THE RHYDIN REPORT

The blood cakes the cracked jewel-case, but the compact disc fortunately remains intact inside. As a bullet flies past, slightly grazing her ear, covert operative Elithe Ravi ducks for cover beneath a dilapidated overhang. The case is left behind. In a brief moment of silence, out of view of the assailant, she curses this mysterious locale and everything within it. Rhydin. She cannot wait to report back to her employer and get the hell out of here.

Dialing her cellular phone, it is suddenly knocked clearly from her grasp by a gentleman from behind now intent upon strangulation. Reaching behind her, arms flailing a bit wildly from the surprise, she brings her knee into immediate contact with the man's nose, and he releases her to tend to it. Once again upon her feet, she retrieves a 9mm pistol from her jacket and fires a single shot into the man's forehead, square between the eyes. As he falls to the ground, she turns once more to the initial gentleman, also armed. He fires, nearly snagging her shoulder. She fires in reply, and the first gentleman collapses in a manner similar to the second.

Replacing the firearm at her side, she takes a quick breath and lowers to the case, covered with a thin new film of fresh blood. She attempts to wipe a bit from it before placing it into her jacket pocket, but is alerted to a muffled voice apparently coming from the cellular phone.

"Ravi?" It is insistent. "Ravi!"

"Sir."

"Ravi, what in God's name?"

"Bradley," she says, a bit out of breath. "He's dead." She pauses, listening to the hysteria of the man at the other end of the line. She attempts once more, newfound composure. "Bradley is dead. The contact is dead. Do you hear me? The disc is in danger, and delivery is imminent."

"Goddamn it."

"Carter, I need a drop."

"I don't have a drop," Nathan Carter, senior agent stationed in the Central Intelligence Agency offers plainly. "Look, it's over. You're going to have to find a way out of there."

"No, Carter," she begins. "The ship sank, alright? It sank. There were less than fifty survivors. I have nothing."

"Jesus."

"I need a ticket."

The man contemplates the risk of allowing his agent clear passage back into the United States - with dead agents, a failed mission, and without contacts or an alibi. But one thing was to be for certain: she could not retain that disc.

"Find the local airport."

"Arangoth… I believe. There's one in Arangoth."

"Okay…" He pauses before continuing, activity at a keyboard. "You'll leave from Arangoth at 18:09 on Tuesday. We'll bring you home."

"Thank you, sir." She breathes a sigh of relief.

"Mmhmm. Be safe." The man disconnects. Looking about her at the three dead bodies - two by her own hand - the stench of the fresh blood within the air, and the darkness all around, it seems like the least likely sort of comfort to entertain.

"Two. On the rocks." Elithe is greeted by noise and ruckus upon entering the small bar. "Hey, watch it!" She apologizes quietly to the woman whose drinks she nearly spilled through collision. This is a foreign world to her; she is quite the stranger in an all-too strange sort of land.

Many eyes focus upon her, most of them male, a few, from disapproving females. They are fanged, or peculiarly dressed. Some have dried and cracked blood lining their lips. One in particularly flashes a particularly disturbing smile to her as she makes her way to the counter. Having her flesh torn apart is the last thing in the world she could possibly need now.

"What can I getcha?"

"A phone?"

The bartender points carelessly to a telephone upon the wall in a darkened corner nearest to the exit. Aside from it is a rather explicit couple, the male's teeth planted firmly into the woman's neck, and only cries of ecstasy in reply. Wishing to avoid the scene altogether, she has no other option, as her cellular is clearly dying, and it is truly her lifeline now.

Trying to drown out the woman's blissful wails with the loud music all about her, she gingerly approaches the telephone. Lifting it to her ear, the man, blood from his lips glinting in the dim lighting, turns to her with eager eyes.

"Wanna threesome?"

The thought is appalling. It is nearly too shocking to maintain her highly cultivated composure. Nearly. "I'd better not. Early rise tomorrow."

The man nods in understanding and returns to his work. Her fingers begin to dial before she is abruptly thrown against the entire unit itself, a ringing in her ears as a result. The couple, now upon the floor, glare to the cause of the intrusion: the beginning of a bar brawl. And in a place like this, known for its… unusual types of people - human and not - this was no sort of altercation in which she ever wanted to be involved.

Trying to politely excuse herself down the alleyway, she is again thrown into a wall by an unsuspecting blow. Now her patience is tried. The bartender struggles unsuccessfully to quiet the argument, but is only knocked unconscious behind the counter. Elithe stares in horror as one individual in particular walks straight toward her. Fumbling in her jacket for her firearm, she fears that due to a lack of nourishment, and too many days without sleep has finally begin to wear upon her concentration. She fires wildly, and he continues toward her, the horrid stench of decay upon his breath - human decay.

This could only be one thing: awful.

He continues toward her, his eyes growing curiously black. A gentleman from across the bar walks quickly toward the creature, calmly taunting him with a gesture to lay into him, posing a brief distraction. It's enough to allow Elithe to continue toward the door. Moments later the menacing individual cries out in pain, five distinct lacerations across his face. Alarmed by this sudden imagery, Elithe continues toward the door hoping again to never see the dreaded place again.

But she never knew how right she could be.

A nagging in her mind tells her to quicken her step, and upon doing so she soon finds herself across the street. A mere moment later, the building housing the small bar is engulfed in flames. The red heat laps at the blackened sky. Shock and alarm overwhelm her at once, but at the forefront of her mind is the mysterious gentleman who offered to lend her the hand which may have saved her life. And he was nowhere to be found.

Paying little attention to the flames which demand to pull her inside, she struggles through the blackened smoke at the edge of the doorway, fighting back the blinding heat. Much to her curiosity, however, she is overtaken by a delusion which lifts her clearly off of her feet and has her staring rather blankly into eyes of crystal blue, curiously cold for the warmth of the arms which carry her back across the street.

"You're just teeming with bad luck, aren't you?"

Elithe clears her throat, now to her feet and examines the gentleman adjacent from her. These eyes belong to the same face which left that unbelievable wound across the offensive one back in the bar. Men, women, creatures of all kinds spill from its doors - some aflame, others covered with a thin layer of charcoal. Some will survive, others won't. Elithe regards them with a heavy heart.

"Thank you," she offers to the gentleman, but he is a good distance from her now, casually heading down the street, hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Hey!" She calls, jogging to keep pace with him.

"Why don't you go? You're human. This is a bad place for you. Get out of here." He continues on his way, not even turning to face her.

"You do realize that not even acknowledging someone is rude, don't you?"

"I said you should go." He only turns to her in concluding the sentence, and his eyes flash something strange her way. Something clearly not human. Something full of menace. Something she shouldn't dare touch. It is almost enough to prevent her from continuing. Almost.

"Don't I even get a name from my saviour?"

He laughs. "Lady, I am not your saviour. Go home."

"I can't. I'm not from around here."

"That's obvious." He stops. "What I mean is go home. As in go to Arangoth, and leave."

"Why?"

He seems frustrated. Angry. Ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. This is dangerous ground she treads.

"Why? Because you're not exactly very high on the food-chain around here, that's why."

She sighs, folding her arms. "Oh, please."

"Oh, please?" He laughs at her apparent gall. "Oh, please?" He sighs. "You…" He shakes a long finger at her. It appears slightly mangled in a strange sort of way. Mangled, but not deformed. Different somehow. She is curious. He pulls it from her view. "You have no idea how fortunate you are that I'm telling you to get the hell out of here, and not trying to take you home with me."

She snickers at this. It did seem rather strange to her, given the attention she had received since her arrival in the strange place. "Yeah, I was kind of wondering about that."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, it does seem kind of strange."

"Oh, Jesus."

"And I don't see why that makes me fortunate." Afterall, he seems a worthwhile asset. She needs something she can work, something that will allow her cover until Tuesday. Six days. She's used to having to work her wiles. This shouldn't be anything different. Although it certainly was proving a challenge.

"Oh, please. Don't… look, don't do this." He sighs, running his fingers through slightly disheveled blonde hair. "You're very attractive, okay? Yes, you could have any guy you want, so… go back to where you came from and do that, okay? Do that and leave me alone. Don't do me any favours."

"Why did you take that guy down? Why did you pull me away from the building? From the fire?" She pelts him with inquiries.

"Argh, enough! I just did, alright?" He pauses. "Okay, you want the truth?"

"Absolutely."

"I did it because he was encroaching."

She shakes her head plainly. Emotionless. "I don't understand."

"Have you ever seen two ants fight over a tiny crumb of bread?"

"Of course."

"Okay. What happens? One ant, in an attempt to survive, to get the morsel, kills the other ant. Okay?"

"…Right."

"So. Pure and simple."

"What does this have to do that anything?"

He stares to her blankly, his eyes penetrating her soul. "It has to do with everything."

She folds her arms, and rests her weight upon one leg so that the other peers seductively out from beneath her skirt. Her jet black high-heeled shoes perfectly accentuate the sculpted curvature of her calf. He shudders.

"Tell me." She taunts. "Tell me how it has to do with everything."

This is infuriating. He approaches her, his eyes slightly covered in the shade of their deep setting. "You want to know what will happen if I take you home?"

Finally. He was beginning to break down into something she could work with. This was no challenge afterall. "I certainly do," she offers in coy reply.

His voice lowers to a sultry rasp, his breath hot against her neck. "Alright," he begins, his fingertips light against her forearm, traipsing down to her wrist. "First, I'll lead you to the bath… where you can luxuriate in a collection of essential oils."

"Mmm." Damn, this guy was good. Essential oils. Nice touch. She continues to play the part, careful to mind her own reactions. They must be perfectly calculated. Nothing unforeseen.

"And then…" He continues. "With beads of water still glistening upon your skin, I'll lead you to the whirlpool in the den…" She struggles not to imagine its rejuvenating jets against her tired back, legs, and feet. "And, of course, turn up the heat." Without attention paid to her actions, she briefly closes her eyes, before suddenly being jolted back into the present. She couldn't lose her sense of control now. She's come so far.

"… To scalding." He concludes. Her eyelids, again beginning to close, fly suddenly open. "Now, you see, the skin is pliable, easily removed." She blinks repeatedly, his hands still hot against her skin. "Sometimes, I bring it to a boil, but you… you'd be much more desirable… live."

She suddenly pulls from him, her gun tightly within the grip of her other hand. "What… are you?" It is aimed, shakily, at his forehead. Between the eyes, that's all she needs. Just one between the eyes.

"Oh, I see. It's gone from who to what. Well, why don't I give you a brief rundown?"

"Sounds… like a good idea." She tries desperately to mask her fear.

"Who I am, is Lokariste Fen. What I am, is a garou."

"A what?"

"A garou. I'm a werewolf. In your more common tongue."

She laughs. "Oh, right. What I bet you are is some kind of a delusional serial killer."

He shakes his head. "See, that's what bothers me. They don't have a need. I do."

"Oh, they claim to have a need." The barrel still trains him.

"Not like I do. Trust me."

"I'd rather die." Words to live by in her world. She quickly pauses her speech, and sighs.

"Like I said, I could arrange that for you." He begins to wander off in the opposite direction. His words trailing behind him. "But I doubt you want it."

She continues, the gun still aimed in his direction. "Then, why are you doing this, huh? Why are you walking away?"

He pauses, turns, shrugs and calls back, "Call me a gentleman. I don't know!" He turns back, shaking his head and continuing on his way. "Get out of here."

They're his last words, and they hang upon the thick night air.

Covered in blackness, alone, away from the calamity, Elithe finally lowers the firearm.

What had just happened here? What in the hell had just happened? Her heart races, and she wipes the perspiration off of her forehead with the back of her hand. He let her live, why? He was obviously able - and initially willing and intent - upon killing her. Why didn't he? He's strange. She's never liked strange. And she especially doesn't now.

A car drives past, sloshing into a puddle. Elithe replaces her pistol back into her jacket, but not soon enough. A number of vampires with brilliant smiles seem to be vying for her attention. They appear to her like the most relentless, nightmarish sort of group of young men a woman could imagine.

"Hey, baby."

"Going my way?"

"No." She turns to another. "And no."

"You know, they say once you've had Drac, there's no going back."

Despicable. If it were true, and this city truly did crawl with the mysterious, the cursed, the damned and what have you, then these individuals were clearly descended from a long line of something they knew nothing of. As a result, they treated it as a birthright; like spoiled playboys with too much money and time. It was disgusting. Their culture was disintegrating around them, becoming filled with the kind of nonchalance and disposable psychology which ran rampant in her own society. It was… tragic.

"There was no Dracula, boys," she offers. "Maybe instead of picking up unsuspecting young women and offering them lines, you ought to go out to the local library and read up on your heritage. Maybe you'll learn something."

The three look to each other and laugh. Another points to her in a state of hysterical laughter. Finally, they wander off, thanking her for the best laugh they'd had collectively in years. Of course, that wasn't her intention.

So now she sits upon the curb, plagued with thoughts of Lokariste, the most atypical portrait of a gentleman with which she'd ever come into contact. She catches the glances of random men and kindred walking by her, firing smoldering glances her way, others simply licking their lips, imagining her in such a way she was not used to and terrified.

In such a way as Lokariste had so eloquently described while stroking her skin, against her wishes, her lips begging to even slightly meet his own. It was curious, and it was unnerving.

"Well, desire certainly has no conscience, does it?" She asks a nearby tomcat - who flashes fanged teeth in reply. So much for being a sort of Alice in a bedraggled, menacing deviation of Wonderland. Even the feline species had a mean streak. It became quickly evident to her that she hadn't a friend in the world - and a world of cares upon her shoulders.

Retrieving the disc from her jacket, she stares upon it with dejection. Her contact was dead, she is still skeptical of the intentions of her employer, and her only acquaintance in this strange land wished to consume her - and not in the ways in which she was familiar.

With her head in her hands, she sighs. Another small band of young vamps passes through, cat-calling all the way with a group of indescribable creatures in tow. Both sets intent upon snagging her attention, she more fierce than ever on averting it. Lowering her hand to her pistol inside of her jacket, she blows a strand of matted strawberry blonde hair from her face. Her eyes catch the clock overhead. She sighs. With her cheek resting against her free hand, she stares blankly into a puddle upon the street, reflecting the flock of creatures. The din in her head is louder than their taunts and lines. Eventually, it all fades into a sort of abstract blackness, with distorted imagery and silent voices.

At least dawn would be coming soon.