath and glitters briefly in the light of the brazier; several more rats skitter out of his way as he advances through the rubbish and grime. He'll kill them all, of course, even though he only needs the blood of one to survive. They are but cattle, after all.
"Mind if I join you, fellas?" His voice is gruff and threatening, but he likes to announce his presence. It pleases him to see fear spread over the faces of his soon-to-be victims, and it gives him a sense of tremendous power. Sure, he knows he's not supposed to make such a show of things, but the hobos will all be dead soon anyway. "I was gettin' kinda hungry, see… and you three, well, you jus' look good enough to eat."
The homeless guys aren't stupid. They figure this big man is up to something, so one of them is already reaching for his flick-knife.
"'Fraid we're all outta Twinkies, big man. You're gonna have to go find yourself some food someplace else."
"Is that so?" The huge brute has already noticed this bum reaching for his blade, so he moves like quicksilver; in less than five seconds, he's got the hobo by the front of his shirt, kicked his little flick-knife to one side and is practically spitting in his face, baring his pearly-white fangs. "Now, listen here, Grandpa! If you think you can pull anything on me, you got another thing comin'!"
Several things happen at once. The other two men flee, more concerned with their own lives than that of their companion; however, as one of them stumbles to his feet, he kicks over the brazier, sending a shower of hot trash over the brute's leg. If it weren't for the harsh training rituals of the Sabbat, he'd already be halfway down the street and still running.Instead, hehowls and screams in pain, dropping the old bum – and it's then that he notices the little lone rat dragging the flick-knife into the shadow of a rusted piece of iron.
"Come back here, you little git!" he snarls, ignoring the homeless man who flees after his retreating comrades as if the hounds of hell itself were after him. "Come here, you good-for-nothing piece of Nossie shit!"
The big man has a different agenda now. No normal rat would have the intelligence to stash away a piece of human weaponry – there has to be more going on here than meets the eye. The rodent has got to be a Nosferatu spy, or the eyes of a prying Gangrel, and he'll be damned (well, doubly-damned) if he's going to let one of those shit-heeled Clans get away with whatever it is they're doing right now. Snarling, he kicks aside the corroded sheet of metal and sneers.
There it is, the loathsome vermin staring up at him with its all-too-intelligent little eyes, its whiskers quivering nervously. No matter; the little shit'll be dead soon. Quick as a flash, the brute's hand flicks back and his knife flies towards the rodent, scoring a definite hit and drawing a strangled squeak as the rat falls dead.
He allows himself a grunt of triumph and saunters over to collect the blade, pulling it from the tiny corpse and wiping the congealing blood on his jacket. Serves 'em right for trying to pull one over on him, spying on him like that. Then he glances back at the dead rat – except it isn't a dead rat any more. The body has pooled into a dark blotch of blood, a crimson stain on the pitted concrete. A brief wave of fear washes over him. Something is wrong here. Very, very wrong.
He's dead right on that one. The huge man has been so intent on catching his prey, so determined to taste the very fear running through his victims' veins, that he has completely forgotten to check for any other predators. The shadows suddenly fill with eyes; tiny glittering eyes which do nothing but stare directly at him, reflecting back at him his tainted years of murder and debauchery. He could have changed, he knows that. He could have worked towards Golconda, no matter how unattainable it might have been. But it was easier, so much easier, to just go along with the rest of his Pack, to think of humans as walking blood bags and learn to embrace his newfound power.
But it's too late for regrets now. It's much too late.
They swarm him all at once, running from every hiding hole they can find, skittering up his trouser leg and leaping on him from the fire escape above. They bite at him, claw at him, and no matter how many he seems to slice from himself, there are always more to take their place. Soon enough, it's pretty clear that he's fighting a losing battle, and he realises as he falls to the concrete that the thing that bugs him the most is the way that these bastard rats don't even squeak once as they deal cold, methodical murder.
It's not quite over yet, though.
As he lies there, knowing that he's about to beexecuted, the rats group together by his feet. He swears he's seeing things, because the rats seem to shimmer and coalesce into a humanoid form – but it's not exactly human, that's for sure. It's something man-shaped, but it has fur and whiskers and a snout, and it's wearing very antiquated clothes, like something he saw on National Geographic once.
"Jonah Elminster. Died 1962. Taken in by the Sabbat one year later. Ruthless, cold-blooded bastard."
The big guy's eyes widen a little. Not only does the rat-man talk – not only does the rat-man's voice sound like that of a well-educated Englishman – but he knows all about him. Jonah would say something, he'd ask questions, but his throat is already lying in the gutter.
Vincent Gamlin sighs and rubs at his bloodied snout. If the Sabbatever discoverhis real intentions - if they find out justhow well he's been able to integrate himself into one of their murderous Packs and pass on information to his true Gangrel allies in the Camarilla - then not only will he face a slow, painful destruction, but everything that he cares about will be gone forever. He cleans up behind him, the educated rat-man, although his cover-up stems more from a desire to obliterate his tracks than for any other reason. His night has just begun, and he has many other mortals to save before the dawn.
Jonah Elminster's body lies, half-buried, beneath a pile of mouldy newspapers. By the time his corpse is found, its relative age will be put down to malnutrition and exposure to the elements. It'll be just another messy murder in the New York backstreets.
Just another dance in the Masquerade.