Another Day in the Life of Manchester: Halloween 2007 Part 1

• Mikhail
• Dmitri
• Clayton
• Reverend Dominic
• Luke
• Wyatt
• Fursa

Mikhail Moves In

31 October, 2007

Journal Entry:

Well, it's finally complete. Twenty percent of Raedell Systems is now mine. I've finally moved into New Hampshire officially. It's a small business so far, under 200 a year. But given time and good leadership, it'll grow. Time is something I have quite a bit of.

It started about five months ago. I don't think I'm ready to openly start taking pieces of Manchester. I don't know or trust my beloved Elder that much yet. So I chose Concord. Near enough to manage, far enough way to be out of sight and out of mind from her.

Pretty difficult town to get inside on. Everyone knows everyone, and doesn't know anything if they don't know you. Reminds me of Court back home. But I finally found an opening, an after hours gathering spot for their business district. A few paid listeners and I knew which tables on which nights were worth my personal attention. A month or two of listening sympathetically to the pointless worries of the kine there and I was their best friend. Pathetic how simple they are. They'll spill everything to anyone if you show even the slightest interest. Or just don't tell them to shut up and leave you alone.

So it turned out that Raedell had a few problems, the employees were worried about declining sales due to incorrect business licenses and permits. Even the simplest business matters are beneath the abilities of most of these kine. They are lucky we take care of them from the shadows, or they'd run themselves into extinction in a generation or two.

Their usual frailties notwithstanding, the company is a rather nice security firm with a good overall reputation and a knack for good solutions for their customers. And it never hurts to have someone familiar with those droll little security systems for any of several reasons.

Turns out there was a friendly judge in town, and a young and recent graduate from the local law school. How quaint that even these little jerkwater towns have law schools. I'm sure he means well and is a wonderful student of the law around here. Something along the lines of "Well gee, Your Honor, my cousin didn't know she was his sister. They'd been separated for over an hour, and his memory's no better than mine.."

So, pitting the Enos against Rosco, we got the permits all done up nicely and things are back in swing. They should be in line for a state contract within twelve months, and then I'll work them forward a bit, maybe introduce them to some friends of the Family in other states and countries.

Imagine the reaction here in Hazaard county when someone up here actually gets traded on the Street..

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Ruminations

October 31, 2007, The Chantry

Dmitri lay underneath the covers, his body curled around the form of Sandra, whom was deep within the grip of day torpor. The Russian found it hard to sleep this day, not even the sheer exhaustion that day torpor brought could drop him into utter sleep. In this vein, his tired thoughts muddled their way through the past few days, trying to discover what had happened and why.

/Why had it been so sudden? Why had her touch felt so right, so... perfect? That first kiss had been like a world had exploded within him and it quickly led to what most encounters of that sort lead do./ Again, the question came to him. /Why? Why me? Why one of the traitors?/

He sighed, looking over at Sandra's sleeping form. He gently pushed back a stray lock from her delicate features. /Does this old heart still have the capability for love? I had always thought that gone with the embrace... or is it? If the Lord saw this, no boons I am owed will save me. No reputation I command... I will die slowly, painfully, and with the shame of a traitor./

Another sigh. /She is not my equal, as I thought at first, nor my opposite... she bests my Thaumaturgical skills threefold. Yet she deigns to hold me, to touch me... such a being in the clan proper wouldn't look at me twice were it not for the position I hold within the clan... which she does not recognize.../

And yet again. /Why? Does she seek to gain something? Does she seek to convert me?/

Then he thought what he truly believed no other vampire could possibly hold as their motivation. /Does she care about me?/

There he lay, her head nuzzled upon one arm, his other draped around her. Before he could answer his last question, the torpor of day caught up with him and took him into a deep slumber, leaving it unanswered for the time being.

To love: This is mankind's greatest strength and his most glaring weakness. If a man can honestly say that he has never loved, then he is not a man, but something less.

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9:43pm, 30 October 2007, Bethesda, Maryland

"So what are we going to do, Adam?" The senator's face looked worn and haggard as she propped her pink fuzzy slippers on the hassock.

Lucas Day, her Administrative Assistant tossed his Cross pencil onto the pad lying on the table in front of him and leaned back in the well-padded chair with a dramatic exhalation. "Nothing," he spat reproachfully. Virginia sighed as the young man continued. "The bill's stuck in committee until Dempster allows it to meet--which he won't--and then he threatened to put a hold on it if it does get out of committee somehow." He looked up, a slack look on his face. "That's it."

The senator cocked her head and frowned slightly. "Well I think I can line up the votes in the committee," she said half-heartedly, but Lucas ws already shaking his head, and she trailed off.

Finally Clayton spoke up from behind his steepled fingers. "Who is Dempster's AA? Same guy--Scott Davis, was it?" Lucas nodded, and Clayton did as well.

10:37pm, 30 October 2007, Washington, Distict of Columbia

Clayton deftly wheeled his car into the parking space that had opened up on Q Street, as if by magic. Hesitation is doom when trying to park in the District.

He killed the engine and hopped out of the car, locking it and setting the alarm. He took a moment to straighten his clothes before walking toward 17th Street. He tugged the shirt a little tighter and pulled the jeans a little tighter. The links of the chain were cold against his collarbone. The cold wind drove some dead leaves against his bomber jacket as he pocketed the keys and headed toward the screaming.

17th Street between P and Q, Northwest, is known by some as the Fairy Flyway. On Halloween, the section is shut down for Dupont Circle's famous Drag Races. On the basis of a little bit of gossip around the staff cafeteria and an 'urgent' visit to the offices of Senator Dempster (R--Ind.), he had a good idea where to find his mark.

Clayton slipped easily through the crowds and found his way to the porch of JR's, the hangout for Washington's crop of natty, buttoned-up homosexuals. Most of the ones who worked for Republican senators hung out there. The people were packed nipple-to-nipple, however, spilling out onto the street. The attraction was a set of drag queens, swaying on heels much higher than most women would ever consider safe, getting ready at a line painted across the street. The report of a gun set them wiggling, jiggling, and tottering up the pavement toward the next intersection. One fell, another broke her heel, but a collective gasp went up from the crowd when a wig--really two wigs, piled on top of each other--teetered and fell over, landing on a small dog, which yelped in annoyance.

Clay stood his ground near the curb and turned to scan the faces, all watching the spectacle. Tanned, wrinkled, pale, smooth, black, white, mostly smiling, some looking serious--but no Davis.

So he turned to walk up the street. He passed Dilbert, with a tie wired to stand straight up, and a pair of man dressed only in cellophane. Two women in a truck costume beeped at him. When Clayton turned around to look at them passing, he saw their license plate: "Diesel Dykes" Rollerskaters dressed up like the divas of figure skating cavorted in the intersection of Q and 17th. A businessman in a suit walked by quickly, casting quite a few looks at a preening bodybuilder. A couple walked by, the woman gripping her boyfriend's hand a little tighter.

Clayton smiled. It reminded him of Carnevale in Venice. Except without the history and with more taste.

After a couple of blocks he reached a stairway lit up only by the glowing blue rectangle hanging above the door: the terse entrance to Cobalt. Sure enough, it was crowded. The downstairs was a little sparser, being the stand-and-talk area, so Clayton made a quick circuit before heading upstairs, where the pounding music boomed.

The badly-ventilated upstairs was slightly hazy from the smoke of cigarettes, heated by the press of bodies. The close atmosphere made him grateful he had checked his jacket downstairs. The upstairs was divided in half, one part for another bar, the other for dancing. He slid over toward the gyrating bodies, where there was slightly more space--

--and sure enough, there was Davis. A young man who probably thought he was on the old side for this scene, he danced tonight with a guarded seriousness that belied his single-and-looking status. He had indeed changed out of his office clothes--Lucas seemed to think he never did--but still managed to look more conservative than most of the others there in his loose jeans and white t-shirt.

Clayton watched him dance for a while, watched his eyes follow the bodies dancing around him. When the inevitable moment arrived when the shirts began to come off, he did not join in, but still looked closely at the torsos around him. When he decided to take a break, he ordered a longneck and leaned up against the wall, one foot propped against it. Sure enough, after a couple of sips, the bottle came to rest against his upper thigh, jutting out at an obscene angle.

It was not too difficult for Clayton to read the body language. Single, looking--if not desperate, not too comfortable with his body, too shy to make the first move, wanted his presence to be 'deniable' in case he saw someone from work, liked hard bodies and smooth chests but considered them unattainable, did not think he fit in here but thought it was the only way to get laid.

Clayton watched him for several minutes from across the space where people were dancing, considering how to make this work. Davis, scanning the room, eventually noticed. Clayton, having slipped into the first layer of his Clan's weakness for watching things, did not look away before Davis gave him a shy smile. Without reflecting, Clayton automatically smiled back, and he knew the die had been cast.

"So," Scott asked. "How do you like working for Senator Thomas?"

Scott's ardor, though he had gotten quite comfortable expressing it nonverbally on the dancefloor, had diminished as soon as they had left the range of the pounding music and noisy bar. As soon as conversation was practical, the "so what do you do?" questions were asked and Scott heard the answer he was hoping not to.

Scott raised the cup of coffee to his mouth and Clayton flicked his eyes back to him from the deaf couple conversing at the table behind him.

"I really enjoy it, actually. She quite an engaging person." Clayton could tell his English accent was intriguing to Scott--whose eyebrows had gone up upon first hearing it--so he played it up by using more sophisticated locutions than one might expect from a Yank. Scott was nodding, making lots of eye contact. "And how do you like Senator Dempster's office?" Clayton asked.

Clayton noticed Scott's momentary hesitation, saw the slight tightening around the corners of his eyes. "Oh, it's fine," Scott smiled. "People always think it would be horrible to be gay and work for a Republican senator. It's not that bad, really." He waved his hand a little too hard.

Clayton responded simply by looking at him closely, his eyes boring in. He saw Scott's smile weaken slightly: Scott knew he was trying to reassure himself, and he knew Clayton knew that also. Clayton eased the building tension by nodding once, still clearly not buying it.

"So..." Scott began, obviously not sure about what to do next.

Clayton sighed internally and mentally implored Sandra's forgiveness. He gently lay his hand on Scott's elbow, which was resting on the table. He felt the muscles twitch, but the arm did not flee. He looked up at Scott, who would not meet his eyes.

"Scott," Clayton began. "Let's not discuss work right now." Once more into the breach, he thought. He prayed silently that Sandra would forgive him, then he closed off his mind to regret and second thoughts, thinking only of getting his job done.

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11:27am, 30 October 2007, Manchester, New Hampshire

Dominic ripped the outline out of his notebook, crumpling it up and throwing it into the corner with the other balls of paper.

The small studio he rented glowed with the morning light. The sun could move freely through the room, not hindered by pictures on the white walls or furniture on the brightly-varnished floor. His desk looked out into the dappled branches of a tree swaying in the breeze.

Enough. He pushed himself away from the table and stood up. Lunchtime.

He threw on a heavy parka to ward against the cold breeze, locked the door, and headed out for a walk and some food. The conversation with Nicholas was heavy on his mind. The young man had not called him back. He had probably talked to his wife by now, and that worried Dominic.

People were always stunned when they found out about his stance on many things. They usually expected evangelical fundamentalists to begin foaming at the mouth when 'homosexuality' or 'the United Nations' was mentioned.

Well, Dominic thought, that shows how much they know about their God.

He walked along Bridge Street, looking at the people passing him, involving himself with their lives for just an instant. Few were happy, fewer had a spark within them. For some reason Dominic was saddened by this, and a deep stabbing question sliced through his mind: Why am I here? What am I supposed to do here?

He swung around the corner into one of the coffeeshops. He bought a cup of coffee and a cranberry scone, and sat in the window. He touched neither the coffee nor the scone.

He came here at first to rest, to recover. Work was taking over his life, and it had to stop, to be held at bay. Without thinking about it, he had fallen in love with this city, and he sat down to start tying his thoughts together for another book. They were not coming. It was like pulling teeth. The fire in his belly was burning again, but he had no idea where the power and determination should be directed.

But that was a familiar feeling. Dominic knew that was his calling, the Hand guiding his life with gentle pushes and firm slaps. And he sat quietly in the coffeeshop, behind his cooling coffee, listening closely for the quiet voice deep in his soul.

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10:34pm MST, 30 October 2007, Austin, Texas

Luke strode down the dark side street, toward the shadowy cul-de-sac. Off to his right, a few bulbs cast a pool of light around the corrugated-aluminum porch of Chain Drive.

With the dying sun well below the horizon behind him, he walked through the brisk air. His mouth was set into a tight, grim line.

He tossed a look over his shoulder, not breaking his stride. Someone was following him, and he knew it. This was f-cking ridiculous. Who the Hell would want to follow him into this dive? He blew past the bouncers, who recognized him well.

The warm air thawed out his naked chest. The harness did not do much to protect him from the late October chill, really. But it still did not improve his mood. Without pausing, he walked through the front bar and the smoking room to the back porch. The bodies there were pressed closely enough to keep the body heat from dissipating too quickly.

He buried the smoldering anger he felt deep in his abdomen. He hopped agilely onto one of the low shelves surrounding the back porch, and let an innocent smile creep onto his face.

Tonight would be a free night, he thought. Time to free himself from that anger.

He knew he was being watched. Some people could pull off a full harness, and most people couldn't: Luke--and most of the people on that porch--knew he was one of the former people. The leather straps lay tight across his lightly-furred torso, emphasizing his wiry physique. The single strap leading down past his navel into his tight jeans hinted at more beneath. His buzzed hair and vandyke appealed to the sinister, but his liquid brown eyes and kind smile reassured the men looking him over that he was trustworthy and kind, not the type of guy at all who would chain you to a bed and slowly carve off every other finger.

Within ten minutes, of course, he was drinking a beer offered by one of this suitors. Oh yes, tonight he could afford to be selective. He looked like the consummate 'boy,' the young face many men desired to wake up to. So he played up his innocence, smiling and being coy, pretending to be inexperienced, and craving a strong hand to guide him.

But there was someone else watching. Someone who was amused, not captivated. He looked across the faces and bodies on the porch, into the dark corners. He frowned.

The stocky, furry man he was chatting with used that as an excuse to slip his arm around Luke's shoulders. "Something wrong?" Luke shook his head no, and leaned into the man's chest, ending any further inquiry.

Goddamit, ever since that little tickle outside of Memphis he knew somebody was watching him. Someone knew. Someone knew what he did.

With a stab, he realized that meant someone probably knew what his Marine-boy had meant to him. He suddenly felt slightly dizzy, and sick to his stomach.

"Is there someplace else we could go?" he asked quietly, grasping and releasing the chest hair of the man cradling him close. The man silently nodded, grinning.

Luke knelt, resting his hands lightly on the tops of his thighs. He looked down to a point on the floor about six feet in front of him. The air in the house was warm against his naked skin. He could feel the thin rug against his knees and ankles, and the leather collar on his neck.

He let his eyes lose focus for a moment, and time slipped away from him.

"Boy, are you ready?" a deep voice asked from behind him.

"Yessir, I am, Sir," Luke replied in a hollow voice. Some part of him railed at the indignity, then quieted, subsiding as if drowned until it was totally silent. A soft black cloth slipped over his eyes, which was pulled tight.

"Stand," the voice said firmly. Luke did so rapidly, keeping his balance well. Warm hands rested on his shoulder and propelled him forward. He faltered at first, and the hands gripped him tightly. "Settle down, boy. Relax." The voice rumbled close to his right ear. "Trust me." The hands pushed him forward again. Luke walked forward, stopping, turning, and walking again as directed. He found himself descending a set of stairs. The air cooled off and became musty: a basement, probably.

The hands indicated that he should stop. One warm palm slid around his shoulder and down his arm, taking his wrist. A soft, tight ring clamped around his wrist, which was led upward, above his head and affixed. The left wrist was similarly bound. Luke hung from something, his body stretched out and vulnerable. Behind the blindfold, his whirling mind had calmed, stilled: he had entered the mindspace of the slave, where he had but to serve, a space where the prying eyes could not see his weakness.

Without a word, he felt his Master step away. Luke's fuzzy mind did not inquire where he was going, and he nodded dimly when his Master asked if he was ready.

The lash felt like it lit up a stripe of daylight across his back. The second fell across it, leaving an X.

I am finally safe, Luke thought. No eyes following me. Nobody knows what I did. Or nobody cares, because now I'm here safe with Someone who cares. He knows I need some correction and He is giving it to me.

Gawd, I'm such an incompetent dumbf-ck, Luke thought. I didn't deserve the vitae Sir gave me years ago. I don't deserve the attention Master is giving me now.

The lash moved from Luke's striped back and began to lacerate the backs of his thighs.

And I know I didn't deserve what my boy gave me. He gave me too much, and I threw it away. And now someone knows. No more. No more anger, or mistakes, or errors. No more choices. Now I serve.

The sudden sting of a riding crop, wielded by an accurate and powerful hand, made Luke flinch slightly.

This is my punishment, my service. This is what I deserve. This is what I am worth.

A gentle touch on his cheek. "What the f-ck?" With a soft jolt, Luke realized bloody tears of release and thankfulness were running from beneath the blindfold.

The jolt brought his mind out of the safe, comfortable space it had been inhabiting--it felt like waking up from a deep, dreamy sleep and finding out he was still living the broken, cloddish existence he was the night before. As his mind surfaced, so did the anger he had kept buried all night. His biceps bulged as they flooded with vitae and he began to pull the eyebolts he was bound to out of the ceiling rafter.

"I wish you had not seen that. I really wish you hadn't," he said quietly, his voice innocent and kind.

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New Beginnings

It all started with one lousy suicide attempt, and suddenly, Monolith was a circus and the Enquirer a sideshow.  It had become completely impossible for Wyatt to get near his work without having a horde of reporters stick microphones in his face.  The really persistent ones actually followed him home, but still, all anyone got was "No comment."  No comment for those barbarians at the gate, nor the colleagues at work.  After all, you can't really trust them not to turn innocent comments into full blown stories.  That was their job, and as much as Wyatt didn't want to admit it, some of them were really good at it.

So, Wyatt spent most of this time along, mentally chained to his desk, and metaphorically crumbling up page after pager, story after story.  All this was was definitely not good for him, and he'll be the first to admit it, but after such a long vacation, he had no time left to get away from it all.  He was alone in a crowd, by choice, and by the cruel hand of destiny.  One afternoon, he found himself typing an article of nothing but the word, "Ronnie".  Luckily, technology kept prying eyes off his monitor.

He sighed as another newspaper clipping is dropped into his in basket, and prying eyes scan across his monitor, only to have the fastest Alt-Tab fingers this side of the American border bring up a full screen picture of a hand with only the middle finger extended.  After this many attempts, he didn't even bother to mutter his usual greeting of "Fuck off" either.  

He glanced at the headline of the clipping, and literally threw up his arms, "Another one about Nicholas," he whined.  How cute.  This one had a nurse talk about how he was so badly injured that he couldn't even get up to go to the bathroom.  And they call my kind of journalism the bottom of the barrel, or bedpan, as the case may be.

He stopped to smile at the picture still on his monitor.  That man should stick to computers and business.  Leave the suicide business to those that are really deranged and much more creative.  Anyone with half a brain could slit their wrists.  Fuck, you don't even need co-ordination to do something like that.  He began to type, stopping only for a few seconds to contemplate how much trouble this next article was going to cause.

Wyatt smiled.  "What the fuck.  Everyone thinks I'm an asshole anyways."

(*) Bonus points for whoever can identify the finger in the picture.
(*) Negative points for whoever bugs me if the picture doesn't make it. =)
 

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Remembering the Dead

31 October 2007, Samhain, Pine Grove Cemetary, Manchester, NH

Memories light the corners of my mind....

The granite monuments were arrayed after the fashion of a family burial plot. 10 such stone reminders stood in a small glade near the river itself--and premium burial space it was. It had taken months of negotiations to secure it, and the price was steeper than she would of paid for many other things. Timkin had arranged for plants an flowers as were suitable, and had the stones themselves manufactured to exacting specifications.

"Denny" as he preferred to be called. The Sheriff the Toreador Clan was shocked that they had among them. In the flurry surround her taking of Praxis, he'd all but leapt to take the job no one else wanted to do right. He had served at her right hand for 10 years, standing beside Prince in the skirmishes, being a sparring partner, and finally following her to the battle that had claimed his unlife.

Denny had craved one boon from her, making his young lover one of the Kindred had been the request. Peter was a quiet boy with a quiet voice and a simple outlook. Though not artistic in the classic sense, he was a philosopher and scholar of no small skill. In life, he had written much in the way of essay, and that practice went beyond the embrace, sparking several memorable discussions in Elysium. Remembering caused her a momentary smile.

Fursa had lost a great deal more than half of her foot that miserable night. As the melee erupted between Conrad, backed by his Sabbat and Setite allies, and the small group of Camarilla who had followed Molotov down to the clandestined meeting, she erupted into Celerity and killed 4 opponents in a deadly dance of whirling seaxes. The Sheriff and his childe died in a hail of Dragonsbreath when the remaining Sabbat opened fire in the small cavern. She, Molotov, and Liam waded through the 6 remaining vampires in less than 2 minutes, she sending Conrad's ugly head bouncing several feet from his crumbling body.

Within moments, the first of the explosions had gone off, the result of what had to have been a dead man switch. Another more rumbling explosive fireball prevented the now scrambling trio from collecting their dead as they ran like Hell itself was after them. Horded caches of explosives went off all along the tunnel as they ran. She'd vaulted Liam through the grate, nearly fought Molotov over which of them was going next, and then leapt through the overhead grate as the last deadly charge threw her from the opening and into the main storms.

While Molotov remembered them and their sacrifices in anger, she had chosen to erect a fitting memorial. In fact, it had been just before she'd left the house on the 26th of December, 2004, the night that she'd first laid eyes on Jason, that she had told Timkin exactly what she wanted done. "As Honor is given, so it is gained." was the saying and a good drighten was versed in the ways to give Honor.

As she placed a candle in a specific place at the base of each stone, she remembered all of them. Henry had saved her life the night of the flare attack at the Lobster Claw, who had been killed in a skirmish with the Sabbat in Nashua. Molly had been taken down trying to track a lead on a hunter. "Fitch", Morgan, Tanya, "Greaser", and Cody had all been nurdered by Conrad's brood, heads left in the Elysium in defiance of her rule. Finally, at the end of the row stood a single stone with the name "Alexandra Kandue", the Toreador Antiribu with the balls to ask the Camarilla for death by diablerie.

She lit that last candle with and stood up again. Samhain had come to Manchester again and Fursa had much to do.

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