Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.
The character of Matt Reimer sprang from the mind of Eric Bowmaster.
K.T. Corben, Erica Blackwell, and Michelle Marlowe are the products of Icy Mike Molson's overactive imagination. For more insight into his disturbed mind, check out his stories here on
Marcus Dietrich, a character that certainly possesses an abundance of passion and plucky spirit, was created within the rather disturbed mind of Dwayne Gamble.
Siras Telemon is the dream-child of (a most likely drunken) Steve Wakefield.
All of the other characters, as well as the story, are mine.
One last comment of thanks is required for Icy Mike and Drahcir, both of whom did an admirable (and supremely patient) job of reading through this story and making comments where needed.
Author's Note: While this is a stand-alone story, it might help those that are truly interested in getting to know certain characters better to first read my five San Francisco stories, and/or stories by Icy Mike Molson which feature K.T. Corben and/or Johnny Yashida (such as his wonderful stories Enemies Disguised as Enemies and Sleight of Hands). As I said, this is stand-alone, so reading all that other stuff isn't necessary. It might be interesting to you, though, if you also like what you find here.
Le Bon Temps Roule
by
Nevermore
Prologue
"So, you Southpaw?" the girl asked as she walked over toward the table. The man matched the description that she had been given, but she felt it would be best to confirm his identity before beginning to discuss business.
"That's right," the man replied. He looked the girl over, trying to figure out who she was. He knew that he was to meet with someone, but he had been instructed that the other party would be male. "Who the hell are you?"
"Name's Marlowe," the woman replied. She analyzed the man, noting each of his features, examining him as thoroughly as she had been taught. Southpaw was sitting in a corner booth of the diner, giving him an opportunity to watch everyone that came and went. That could be the sign of someone who has something to be concerned about. Then there were his clothes. He wore a custom-tailored black jacket over a black, collarless dress shirt. From her angle she could see his right leg, and the charcoal gray slacks that he wore. Yep, she said to herself, that stuff is all Armani. She cast a quick glance at his right foot and immediately recognized the shoes as Gucci. As her eyes darted back from the floor to meet his gaze, she passed, for the briefest of moments, over his right wrist, noting the gold Rolex. Finally, the thin scent of Drakar wafted in the air, completing the image – to outward appearances the man seemed like any other disaffected member of Generation X. To her, he was someone who was pretending to be something other than he was.
The man had obviously gone to great lengths to appear as if he was dressed casually, like any other patron at the Colonnade Diner at two in the morning. Marlowe knew better. The man's clothes alone had cost, altogether, more than two thousand dollars. That was without even counting the Rolex. She wondered how Southpaw would react if she got close, and decided to answer her own question by jumping into the seat across from him, looking him over with a devilish grin on her face.
"I don't know who you are, or how you know my name, but you had best run along, little girl," the man said, his voice containing a slightly threatening tone. Marlowe only smiled more broadly in return. She looked him over again, trying to etch his visage into her memory forever. It was both easy and difficult to do, a product of his possessing no conspicuously distinct features. Southpaw had short brown hair, a light complexion, and brown eyes. His features were rounded but not soft, and he had a very average build. In all, he was the type of man whose appearance was, in a word, common. He would blend into a crowd perfectly. Were it not for his expensive clothes, there would be nothing about him that would attract attention. And now me, Marlowe pointed out to herself, knowing that her presence in the booth would be more than enough to attract a few looks toward the lone man.
She was, in some ways, very much like him in her appearance. Marlowe was far younger, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, and was a shade over five feet tall. She had a thin, athletic figure, curly, black, shoulder-length hair, and green eyes. Physically, she was attractive but not striking. As with Southpaw, were it not for her taste in clothes she would blend into almost any crowd. The way she was dressed, however, prevented her from traveling in most respectable circles. She wore a tight pair of black leather pants that accentuated every feminine curve, and a thin, white, mostly see-through button-down shirt was partly undone, plainly allowing a view of the lacy black bra that she wore underneath. A silver ankh hung from a thin necklace around her neck, and her black makeup seemed to be an advertisement for the Goth counter-culture.
Marlowe knew all too well that if no one had noticed the man sitting across from her before, they certainly would now. They probably think I'm a drug dealer, and he's a young stockbroker looking to spend some of his surplus cash, she thought gleefully. It always gave the girl a thrill to imagine that she was a more nefarious character than she actually was.
"I know who you're here to see," Marlowe said after a few moments of thought. "He's elsewhere, waiting to make certain you're alone."
"What are you, his secretary?" Southpaw asked.
"Executive assistant," Marlowe returned without hesitation, her grin not fading in the least.
"Well then can you tell me why I had to come to Staten Island, of all places, for this meeting?"
"Mr. Yashida feels safe here," Marlowe replied. She knew it was a lie, but she wanted to see Southpaw's reaction. The entire purpose behind the risky meeting in Staten Island was to see how serious Southpaw and his superiors were. So far, they had passed the test with flying colors.
"Safe?" Southpaw asked, his surprise evident. "The Sabbat holds Manhattan, just a stone's throw from here. It's their capital in the New World. Do you have any idea how high ranking an official I am?"
"High ranking enough to be sent to Staten Island, which is just a stone's throw from the Sabbat's capital in the New World," a new voice replied. Southpaw looked up and set his gaze on a young punk sitting at a table about ten feet away. "Seems you're probably as expendable as any other errand boy we've ever met."
Marlowe saw Southpaw's left hand go for a gun, and pulled back the hammer on the Colt she had hidden under the table. Obviously not a high enough ranking official to know better than to let me get my hands out of view, she thought wryly. Southpaw heard the faint click and recognized it immediately. His sudden movement stopped abruptly.
"A setup?" he asked aggressively. "You'll be dead before the month is out, you Sabbat shits."
"Despite my appearance, I am not Sabbat," the punk at the other table replied. Southpaw looked the teen over quickly. The black, chain-bedecked boots, the ripped blue jeans, black t-shirt covered by a red flannel shirt and a black trenchcoat, and blue-dyed hair all spoke to him definitely being a part of the young, violent vampire sect known as the Sabbat. Southpaw was surprised he had not noticed a man with such an appearance getting within a hundred feet. "My name is Johnny Yashida," the half-Asian punk added. "I'm here to meet with you. Michelle was simply making certain that you'd come alone and that you were indeed who you said you were."
"Great, so now what?" Southpaw asked.
"Now we go out to my car and get down to business," Yashida replied. "Bring the car around," he said in a low voice. He then stood and walked toward the exit, followed closely by Southpaw, with Michelle bringing up the rear. "I do hope you don't mind carrying on our meeting while in transit, but as you pointed out, this is not exactly the safest place for people like us." People like us, Yashida thought with a smile. Vampires like us, actually. Members of the Camarilla, the sect that is directly opposed by the Sabbat. If the Sabbat finds us we'll be wishing we'd run into the morning sun instead.
The three vampires had not been outside the diner for more than five seconds when a black Ford Expedition pulled up. Johnny and Michelle climbed in immediately, both getting into the back seat as Johnny gestured for Southpaw to get into the front, riding shotgun directly in front of Michelle. Southpaw did as he was instructed, and the vehicle was moving immediately.
"Who are you?" Southpaw asked the driver. The large man ignored the question, seeming to concentrate solely on the task that he had been assigned.
"His name is completely irrelevant," Yashida said. "The only thing that matters is our business. Now please do me a favor and keep facing forward. Any sudden movements and Michelle is going to pour phosphorous rounds into your back, understand?"
"Completely," Southpaw replied.
"Good. I've been informed that your superiors are having a problem," Yashida began. "A friend of mine is in New Orleans and he says the prince is looking for outside help."
"Mercenaries," Southpaw clarified. "No friendships, no favors. The prince has money, and he's willing to pay it for services rendered. We want people that can come in, do the job, and then leave."
"The way I heard it, you want more than simple mercenaries," Yashida replied. "I was under the impression that certain people I represent were specifically requested."
"The Telemon clan," Southpaw said evenly. "Yes. There are rumors that the Telemon have specialized in resisting Sabbat sieges. They say that the Telemon are just as brutal as the Sabbat, but more efficient; that they're able to wipe out entire packs so discretely that they never even threaten the Masquerade."
"Perhaps," Yashida replied. Where the hell did this guy hear these tall tales? Johnny wondered. Okay, true, the Telemon are worlds more efficient than the Sabbat, but then again, so is the average fourth-grade public school class. Even the ones in New York. The Sabbat usually succeeds in its goal of capturing a targeted city, but only after years of scouting and countless deaths of newly embraced shock troops. As for the Telemon being brutal, no way. We're perhaps overly destructive from time to time, but I wouldn't call us brutal. Anyway, someone has been giving us good press. Either that, or this clown was specifically instructed to kiss my ass. "So what exactly are your superiors offering?"
"What are you asking?" Southpaw countered.
"I need to know the specifics," Yashida explained. "Rates vary depending on the situation, how many people are required, and for how long. The general starting cost is $10,000 per day, per man. It goes up from there."
"You're joking," Southpaw replied. He slowly turned to face the small Japanese man in the back seat, making certain he did not make any sudden movements, and saw immediately that Yashida was completely serious.
"Before we even address cost, though, there are some things that need to be discussed," Johnny added. "There are guidelines that the Telemon – and their employers – are required to follow. You are expected to abide by any regulations that are set forth. Fraud in our dealings can have some serious repercussions."
"What are your requests?" Southpaw asked, once again finding his composure and assuming the role he had been sent to fill.
"The Telemon only work for princes," Johnny replied. "They won't go into a prince's city and fight unless they're sure that it's the prince himself that has summoned them. That means your story will be checked very thoroughly.
"Second, the Telemon will not take part in any internal wars. If the employer somehow loses, it could put them in a bad situation. When a new guy takes over, the Telemon don't want to be remembered as hired guns who had opposed him. That's bad for business. Besides, politics is a game for the older clans. Our only interest is in wiping out the external threats that the Sabbat usually poses.
"Third, the Telemon supply their own weapons and ammunition, which is one of the reasons that their prices are so high. However, they expect the prince to supply them with any means of transportation that they request. They need a Humvee, they get it. They need a Porsche, they get it. No questions asked."
"I don't think any of that should be a problem," Southpaw said dubiously.
"The final provision may be," Johnny answered. "I need to bring this up now, so that there are no problems later. Once hired, the Telemon cannot be controlled. The business of the Telemon is war, and they won't suffer the input of an unindoctrinated prince. They can, of course, be fired at the discretion of the prince, but they won't follow any specific orders. If he has certain goals that he wants achieved, they'll consider such proposals. But they won't allow anyone to tell them how to go about achieving those specific goals. I understand that this could make for an uncomfortable situation. The Telemon have no problem with a prince who wishes to control everything in his city; management style is not their concern. If that's how your prince is, though, he should hire other soldiers. I have an extensive list of suitable candidates that I would be happy to share with you."
"Is that it?" Southpaw asked. He could only imagine how his superiors would react to such a demand. Free reign within the city? It was so ludicrous he could hardly believe that the small emissary had had the nerve to ask.
"That's it for now," Yashida replied. "I'll be in touch."
Southpaw looked out the windshield and realized that they had arrived back in front of the diner. He stepped out and made his way to his car quickly. He had a flight out of Newark in an hour, and knew that he would have to hurry if he were to make it. His superiors would be pleased. He had succeeded in contacting the mercenaries that his sire, his prince, had wanted to employ. Now the question was whether the prince would accept the Telemon terms.
As the messenger left, Michelle Marlowe turned to her friend in the back seat. "So what now?"
"I'm guessing I should get a team ready to go to New Orleans," Johnny replied. "It's been awhile since we visited. It should be a nice change."
"So you think Siras will accept the contract?" the man in front asked.
"We need the money, Mason," Johnny answered. "Now that Matt is gone and the cash from his arms deals has dried up, we need to start hiring out as mercenaries again. We also get the chance to make some contacts, as well as get combat experience and some possible new recruits. Remember it's not all about filling the clan's coffers."
"What do you need us to do?" Mason asked. Johnny knew that the question referred to Mason and his blood sister, Uiko, who had been driving along behind them during the meeting, adding another layer of security. Mason and Uiko had been embraced at nearly the same time, almost two years earlier. Both were still learning the ways of the vampire world, and neither had as yet been "released." Until the time they were presented to a prince and made answerable for their own actions, they would be Johnny's responsibility. Not that the diminutive Asian minded. He always had a fondness for his childer and enjoyed the opportunity to pass on some of what he had learned. Having two new wards helped ease the pain after the death of Matt, whom everyone in the clan knew had been Johnny's favorite.
"You and Uiko go to New Orleans with Michelle," Johnny instructed. He knew his friend would be capable of watching over the young vampires' behavior, while at the same time they would keep her safe and out of trouble with the mortal authorities. "You and Uiko try to fall back in with Damage Incorporated," Johnny instructed Michelle, referring to an anarch gang centered in Uptown. Both he and Michelle had spent some time among the anarchs during their last vacation in New Orleans, and Johnny knew the best way to get right back into the middle of things was to run with the anarchs. "Convince them that you're Caitiff, and see if they let you hang around." Johnny knew the plan would work. Damage Incorporated was always under fire from the prince of New Orleans, as they were involved in several illegal activities that seemed to invite violence. That violence endangered the Masquerade, the all-important vampire rule of discretion around the humans. By saying they were Caitiff, or clanless, Michelle and Uiko would be accepted as young vampires without ties to the oppressive elders. Being in an anarch gang would give them the chance to gather information without being too obvious; and more importantly, it would let them see how greatly the Sabbat had infiltrated the anarchs, a step that was generally considered an important pre-cursor to a siege. "Mason, you'll lay low for the time being. You'll be our little secret until we need you."
"So where are you planning on going?" Michelle asked.
"I have to see my sire," Johnny replied, referring to Siras Telemon, the progenitor of the Telemon clan. "I should tell him about the deal and see if he'll let me commandeer a few of his people for the job."
"Who are you planning on?" Mason asked.
"I would love to take Marcus," Johnny answered, referring to his brother, a mountain of a man that put fear into the hearts of many of the clan's enemies, "but there's no way in hell Siras would ever let him get too far away for very long. I think I'll ask for McLachlan. Maybe Brett, too."
Johnny then sat back and thought over the prospect of getting into another fight. He had not seen battle since the Telemon, along with virtually every other vampire, had been driven out of San Francisco. It was time he got back to doing what his clan did best.
To be continued……………………………………