Disclaimer: I don't own the concept, the universe, or the characters of Daedalus or Camilla (rats!). All other Nosferatu present in this story, though, are mine, mine, mine!
Author's Note: This is the second of a series of snippets designed to explore Daedalus's past.
It is a dark and stormy night. Well, maybe. It could very well be a dark and foggy night. Or a dark and balmy one. It doesn't really matter, since the weather outside and up on the surface has no impact down here, where it's perpetually dark, dank, and silent.
Wait, not quite silent. There's whispering, the quiet sounds of subdued conversation echoing through the narrow passageways.
A hypothetical observer following the sound would have to pick their way carefully here, where no mortal ever goes. This part of the San Francisco sewers isn't cartographed on any map accessible to human sewer workers. Every man, thing or being that ventures down here uninvited signs a death warrant.
It's eternally dark, the oppressive kind of dark that seems to lay down on your face and eyes and slowly begins to smother you. It's also chilly. The way is treacherous. Innocuous-looking puddles on the uneven floor are more often than not formed by highly corrosive acid. Shadows moving along the brick walls are cast by feral beings that don't take kindly to intruders. And they watch, always. Some walls that look solid and impenetrable are not there at all, and sometimes parts of the floor aren't there, either; and sometimes, passageways that wind beneath the city for miles without any branching tunnels abruptly end in cul-de-sacs, forcing the hypothetical intruder to backtrack for hours, becoming hopelessly lost long before that. In some cases, said hypothetical observer would be forced to slither through mud crawling with maggots and other unpleasant vermin in order to reach the next tunnel, and in other cases, the air is toxic with gases caused by decay and fungus spores and leaking gas pipes. There are live wires connected to rusting iron debris that are strewn apparently hap-hazardly but in reality follow a very precise plan. One wrong step, one hand placed on the wrong iron rung can get you killed within seconds.
This is the abode of the San Francisco Nosferatu, who at this moment are gathered at the center of this elaborate defensive web; more precisely, in the Cave Inn. It's a small, surprisingly comfortable cavern lit by dim electric lights (to accommodate Frederick, who is afraid of open flames) and filled with low benches, two sturdy tables, and several crates filled with coke bottles. Except for the pale skin of their mostly bald heads, they're hardly visible in the near-darkness, as they wear the habitual black clothes favored by the Keepers of Secrets. There are at least four of them, possibly more, since a few empty spaces are left between some of them, and anyone who knows anything at all about Nosferatu knows that they have the power to disappear at will.
"Well, I was a student," one of them says, a thin, probably male Kindred (for with Nosferatu, you can never be quite certain). "Architecture. Was doing quite well, too. Then I got sick..."
The others nod compassionately, taking sips straight from their coke bottles (drinking out of glasses is for wimps) and sneezing occasionally as the gas tickles their noses.
Yes, apparently it's THAT kind of conversation; the "so, how did you get into this unlife" kind you invariably slip into when all the current gossip has been dealt with and the sugar from the coke in your system finallybegins to have an effect on your inhibitions. If you're Nosferatu, that is.
"The Becoming was terrible," the thin Nosferatu goes on. His name is Joshua. He's the newest addition to the Clan, embraced only two months ago. "For a while, I thought I was losing my mind. I'm not sure I didn't do lose it for a while."
Another Nosferatu reaches out a thin, taloned hand and pats Joshua's bony shoulder. "We weren't sure either," he rasps with an abnormally hoarse voice. "Camilla was about to put you out of your misery, yanno." He grins, showing yellow pointed teeth. "Good thing she didn't. You've been doin' an excellent job on the re-buildin' of the safehouse, Josh." He holds his posture for a moment before softening his grin. "And you're a pretty good fuck-buddy as well."
The others snicker.
Instead of being offended, Joshua merely smiles. "Thanks, Freddy. So're you."
Frederick preens. "Of course I am. Decades of practice. Strictly goin' on comparative evidence, I'd say I'm the best fuck-buddy among us."
The others look at him and then at each other. They grin, but none of them disagrees.
"Barring the Bothth, of courthe," a large Nosferatu finally lisps through protruding teeth. "No one knowth how he ith in the thack."
"That's true, Horse," Frederick concedes. "But he sure doesn't get a lot of practice, poor sod. Anybody remember the last time he got any? Apart from that thing with the thinger, sorry, Horse, singer."
They look at each other. It's a rhetorical question, really. Their Primogen's personal life, or lack thereof, has been a hotly debated topic during many a night before this one, and no certainties were ever gained.
"How old IS he, anyway?" Joshua asks with his melodious voice so at odds with his Nosferatu appearance. "I've been wondering about that ever since he welcomed me into the Clan. I mean, who but an Elder would go by a name like 'Daedalus'?"
Frederick, who's Daedalus's second and thus privy to a little more inside scoop than the average Nosferatu, permits himself a mysterious smile. It looks incongruous on his Roswell alien face. "No one knows for sure, Josh," he rasps. "But there's rumors that he's THE Daedalus. Yanno, the one whose son flew too close to the sun. The Greek inventor."
Fox, who's been quietly guzzling her coke this whole time, gapes. "No shit?" she says, putting down her coke bottle. "But that'd mean he's, like, three thousand years old!" She sneezes a few times as if to emphasize this point.
Horse nods. "We don't have any evidenthe. But Rothwell here thayth that apparently there wath a thertain converthation between the Bothth and Hith Exthellenthy a few nightth ago whereupon the Printhe thuddenly went all deferential around the Bothth for all of two hourth. We're gueththing the Bothth told him then."
"Pity none of us was there," Fox interjects.
"In the Prince's study?" Frederick rasps. "Not a good idea. His Auspex is almost as good as that of a Toreador. Not to mention the Boss's. No one really knows the full extent of HIS powers, and I certainly wouldn't want to be caught eavesdroppin' by him."
There's a moment of silence during which the visible Nosferatu turn to one of the apparently empty spaces. "Well, Sire?" Frederick rasps. "Care to corroborate or refute?"
"You've asked me that before, Childe," a deep, rumbling voice says out of thin air. Gary, who prefers to keep his hulking, wart-covered body out of normal sight, sounds bored with the subject. "What good would it do to know? Besides, you know very well it's not polite to ask about these things."
"He knows," Frederick states with a nod at the empty space. "Three crates of coke says he's known all along. He may even know how the Boss is between the sheets. Lord knows they've known each other for long enough."
"Stop talking about me as if I'm not here," Gary rumbles.
"Well, it's hard not to, seein' as how we're not really seein' you, Sire."
The empty space maintains a dignified silence.
"Have you asked Camilla?" Joshua asks. "She and the Boss do go way back. She once mentioned she already knew him in Europe.
The others consider this for a moment.
"Think they had a thing?" Frederick muses.
"They'd sure make a pretty pair," Horse agrees.
"No way," Fox says. "The Boss prefers to seek his thrills outside of the Clan."
"That's one way of putting it," Skip says. "But it's true. If he didn't, our resident King of Fuck-Buddies here would have told us all about it long before now," he adds, jabbing a friendly elbow into Frederick's side. "After all, who could resist those large Roswell eyes?"
The others snicker.
"Shut up, Skip," Frederick rasps good-naturedly. "And as far as that goes, I haven't given up hope completely..."
"But we don't even know if the Bothth thwingth that way," Horse objects.
"Of course he does," Frederick says with the air of one who knows. "Greek, remember?"
"IF that's true," Fox says.
"There was that one time he got moony-eyed over that young painter, remember?" Skip says. "Kept following him around for almost half a year, when was it - in 1912, I think."
"That's before my time," Fox says, and Joshua, the fledgling, merely looks from one to the other.
"It'th true, though," Horse concedes. "Tho, we're too ugly for him, then."
There's another moment of silence.
"He's like a Toreador sometimes," Skip muses. "He paints, he pines for beauty, he shuns his own Clan..."
"But he must have chosen this existence," Joshua says. "I mean... we don't embrace without consent, right?"
The Nosferatu look from one to the other. Each of them has been given a choice - death or unlife among the Sewer Rats. And every single one of them didn't want to die.
"Probably was embraced out of spite," Frederick speculates. "The Traditions didn't come into force until the Middle Ages. It was a bit different back in the day."
"Oh yes," Gary's disembodied voice agrees. "We chose our childer by their merit back then, not by their wishes, until we realized that such doesn't exactly encourage loyalty to one's Sire."
"Tho, he'th a Cleopatra," Horse says, referring to those Nosferatu who tend to be beautiful, prideful mortals in their Warm days. Most of them are embraced merely so their sire can teach them a lesson about humility. "It'th a miracle he didn't go inthane."
"Or into Torpor."
"We don't know that," Fox corrects Frederick. "If he's really so old, he might have skipped centuries sleeping."
"No, I don't think so," Gary finally joins the speculation. "We've had lots of talk about historic events over the decades, he and I. He doesn't have any gaps."
"That merely proves he's got a good library," Fox says. "And that, we do know."
The other Nosferatu nod. Daedalus's library is indeed extensive, and he's often consulted by Nosferatu warren chiefs of other cities because of that.
There's another minute during which the Nosferatu mull on what they've heard. Now and then, a quiet sneeze breaks the silence.
"Pity we don't know anything," Skip finally says.
"And pity he never comes down here to guzzle some coke with us," Frederick adds. "I'd even lug his wine for him if it'd help."
"That's very kind of you, Frederick, but I brought my own."
They freeze. And then there's a wide grin on each disfigured face as the Nosferatu Primogen fades into normal view, seated at the next table. The two empty wine bottles that appear in front of him prove that he's been here for some time.
"Blimey, and there's the man himself," Frederick rasps without missing a beat. "So, how about it, Boss? Care to enlighten us, in the interest of complete factual information and all that?"
Daedalus rises, gathering his glass and the bottles with a faint clink. "Maybe another time. It's a long story, and you've managed to while away the whole night already."
"Promise?" Frederick needles, and the other Nosferatus' faces mirror his enthusiasm.
Daedalus stares at each of them in turn with his characteristically stony expression. "If you insist. But don't say I didn't warn you. It's a lot less exciting than you might expect."
"Coool, Boss. Tomorrow?"
Clear gray eyes fix on him. "All in good time, Frederick."
"Everything? All the juicy bits? The whole moley?"
"You will have to take what you can get," Daedalus admonishes his second over the muttered chidings courtesy of Gary, who's still invisible. "And now I bid each of you a restful day."
The Nosferatu stare at the cave entrance where their Primogen disappeared into the darkness of the tunnels beyond.
"Think he'll do it?" Joshua finally breaks the silence.
Frederick grins. "I sure hope so, Josh. I sure hope so. He did promise." His grin widens. "I wanna hear some ancient Greek dirty jokes, at the very least."