Author's notes:
I don't know too much about the actual specifics of Vampire the Masquerade, I tried out the role-play for a short time, and thoroughly enjoyed it, so here you go, fresh from the madness that is my mind. Any feedback would be appreciated, i'll give you a brownie.
They said he was dangerous; deranged and armed with only a toothbrush, he had maimed the attendant in the petrol station and stolen the rifle hidden under the register, and was now holding up the whole store, including three hostages. The man had then locked all the doors and shut the blinds on the windows except one, and had proceeded to eject all the Junior Mints from the store, followed by the entire stock of deodorant and the various brands of gum that contained a peppermint flavor. He had then called out into the night air at the policemen who had barricaded the street, asking for an ice-cream van and thesaurus. The police sergeant in charge had acquired both within an hour, and had left them in the parking space directly outside the entrance, but the man had pumped two shots into the side of the van and began screaming obscenities at the thesaurus. It was then the sergeant decided he needed back-up.
An hour after the first attempt at appeasing the gunman, several more vehicles entered the scene; two large SWAT vans pulled up behind the perimeter, as well as a dark-green Holden, from whence a pair of dark-suited federal agents emerged. While situations like this happened often enough in the city of lost angels, Agent Samuel Wulfen had asked his superior to be allowed to investigate the case, and his superior had allowed him. Agent Wulfen was known around the bureau for being an excellent negotiator, always able to sway the minds of those he faced, and it was hoped he would be able to end the stand-down without anyone getting hurt.
Shrugging off his black trench-coat and pulling off his shades, Wulfen found the Sergeant in charge and flipped open a notepad, and jotted down several notes about the case as the Sergeant regaled them.
"-and almost twenty minutes ago, the suspect threw out a carton of Soothers," finished the Sergeant.
"Has the suspect exhibited any other, strange behavior? Perhaps molesting the hostages, or speaking about crazy rites or practices?" asked Wulfen, raising an eyebrow. The grim-faced agent was curious about the suspect's psyche, and had requested that an official report be made available of his actions for when the agent arrived.
"As you'll read in the report, sir, he had displayed deep anti-social tendencies, has been throwing stock out of the store in an almost random pattern, and has now asked for his mother."
"And?" Wulfen flipped through the report, stopping now and then to cross-examine several details.
The Sergeant appeared to be uncomfortable, lighting a cigarette and taking a puff before answering.
"Well, we got a name from him, and got it checked out, but there was a problem; the woman died in 1912, and our suspect doesn't look a day over thirty. We checked the state records, and then the national records; there was only one woman named Francesca Poete, and she died far too long ago."
Hannon looked up from the report, interested. It was starting to make sense to him. "Do you have a connection to the store; I wish to talk to the suspect."
The arrangements were made and Wulfen was brought into a make-shift Headquarters; a tent that had been set up just out of sight of the petrol station, filled with men making and receiving calls. Being seated at a station, Wulfen waited for the orderly to make the appropriate adjustments such as making sure the recording equipment was on, and that a stable line could be created. Eventually the man preparing everything finished, and the Sergeant, who was seated opposite Wulfen in the cramped tent, gave him the go-sign.
"Hello?" asked Wulfen into the phone.
An almost-lilting voice answered back Wulfen's hail, almost rhythmically changing in pitch slightly; giving Wulfen the feeling he was being mocked.
"Hello there, good sir! May I know who I have the honor of speaking to on this fine night?"
"My name is Agent Samuel Wulfen."
"I am Ambrus Poete, it's a pleasure to meet you, Agent Wulfen." Immediately a dozen men and women leapt to action, typing furiously on their portable computers, excited at the new information already gained by Wulfen's actions.
"Well, that's a rare name."
"Yes, an unusual combination isn't it; Ambrus and Poete, two names from two very different countries. It's a similar story to yours, is it not? Samuel, one of the greatest of Israel's prophets, and Wulfen, the name for a wolf in German, am I right? You see, I know you already."
"Why do you think you know me?"
The suspect took a moment before answering, in order to bite into a can of coke, the sound of teeth on metal irritating Wulfen's sensitive ears. "I know you, because you know me, and I know you know me."
Wulfen rolled his eyes, and motioned to the others that this man was completely crazy. Several of the men tried to stifle laughter and the Sergeant sipped a glass of whiskey and grinned. Wulfen scribbled a sentence down on a note and passed it to the Sergeant, while trying to answer the psychopath.
"Why do I know you? How do you know I know you?"
"Because we are Kindred."
Wulfen slammed the phone down in mock-annoyance, and stood, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder. He pulled out a lighter and a packet of cigarettes, and lit one, then passed one to his partner. Wulfen thought quickly, considering his options very carefully.
"Sergeant, negotiate to trade the hostages. Give them me instead."
The Sergeant agreed, and made the necessary arrangements; calling the suspect once more, explaining the proposition that Wulfen had offered, to which the suspect gladly accepted, and it was quickly planned that Wulfen would approach the store's front entrance, unarmed, and would stay behind the cover of the van until the hostages were brought to the door. The moment the automatic door would open, the first two hostages would walk past the van, and then Wulfen would walk in, before the final hostage would leave.
In theory, it should work.
In reality, certain conditions were unable to be kept.
The problem had nothing to do with the police force; Samuel Wulfen had disarmed himself, and positioned himself in time for the 2 am hostage swap. It was the fact that the first two hostages had actually dropped unconscious after staggering several steps that complicated things. Immediately Wulfen ducked down and pulled the hostages behind the van with him, struggling to take off their tops and ease their breathing. It was a young man and an old woman, and both were extremely pale, their hands shaking uncontrollably. While several medics rushed forwards with stretchers, Wulfen checked their body for wounds of any type; he found none, except a small cut on the young man's left wrist, partially hidden by the sleeve of his hoodie. The medics were baffled, as there was no sign of physical trauma on the hostage's heads, yet both seemed to be dazed as they left the store, falling unconscious with no warning, but Wulfen knew what was going on. Signaling the Sergeant, he crept around the side of the van wearily and slowly walked into the store, his hands above his head. The store was a mess; packets of crisps were crunched underfoot while over a dozen posters had been taken out of storage n hung from the ceiling. Turning to the right, at the cash register, Wulfen finally saw the suspect, as well as the old man who he was holding tight. Wulfen couldn't see the old man clearly; he had his back to Wulfen, the suspect kneeling slightly to the old man's neck, his mouth pressed against it.
Wulfen leapt forward and snatched the old man back, and saw the blood flow out of two bite marks on his neck. The old man collapsed on the floor while Wulfen took a good look at the suspect. He was tall, rail-thin with spider long fingers and a smile that could keep children up at night. Ambrus Poete's mixed heritage didn't betray any specific linage on his visage; blonde hair, possibly Anglo-Saxon, hazel eyes, a present from the Middle-East, high cheekbones a gift from his Eastern-European ancestry; indeed Ambrus was handsome in an outlandish way. Dressed in a long green jacket and carrying the stolen rifle, Ambrus strode closer to Wulfen, his black combat boots thudding noisily against the tile floor. He propped himself right next to Wulfen, and quickly gave him a once-over with his eyes.
"So you're a Ventrue I take it? Asked the rifle-toting vampire.
"And you're a Malkavian. Just wait until your primogen hears about this, we haven't all fought so long against the Sabbat for the Masquerade to be threatened by one of our own. The Camarilla will stake you to the dirt, leaving you to the sun's embrace. Why'd you do it?"
The Malkavian walked around Wulfen, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Why not?"
"You're part of the Camarilla aren't you? You have to obey its rules." The Malkavian grinned at this, and traced a finger down Wulfen's shirt.
"I obey only the Network. The Network has told me to kill all fuel station attendants in this five mile radius, so I am."
Lying against the now-empty ice-cream container was the attendant; a young man with freckles and red hair, looking as if a lion had tried ripping his face off his head. Blood pumped out of the long, jagged rips in his cheeks, Wulfen's eyes narrowed dangerously at the Malkavian, who was now trying to stomp all the packets of crisps into non-existence.
"I don't care what you think your hearing; the Camarilla's word is final: Final Death for any Kindred breaking the most precious of our laws, and being one of the Prince's enforcers, I'm afraid I am in my right to pass judgment on you, unless you give yourself up for trial."
The Malkavian stared hard at Wulfen; suddenly a million voices screamed in Wulfen's ears, howling praises and insults at him in a thousand different languages. He doubled over in pain, his ears bleeding from the torturous attack, but he quickly shut out the voices, his own defenses kicking in. Rushing the Malkavian with blinding speed, Wulfen tackled him to the ground, grabbing at his throat, but the bat-shit bastard wasn't going to just lie down and die; another rush of sound, this time accompanied by flashes of light assaulted Wulfen's senses, blinding him as the Malkavian kicked him off and stood up, leveling his gun at Wulfen's head.
"How old are you?" asked Ambrus, curious of this Ventrue who had dared cause him harm.
"I was embraced ten years ago," answered a panting Wulfen, who gazed up at the barrel.
"And you expected to defeat me? To bring Final Death to me? It's all the same, all of you Junior Mints, plotting against me, trying to steal my visions and dreams, but no longer!" Suddenly it seemed to Wulfen that the room had darkened, that the shadows had lengthened and deformed. Tendrils crept out of the shadows, wrapping around Wulfen's arms and legs, pinning him to the ground. Wulfen struggled against the bonds, now panicking as the Malkavian knelt down, placing both his hands around Wulfen's head.
"You're going to die now, Venture. How would you like to go? Staked through the heart, left to fend against the sun? Have your head sliced clean off, your body burnt to ashes? Or how about a bit of… diablerie? Of course it wouldn't do much for me, after all you're younger and weaker then I am, but still, how can I pass up having Kindred blood for my supper?"
Samuel's vision continued to swim, bursts of light disorientating him, blinding his eyes while the howls of Hell itself echoed through his ears. He tried to struggle once more, thrashing his arms and legs; he couldn't die like this, he wouldn't let himself fall this way. The Masquerade; the cornerstone of vampiric society that prevents the Kindred from being hunted by the Kine, the humans, had to be upheld no matter the cost, for if the Kine ever knew of the Kindred's existence, they would never stop until all are wiped out. The Camarilla had tried to keep the Masquerade for centuries, and would primarily send out members of Clan Ventrue to deal with any breach with whatever resources they had. Clan Malkavian had always been a bit of a wildcard; while their insanity and delusions appeared to just be mental illness to any outsiders, their powers to cause others to be driven insane, as well rogues such as Ambrus caused the Camarilla to keep a tight leash on the clan, even attempting at one point to reshuffle the clan and change several of their powers, but in the end the Malkavians remained as they had always done. They were left to do their own thing, whether it is to revel in their insanity or even cast portents from it, and were expected to hold themselves true to the Masquerade.
But Wulfen wasn't without powers of his own. Focusing on his Presence Disciple, Wulfen attempted to focus his power onto the Malkavian. "You don't want to be hunted by the Sheriff, do you? Everything will be better if you just give yourself up, you don't want to do this."
For a moment it seemed that Ambrus Poete would relent, his eyes seemed to glaze over slightly as he peered into Wulfen's eyes, before shaking his head and laughing. He struck the Ventrue over the head with the butt of his rifle, then slammed it down on his shoulder; an audible crack ringing out while Wulfen gritted his teeth in pain.
"Little Ventrue, did you really just try to cloud my mind, to force me to listen to you?" The Malkavian cracked his rifle down again onto the prone agent, beating one of his hands, snapping the finger bones. The Malkavian went to work, beating Wulfen ruthlessly; bruising skin and beating bones, working up and down his body. Blood poured from Wulfen's nose and mouth, and he could feel one of his eyes swollen shut. His body, although technically already dead, could still feel pain, and enough punishment could send him headfirst into torpor.
The Malkavian smacked him one final time, and then left him alone. He walked over to the counter; his back turned to Wulfen, and started to organize the cigarette packs according to color. Samuel Wulfen, a proud enforcer of Clan Ventrue, loyal servant to the Camarilla, was afraid. He was afraid of what this monstrosity could do to him, and was afraid of what he could do to the people outside if Wulfen couldn't stop him. Mass hallucinations are not easily explained in the human world.
Wulfen had fed earlier that night, and immediately he willed his body to heal faster. He could feel the borrowed blood inside him burning with energy, replenishing his energy and healing the minor wounds; but the broken hand, collarbone and several of his ribs would have to wait. Rising up silently, he moved quickly, dashing at the counter, willing his blood to augment his strength. The counter and everything on it slammed into Ambrus, tumbling him over, boxes of candy and sweets falling onto him. Recovering quickly, Wulfen dove at the stunned Malkavian, grabbing at his throat, howling his rage at the lunatic. He channeled all his anger, all his fury, trying to overcome the struggling vampire underneath him.
The Malkavian pulled at Wulfen's hands, twisting and turning, before looking the Ventrue dead in the eye. Immediately Wulfen's head exploded with sounds and light, only this time he saw something; a young girl, barely eight years of age, walking slowly down a corridor, blood running from a wound on her neck, drenching her pale blue dress. He screamed in outrage, and plunged his fangs into the Malkavian's throat, holding him tight. A rush of sweet blood entered his mouth, the taste igniting his passion, pleasure seeping throughout his body. It was simply divine.
The Malkavian slowly stopped thrashing, the light draining from his eyes, his mouth open in surprise and awe.
"My brother will find you, little Ventrue," whispered Ambrus, before closing his eyes. Wulfen stood over him, and examined the body. The Malkavian wasn't dead; Wulfen hadn't completely drained him, but he wasn't really alive either.
Almost three hours later, a man in a black velvet suit was waiting in the den of his mansion, sipping a goblet filled with crimson liquid. He had been waiting for almost half the night, waiting on news of what had been happening in his city. As Prince, he demanded to know all the goings-on, and his agent was late.
The Prince heard the front doors open, and footsteps enter the house; the thuds of a man carrying something heavy. He waited patiently, taking another sip of his 'meal'. The visitor entered the den; Agent Samuel Wulfen, one of his young enforcers, carrying a man wrapped in rags. Wulfen dumped the body onto the floor, and looked up at his Prince.
"Do with him as you will, my Prince, for he has entered Torpor."
The Prince stood, delighted. He offered a hand to Wulfen, who knelt and kissed it, before signaling to the Nosferatu watching to take the body away, the hunch-back, deformed Nosferatu dragging the body down into the basement, where his other, similarly deformed clansmen would observe the body until the Prince could attend him.
The Prince offered congratulations to Wulfen, and sat him down by his side, the tall-backed leather chair one of the most comfortable and expensive Wulfen had ever sat on.
"I recognize him," said the Prince, casually. "I'll do my best to protect you from his brother. Was there no way to reason with him without violence?" The Prince poured Wulfen a drink.
"None," answered Wulfen, sipping at the red nectar offered to him.
"Then, my fledgling, you are definitely in trouble."