Note: English is not my native language, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar. I do have help now!
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When her eyes opened to the darkness of the room, it was a simple, mechanical movement. No fluttering, no hesitation, no human subconscious twitching. One moment there was darkness, and the next she was staring at the rundown wall of her bathroom. She couldn't remember if she was dreaming – didn't know if she could to begin with – but to her it certainly felt like something had gone down during the day.
Dry, copper taste sticking her mouth shut and her blood felt like it was boring its way through her body and way off the beaten path of her bloodstream. And again, she had no idea if this sensation of her body being… rewired, was normal for all newly undead. Not like there was anyone willing to sit down with her and have long, insightful talk.
'Or tell the truth,' she thought wearily, pulling herself up from the cramped position she had spent the day in. Truth, she had learned very quickly, was a commodity and a weapon to be used with surgical precision in some cases, and definitely not something to be squandered on a random fledgling asking the most basic of questions.
Firmly holding onto the sink, Sasha dared to stare at the mirror. She was a mess. She felt like a dead mess, and it had nothing to do with her appearance. Her body was still mending from the suicidal insanity she'd gone through last night... or was it two nights ago? She dug her fingers into the ribs on her left side – the pain was dull but still enough to let her know what was wrong. It will take more than a couple of days of rest.
'And a lot of blood…' she thought, biting her lip. Yeah, her fridge wasn't equipped for this, and she could feel the hunger already pounding like nails being driven into her skull. Briefly, her eyes flew over to her reflection's forehead briefly before she pulled away from the mirror.
Shower. She needed a shower.
…10 minutes later Sasha was sitting in front of the ageing laptop with TV droning on behind her back. Scrubbing her hair, she felt around the scalp for the crack. It could've ended her had she not been fast enough. It would probably be best for her sanity if she stopped counting, but Sasha still vividly remembered each time her life flashed before her eyes. Too many times to count now, she thought bitterly as she pulled her fingers away from her head. And it had nothing to do with experience. Things LaCroix expected of her to do should be done by a whole team of people. Trained people – experts, mercenaries, killers... people who did this kind of shit for living; to stay in good favour and climb the ladder. He really wasn't being subtle about wanting her dead.
And if she thought that trudging through the sewers infested with 'flesh-crafted' monstrosities (that used to be people) just to talk the Nosferatu Primogen, followed by infiltrating into the Giovanni household to smuggle out a sarcophagus from under their noses (or from under a pile of ash and bodies) were suicidal endeavours of the highest endeavour, and the less is said about Bach and his hunters the better – then dealing with the cluster-fuck that was Sabbath was nothing short of Prince pulling out a sign saying 'KINDLY GO HERE TO DIE ALREADY'.
Why he hadn't ordered his sheriff to kill her in secret already, she honestly couldn't fathom. Politics, sure, but there was always a way around every situation. If there wasn't an opening already present, you make one yourself. Even she had learned that much by now.
In the end, she could over-think the situation all she wanted, but none of it mattered for here and now. She had no means to leave the city, no means to step from under LaCroix's thumb… All she could do was wait for an opening and survive. Which was the most important thing in this whole mess.
Pulling on a sleeveless shirt, dark because of potential bloodstains, her mind quickly turned to what came next. Usually, LaCroix didn't give her much breathing room – with one assigned barely over and already he would slap her with another. Except now, oddly enough. She was certain that he would immediately saddle her with yet another 'near impossible to do' task, but no... He paid her, 'congratulated' her in an almost earnest way, and told her to go clean up and rest for 'what is to come'. Since the moment on the stage this was the first time that he didn't have any particular order for her.
It didn't take that many visits to the tower for Sasha to realise that LaCroix tended to get pretty melodramatic whenever he started to contemplate the burdens of leadership. He presented himself as powerful, cunning, self-satisfied individual who was clearly a 'magnificent bastard' wannabe... but somehow didn't appear to be really up for the role, often losing his cool and being generally distrusted or despised by pretty much everyone in his vicinity, no matter the rank.
'Grünfeld Bach,' she started thinking back to the overzealous hunter who had burned down Grout's mansion and just narrowly her along with it, and mulled over the right words to describe him, 'was about as subtle as a tactical nuke.' In her mind, LaCroix wasn't that far off.
He seemed positively gleeful after she had cleaned out the 'house' – the hotel the Sabbath used. A house of nightmares now permanently embedded behind her eyelids. As if what she had seen in the sewers wasn't enough to shape her new existence. Then again, she had stumbled into the lair of a serial killer on her second night… It wouldn't be that far off to believe that walking nightmares will become the norm for her.
Whatever the case, she should use this time to heal properly. And maybe even feed while not furiously dodging bullets. 'Survive…' Not like she needed a reminder. It was one of two things that spurred her on.
She finally took a look at her inbox, getting ready to be inundated with spam. And sure enough, her inbox imploded, but not with the kind of shit she had expected. She stared at the list, not really believing what she was seeing.
One – how secure was their network if they could just send her the 'Yo! Can you do this shit for me? I've got the cash' type of email? And two – was she really the only kid in town young enough to be pushed around? There were others. There had to be. But, apparently, none had the kind of rotten luck she did.
'Young, vulnerable and with no backing.' She snorted. 'At least others don't mind me so long as I'm of use.' In the past few weeks (was it already that long?) of her new life, Sasha had quickly learned that existence was cheap and expendable. It went far beyond the 'sink or swim' crash course Jack had given her. So far she was swimming. Doggy-paddle style, and just barely.
But then, that self-deprecating thought was quickly followed by a realisation she had come to several not so suitable attempts at her life ago.
That being – that she was very, frighteningly, something's-definitely-not-right-with-her, good at what she did for someone just a few weeks old. And that... terrified her. Because she had seen the way these creatures functioned now, and she knew that sooner or later, she too will become a problem for someone else to dispose of.
It was a bleak realisation, to spot a pattern and see a ditch it was leading her into.
As if on a cue from somewhere up on high to stop this dangerous train of thought, something popped in her inbox – 'damselinnodistress ' – and Sasha let out one very aggravated sigh.
Fucking Damsel.
Sasha didn't like the woman very much. Somewhere along the way Damsel mixed up 'aggressive' and 'passionate', both trademark Brujah traits – or so she was told. Her passion came across in her hatred for the Camarilla and her faith in Anarch values. Sasha was still unsure what those exactly were. Whenever they've talked, she liked to refer to the Camarilla elders with the term 'cape,' like just about any of the other Anarchs she had met so far... not that anyone bothered to explain to her why or how that word was meant as an insult. More often than not, Damsel came across as grating, but was supposedly well respected by some of her fellow Anarchs. Sasha wouldn't know. She wasn't part of that tight-knit club, and she doubted she'd ever be, no matter how welcoming to the outcasts they presented themselves as.
But she was offering work. And money, information, and connections played an important part of this life. All of which she'll need for whatever is coming. Especially if she wanted to get off this continent... or this city, for a start, in one piece. And that meant courting favours. Possibly the most distasteful part of her life here and now that she was yet to get used to.
If Damsel had a job for her... well, it couldn't be worse than what LaCroix had been putting her through since the moment he had her dumped in the alley behind the theatre.
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Just a heads-up: This story uses V20 edition ruleset for kindred abilities. Because V5 can go fuck itself.
