V:tM - BECOMING

What in the blood hell was this?

What in the fucking bloody hell was all this shit?

So, she had come here with honest curiosity and the whole fucking thing seems to start off with her very favorite thing- Socializing.

Fucking wonderful- Sure, her name was known and she had been called forward- there were probably others like her they could have called for, but socializing was a weakness for her. How the fuck could they... Was it not expressly known that she was not one to be invited to parties like this? She had thought it would be.... smaller... quieter... Perhaps for the host, this was small, but for her....

How the fuck could she make this work? Anxiety was dribbling up in her mind, bubbling up til it consumed all the space in her head. She wanted back in her fucking room, with a nice little victim, and time to slowly and deliberately test the effects of a slow drip of this fucking acid in a human's veins. Somehow, she knew that would calm her. Those fucking screams of agony always helped. But this, this was far out of her element.

So the guy can talk, and he gathered them all here- for what purpose though? What the hell does he have in store for all of the- ok, let's be honest, she doesn't much care for anyone else in this godforsaken room. What did he want of her? She did what was asked of her by her superiors, and in return she was rewarded with little humans to play around with. This was her life now, and she had been very happy with it- and now someone had the audacity-.... wait, did the letter mention that it would be a social setting with talking? Oh god, where's that fucking lett-.... she had burned it... or had her fucking little brain dead follower burn it. Great. Bloody wonderful.

She didn't want drinks, she didn't want to talk, she wanted to get this over with, sate her curiosity and get back to her little abode of horrors.

This was already too much on her.

Lana looked around herself, annoyed and anxious. Why had she even come? Would this put her in a bad standing with her superiors if they found out where she was now? What would happen to her cozy lifestyle? But... she had wanted to come, she was curious, this had all seemed so very interesting, and yet... This was terrifying for her.

Conversations were being struck up, and she didn't much care to figure out what everyone was yammering to each other about.

"I don't understand." She muttered softly, though the unmistakable tone of her rising anger would be hard to miss. "Why are we here?" She continued, her voice still soft and directed towards no single person. Was she mad and off her rocker? That was already known, but in times of stress, her mood would deteriorate a bit. Any cleverly crafted front of hers would fail in this face of anxiety. It was all fucking coming back, all the laughing and jeering and... oh god, the pain...

Lana's hands ran over an arm, and felt the scars under the cloth.

No, this situation was not for her, it brought too many old memories that had lead her to this end anyways. Though she was thankful to finally have a life and a calling she knew was perfect for her- she couldn't let go of those memories, those faces, twisted in unease when she'd enter a room. Here comes Lana, no-no, don't talk to her, she's a little weird. She means well, or at least, our bosses think so, but she's just so... She works hard but did you see how she behaved at that party? Like she was some deer in the headlights. I heard Frank and a couple of his buddies tried to talk to her- Frank had lost a bet and the guy was soused, he asked her to a date, they had all thought it would be funny... Did you hear what she said?....Either way, you're new here and I figure I'd give you warning about her, she's just not that friendly.

The moment drifted away from her, and she was released from the painful memory. The ignorance of them... she could hear them as she was cataloging data into the computers... She had worked had, damn it all, she had worked fucking hard for that company, but...

Now she was back in that situation, that anxiety. She had been promised to be kept away from things like this, her sire had offered her protection, understanding, a purpose... and now she was here... Now she was sure that this wasn't a place her superiors would have allowed to her.

"What could be so important that so many of our kind were brought in?" She asked, looking around, scanning the room. So many... it unnerved her... Maybe she shouldn't have worn her gloves... but... they were a gift from her sire- still, if she required her hands to be free, it would take thirty minutes to get these damned things off...
 
Ren was never keen on small enclosed places, for reasons of his own. He crossed his arms over his chest seeming much haughtier than the motion actually was in purpose. He didn't want to speak until spoken to. This was an anarch den, after all. While he wasn't above them, by any logical stretch, he was keen on getting his cards straight with the Baron, before even attempting the annoying yet sadly necessary twittering of social back and forth. As the elevator opened back up, he was the first out the door. The sooner he was no longer so close to others the better. He eyed the area, having a secret moment of relief that he always fed before any sort of plans with other Kindred. It was all around safer, and made it more polite to refuse blood that he was likely utterly incapable of drinking without it ejecting itself from his body rather promptly. He looked down on the Kine in the club, a peripheral eye on his ghouls. They were drinking. Beautiful. Seomun was probably pressuring Tanaka, as was the usual. Poor Tanaka had nowhere near the leadership potential of the other. Wakahisa was absolutely okay with that concept. He turned back around to look at the gathered Kindred. It was easy to identify those whom he might have interest in conversing with. Most of the best dressed, or at least... most professionally dressed. He simply looked, not approached. He was invited, and assumed the host would come to him, in his own time.
 
Vincent dodges Hammond's question, not one to be derailed, he pauses a moment to process the Nosferatu's initial reply. "Perhaps it's your visage, others might say it's your scent." he draws closer, not dissuaded by the foul order. The crypts and mausoleums of his fledgelinghood had a similar smell to his new acquaintance. He'd spent so much time underground he was certain that he himself carried the scent of death."Still more might comment on the stains you leave on their furniture."


The necromancer plants himself comfortably against one of the booths across from his new acquaintance. A couple of patron's moving in their direction to pass are quickly rerouted by a brief stare. As he watches the three kindred move around to avoid him and his company. Vincent continues, his arms folded casually glass in hand "Regardless of what causes them to recoil in disgust, most are inadvertently left saying to one another the same thing. Some monstrous creature coughed up from the seven hells has somehow found its way into their midst and begun to calls itself a Kindred."


"But when they lay alone in their havens during the twilight hours just before dawn they know that the creature they saw shunned last night is merely an unfiltered representation of what we've all become, and that frightens them." The Giovanni took a brief moment to sip gingerly from his glass, allowing his words to sink in.
 
The deep rumble of laughter sounded in the nosferatu's chest, starting low at first before growing in volume. "And what have you become Buck-o?" The vet cackled, the words parting his laughter only long enough to establish meaning, "A monster? A Demon? A Stalker in the night?" The vampire's chortle finally slowed to that of a bemused grin. His initial pang of defensiveness pushed to the back of his mind, ignored but still very present. "Bullshit... Every corpse in this room is nothing more than joke. Dead irony left on a sheet of canvas with no one around to admire the punchline. To call ourselves anything less than that is simply a pampered lie. We squabble in holes, hiding from the sun and hiding from our food. We can bench press a Buick, Stroll unseen into fort knox, take a thirty eight slug to the brow without skipping a beat but we can't pull our heads out of our asses long enough to see the humor in it all."

Deadward motioned a hand around the room, never moving his eyes from the potential threat of the Giovanni. "Look around you. We've all voluntarily crammed ourselves like sardines into a bad episode of Tron. Monkeys in a cage of our own design, set in place for the amusement of the Baron. Here we are giving up our time, our money, our sense of solidarity to point and laugh at the meat puppets bellow in a means to make ourselves feel better." Deadward made a nod down to the lower floor and the barrage of humans that occupied it. Another low chuckle sounded in the base of his throat but this one did not linger like the last. "But the best part? This joke that no one one's laughing at? It's all been told before. On credit cards and untold favors we lived a life of consumption to the tune of a bill that never got paid. We bought our water from the state, ate the food our TVs told us to and bought up all that classy shit we didn't need. All of a sudden we stop breathing and the whole damn cycle starts up again. Its debt kiddo, the fuel that runs the machine."

Deadward gave a long pause as he licked the points of his teeth. "Then out of the blue steps a funny looking bag of rot who'd look at home in a George Romero flick. He offends your eyes and stains your floor. Well... now you fuckers have something to talk about. Look at the freak, you say. Glad I'm not like him, you say. Meanwhile you pay your dues to carve out a nitch in the next rendition of Julius Cesar. The names get changed around but the jist of the story never fades."

"But folk like me? We're laughing. We always have been. You can't tax us because we live in the shadows you refuse to walk in. You can't play us because we're better at stacking the odds. You can't own us, because you have nothing on us to blackmail. So you do what you've done since preschool. You talk shit, use our visage as examples to keep your flock in line. While you and your ilk comment from the sidelines, pinned down by chains you're too blind to see, we're living large without a reoccurring price tag. When your debt gets the better of you? It's us you come to to handle the dirty work."

"And there in lies the joke." The Nosferatu finished his statement with the subtlety of a freight train, "That a good enough answer for you?"
 
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Alice thought she would just hover on the edges of conversation. There was doubtfully much for her here with all these political wannabes floating around. She understood it. With unlimited lifetimes what else was there for the small minded but to feel like they were important by playing their little games in the presence of real power. It happened among the humans too of course. Office politics it was called for the average worker, but it wasn't as deadly as what even the young vampires played at. Not that she could be sure how many here were young.

The politics were a distraction for Alice though. She knew what she wanted to persue, and everything else was an annoyance at best. Everything else a distraction. The thought that there would be no familiar faces was wring though. There was Eric by the bar. Why was he here? Did someone know of their past connection? Was this somehow his doing? Or was this an almost cosmic mistake, like her last night alive? Seeing him made her second guess this whole idea. Even if it was an old and powerful vampire that requested her presence. And that was why she was here. Still though...

That someone was talking to her was a slight surprise. The tone much more so. Alice looked up at the vampire before her. Brujah, she was almost sure of it. Not that she had much dealing with his type. For a full beat of someone elses heart she looked at him without changing her expression, then her face lit up and she gave a pearly laugh. "You know, I asked myself that same question a few times."

It was the directness of the question that relaxed her slightly. She might not be able to trust anyone here, but at least a direct question was better then a vieled comment with numerous possible meanings. "I am a guest, at least for tonight. You tell me, what is this tonight. I don't suspect you see so many of them," she made a sweeping gesture in the genral direction of a cluster of Camerillas conversing. Maybe she could get an idea of what was going on from someone who was use to being here.
 
[size=+1]She's dodging the question. Definitely a vampire then, Sevens notes with a certain sense of amusement. He still cannot place her heritage, but that's never overly bothered him; a Cammy she is not, and so he's happy to have a conversation at least.

“This tonight? Fack, love, your guess is as good as mine right now. Dunno what the Baron's playing at.” He follows her gaze and the movement of her hand towards the cluster of pampered walking corpses congregating around Harry Rothstein. “That lot?” He chuckles, a bitter and humourless laugh, “This is their idea of livin' dangerously. Coming sauntering on into Anarch ground, meet the one who calls himself Baron of Camden Town.” All hint of amusement suddenly drops from his voice. “Lucky for them Rothstein's the friendly face of our little movement. Any of those Cammy shitpokes walked into one of our spots in Lambeth? They'd still be pickin' pieces of him up the next night.”

He sips irritatedly at his glass as the bass from the floor below continues to echo around the room and the walls blast swirling patterns of green and blue. Sevens has never liked drinking second-hand shit like this; it's no substitute for the real thing. Still, a free drink is a free drink... not that anything is ever free when it concerns the kindred.

Turning back to the woman he's been talking to, he stretches out a hand for her to shake. “I'm Sevens, by the way. Nice to know I'm not just stuck with that lot for company tonight.”[/size]
 
Alice shook Sevens' hand, her expression still light hearted, even if she was not that at ease. "Alice, and I try to avoid making myself a target for their idea of fun." Because that was the truth of the situation, she would be a target of their malice. Those that clung so closely to what little power they had feared the unpredictable Caitiffs, or at least that was what Alice surmised. After all, many vampires felt a certain sense of security when they could identify the clans of another. They thought it made others more predictable. While Alice conceded there were certain traits shared by those from the same clan, she wasn't likely to fall for the trap of pigeon toeing someone because of who their sire was. But maybe that was because she did not recognize her own.

She noticed her conversation partner seem less then impressed with the drink before him and she couldn't blame him. She had much rather have her hands on warm flesh with the blood pulsing to her lips, but this was a social situation. Thus you took the hospitality you were given. She waited for one of the Baron's servers to come back around with their tray.

"He is something of an ambassador then. After all he must be getting something more out of this then their attention, or am I wrong?" Attention seeking she knew wasn't uncommon, but she couldn't believe that someone with such status among the Kindred did not have many games of his own. She just wasn't sure which games she was going to be a piece for. It wasn't for what she saw being displayed, that was for sure. It was ashame it wasn't what she was really good at either. But maybe she would get a chance to play after all.
 
How very...Political. The Giovanni thought to himself as he absorbed the Nosferatu's words, allowing him to engage in his soliloquy, looking on as his raised voice drew the attention of those seated nearby . He admired the conviction with which Hammond spoke, but he had his own take. Vincent ran his finger around the rim of his wine glass, causing the crystal to sing, raising it o a ghoul in request for a refill before placing it on the table behind him.. "I suppose that's one way of looking at it. But I can't say it's the way I would want to spend the rest of eternity laughing at myself in the mirror in order to get though my nights. Maybe I might feel a little better, but can you ever hope to become something more with the attitude of a pessimist. Quite to the contrary I think that undeath can be an enlightening experience if you're willing to take the right steps. After all, isn't that what you activists were all about in unlife? Being the change you wanted to see in the world?"


"In the year and a half since my embrace I've been offered but a glimpse of what awaits us when we're ash. And, much as I'd hate to disappoint you there is no freedom waiting for us, mortal or damned." The necromancer's voice lowered and began to take on a dark tone, his words almost prophetic."Gehenna is coming and when it does you just might regret all the sacrifices you made living hand to mouth only to have your freedom ripped from you like the soul from your body like the rest of us."


Just then the ghoul arrived with a tray carrying two more glasses of blood Merlot. Vincent grasped both glasses carefully and crossed the gap between their tables to offer the drink to Hammond, a small smile crossing his lips. "We all need partners in this danse macabre, its a necessity. And no one wants a partner who steps on the toes of others Mr...?"
 
[size=+1]Alice's questions send Sevens' eyes glowering over at the crowd gathered around the Baron. That Harry is one of his people, he does not doubt in the slightest; he's held this part of London for decades in the name of the Anarch Movement, keeping back both the toadies of the Camarilla and the psychotics of the Sabbat. Still, he likes to think of himself as the ambassador of the movement in London, the friendly face of what they often stereotype as a bunch of irate anarchist types, so one can often find a few Camarilla types kicking around the Elysian Fields.

Never this many, though. This is new.

Harry Rothstein is up to something clever, and it's making Sevens nervous.

Tilting his head back to face Alice, he shrugs his shoulders.
“Harry's enigmatic; it's the way he likes it. Keeps everyone guessing with the shit he pulls. Quite what the hell he's got in mind for tonight is anyone's guess. But this many Cammys in what's supposed to be our territory?” He shakes his head and takes another drink, going back to glaring at the crowd. “I don't fackin' like it.”[/size]
 
Well this was interesting, watching Alice talk to a... Brujah? Anarchs... directionless and therefore not a real threat to anyone who walked carefully enough, still Alice... He sipped his glass and moved slowly closer, watching their expressions... well the bearded biker's anyway since he was behind Alice now, then he was stepping up next to Alive and his hand forms a vice-like grip around her arm.

"Alice, dear... I really wasn't expecting to see you here tonight." His tone was pleasant enough but the smile he wore stayed well away from his eyes as they examined the Brujah. "Running with the Anarchs? Well I suppose tonight we all are." he glanced at their host... "Erid Sanderson, Lasombra, I see you've already met Alice who I have offered my protection to."

He offered his hand, not the one on Alice's arm. "I take it you were invited too?" Why else would a man such as... this... be in a place like this. Anarchs... for all their fabled ferocity and love of freedom could any of them understand the primal beast within them as well as a Lasombra?
 
There were likely many things a Brujah such as Sevens didn't like, Alice surmised, but in this case it was an indication of an abnormality of a pattern. So her invitation, along with several others, was not the norm, though the friendly hospitality was a regular occurance. Was this some sort of power play? No, that didn't seem about right. An Anarch Baron might be able to get a lot of young bloods to come out and feel like it's "their idea of livin' dangerously" as Sevens put it, but that is to keep the open hostalities down likely while politics took swing.

Alice wish she understood the politics better, so she could more easily avoid stepping in it, especially tonight. She also wish she had kept a better eye on someone.

Alice's frown at Eric grabbing her arm was no instant. In fact there was a split second of comfort. A resistual effect of their former lives. It was the fact she wasn't alarmed by his action all at once that made her frown at him, a frown for herself. Then the bastard spoke and just as quickly her irritation with herself was replaced with, well it was irritation too, Eric.

"Hello Eric. Your surprise surprises me. After all you seem good at bumping into me." She was not pleased at all. Just what was he playing at bring up that choice bit of words to Sevens? It was like he was trying to... claim her? No, she needed to figure out what his game really was.
 
[size=+1]Motion to his left makes Sevens snap his head around in time to see the dark-suited Lasombra he spotted outside come sidling up and take Alice by the arm. Going by the fact that he knows her by her first name, he can assume this guy (Eric, he calls himself) knows the woman.

Regardless, something about this one's tone of voice immediately puts his teeth on edge.

“I'm sure she feels safer already,” Sevens chuckles darkly, turning to face the new arrival, “big strong Camarilla pup such as yourself to look after her.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the Lasombra, and for a moment it's like he's reliving his old life; some uppity boyfriend in some shitty 70's bar out to prove himself against some nasty biker motherfucker. Just like old times, this.

“Running with the Anarchs, you reckon?” He shoots a sidelong glance at the crowd gathered around Rothstein. “That's what they're thinking. You don't strike me as that fackin' stupid, though.” There's a smile on his face now, but there's no humour to it. Sardonic amusement, perhaps, but not humour; the sort of smile that's just hoping this guy does or says the wrong thing.

He's already in a bad mood tonight. Getting the chance to kick seven shades of hell out of some gobby Camarilla fuck would likely improve it considerably.[/size]
 
That actually made Eric chuckle. "In a strait fight I'm sure you're the better candidate to protect people." he said eying the man and loosening his rip on Alice's arm to put an arm around her shoulder. "And you are right about me not being stupid enough to trust any Anarchs further than I can smell them but when someone important you've never spoken to before asks you to come and see him you listen... even if it's just out of curiosity."

He was still smiling as he looked at Alice. "My offer is still open, I want to help you Alice. I make this offer without knowing what clan you are or even which Sept you call your own... it's a risk for me." his lips were against her ear and he was talking in a soft whisper. "You tried to help me once and I got you killed. I want to make it up to you by letting us learn from each other. Maybe you could play for me again..."

He turned back to the Brujah. "Sorry, we've only just been reunited... though I didn't catch who you were... I'm sure a big, strong Anarch doesn't care to hide their identity from a 'camarilla pup' who is being less secretive than they are... odd how things turn out isn't it?" So this was the kind of company Alice was keeping? Was this her sire? No... that didn't pan out...
 
[size=+1]Anger is an emotion a Brujah is intimately familiar with, and Sevens can feel it rising inside him as Eric continues to mouth off. This isn't worth it; Harry brought him here with the request he play nicely, and this gobby little shitpoke is likely to drive him to violence very soon. Even the smile's gone as he leans in closer to Eric, replaced with a look of a man who's fighting to keep his composure.

“You wanna watch the way you talk about what we believe in round here, you Camarilla fack. This isn't that Ivory Tower you hide in; keep running your mouth like that and you're likely to find what's left of you bein' sprinkled into the Thames.” The Brujah leans back and spits on the floor in front of the Lasombra. “Cunt.”

Best to make an exit from this friendly little chit-chat now, Sevens notes; if Eric decides to take it another step further he won't be able to control the urge to beat some semblance of manners into him. Without another word he turns and begins to stalk off towards another part of the room.[/size]
 
Eric had always been confident type in public, but this new Eric was actually preditorial. It was like watching events from a distorted mirror. The familar and the unfamilar marrying into some new monstrosity of reality. Like when he moved his arm over her shoulder. She turned and looked at his hand, thinking about possibly plucking it off as he spoke to Sevens. She was too slow however.

The problem with knowing someone for years is they can easily piss you off if they want, but worse, if they really know you they know how to throw cold water on your fire. It was entirely possible Eric was saying what he was saying for the sake of having to worry about one less enemy on his neck. At the very least she felt his offer would come with a price. Nothing in life was free and in the night more so.

But he wanted her to play for him!

Some of the aggression was gone, but not all of it. His arm around her shoulder still bothered her. Especially as he verbally poked at Sevens. After all the Brujah had been civil to her, but she was not going to undermind Eric by removing it. Not yet at least. After all she wanted to have that talk with him. She was not going to look pleased by all this however.

Sevens it seemed didn't like to spare and with a few choice words of his own, left the two of them. She raised an eyebrow. It was likely the best way the situation could end. Interesting event none the less.

"Are you happy now?" She asked cooly. She knew Eric would be though, after all she knew him too.
 


Deadward felt his eyes roll to the back of his head like billiard balls on a lopsided table. "God..." he groaned with the enthusiasm of a dying cat, "Another doom sayer here to bore me with Crackpot religions in a fancy package." The nosferatu's tone of voice seemed to signifigantly lose it's edge. The Giovanni had peaked his interest from the start, but just as quickly the man's direction seemed to scatter the Nosferatu's attention span. If there was one thing that turned off the vet, it was being preached to. Especially when the sermon was being pitched by a devil in a suit. "You misunderstand me jack," Ed continued, rolling his hand in a small circle as if doing it might speed up the conversation, "I'm not looking for Absolution. Nor am I waiting on bated ear for an all encompassing ticket off this rock. Nothing. Ever. Ends." The nosferatu's voice sharpened itself down into bullets against the last three words. "If you and your goons want to sit back and gawk up at the falling sky like a turkey in a rainstorm, you have yourself a ball. But start the Jethro Tull buck-o cause you're as thick as a brick."

Deadward stamped his foot on the polished floor below him as if it held some semblance of meaning. "This spot here? I chose to hang my hat among this cast of butchers and thieves. I'm not signed to any ledger, and I ain't call no man Massah." Hammond's voice took on the hue of a stereotyped plantation worker of old at the later end of his sentence, "Fuck seeking liberation at the end of existence. I'm free now. So if you or anyone else seek to stand in the way of that, you'll find out just how quickly those toes of yours can't break. Dig?"

The nosferatu growled through his words as his eyes narrowed into a dagger like stare. He held his silence for a moment before taking a step back to collect himself. Rolling his shoulders backwards and taking in a long breath, the kind a man might to lower his blood pressure. As Ed's mind cleared, his beast pondered what sort of pattern the suited man might make on the floor below if he unceremoniously happened to trip over the edge. "One more thing Reverend," The title was drenched in verbal poison, clearly not meant as a mention of approval, "About being the change you want to see in the world? News flash. You're Dead. Ponder a moment on the destination of that philosophy as you practice people skills on someone more gullible."

Deadward turned on a boot heel and parted ways with the suited man. Leaving both him and the offered drink in hand as he faded into the crowd. He apparently wasn't the only one who hadn't appreciated the turn of the conversation in this dim excuse of a laser show. As he turned, it almost was like he was looking into far distant mirror. A biker looking son of a bitch stalked off from a fancy looking set and made his way to a corner of the room. Classic lone wolf with a ruffled set of feathers following a particularly annoying train of dialog. Ed would have poked further fun at it but considering he planned to do exactly the same thing, there was only so much beating the dead horse could take. A bit of a wake up call in it's own right. All the same he might as well make strides to avoid the oncoming cliche' train before it derailed and made a soap opera the whole dance floor. After all, the clean up for one of those scenes took an act of God to brush out the smell.

Making his way to the biker's corner, he pulled his outdated pay as you go phone from the pocket of his field jacket and mock dialed himself. Stopping in front of the Brujha, the Nosferatu glanced down at a phone that hadn't rung and made the motion to answer it. "Yeah?" the Vet began as he glanced up at the ceiling of the club, squinting his eyes as they caught the ray of a trailing light, "No shit? Yeah I'll tell him. One sec..."

Deadward pulled the phone from his ear and turned to the Biker as to offer him the phony message. "Hey bub. It's the 60's. James Dean wants his hair back." A wide grin extended from both ends of the Nossie's face as he offered forth the ice breaker. A cheesy delivery, bait and all, carried out to it's execution.
 
As the Hammond made his exit Vincent fantasized for moment. What it would be like to gash the abomination's throat open and pull that tongue he was so fond of showing off out through the wound so everyone could admire it without that vehement tone. A sicilian neck tie, they called it. Mafioso were fond of using this punishment to send a message to certain pezzos di merda who the had a habbit of mouthing off to the wrong people.


However the thought quickly passed, as did the desire to act on his little fantasy. An example of that famous Giovanni temper rising to the surface before being siezed by its colder, more calculating side. Could any other reaction have been be expected? Vincent had initially admired the filterless honesty with which the Nosferatu expressed himself, regardless of social contract. Petty offenses aside, all he'd done was continued to play out that pattern during their interaction. It was this logic that allowed Vincent to maintain his composure.
Men of that breed, free or not, had a bad habit of purposely setting fire to the rickety bridges they managed to build.
Glasses still in hand, the necromancer surveyed the floor before him. No sense in allowing one poor interaction slow his progress. As much as he hated working the room. Like it or not, that was why he'd been sent here.


It was then that he spotted a curious creature standing like an island in a sea of faces. He knew that look, it was an expression he'd seen a many times, strolling the halls of academia one the faces of awkward students and eccentric professors alike. Ripe minds that overflowed with a wealth of knowledge but lacked the social skills to convey their ideas to others outside of their published works.


Making his approach from and angle just out of her line of sight, the Giovanni weaved his way across the lounge until he stood a comfortable distance away before addressing her.

"Permesso signorina, could I interest you in a drink while I do my best to suffer this dull affair?"
He asks as he places the glass on the standing table next to him, gesturing to it as he speaks.
 
Oh lord, now one of these fuckers were talking to her.

What should she do?

For a moment, it felt as though her mind was going through choices like one of those old, turn-based games.


A STRANGER APPEARS

a. FIGHT
b. ATTEMPT TO TALK
c. RUN
D. CHECK INVENTORY



Her response was delayed as she thought over those options. Obviously to fight would be a moot point, made even more useless by the fact that her gloves were beyond ability to remove quickly. Thirty minutes was her record. She checked herself over, and that took care of inventory- And if she ran, there's plenty more people to yammer at her, so...


LANA ATTEMPTS TO TALK


"Do you really think this is my idea of a good time? I happen to like what you would call "Dull". Humans and Kindred are all the same in these kinds of situations, we're still social creatures. Well, most of us. I'd rather be back at my home. I was drawn here by simple curiosity and so far, I've been disappointed- moreso by your feeble attempts to treat me like anyone else. I don't play well with others, and I don't care to." She snapped off, setting her jaw at an angle as her eyes narrowed at the man. She frowned slightly.


LANA'S ATTEMPT TO TALK FAILED


She fidgeted slightly, messing with her gloves slightly... maybe she could just slowly work them off, make herself feel a little more safe and armed... Her eyes flitted from the man to around the rest of the room. She felt nervous about this situation. She just wanted answers as to why she was called here. "I'd rather be cutting apart a human and figuring out how fast their organs react to various trauma.... " She muttered.
 

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"Couldn't agree more. I am here under request of Don Armando. It isn't wise to refuse such a request. I'd rather be in my study my continuing research. Short days and pleasant nights." The Giovanni was about to disengage when he heard the woman mutter something to herself which made him do a double take after his first step away from the encounter.


"I'd rather be cutting apart a human and figuring out how fast their organs react to various trauma.... "

"Tell me," he tested curiously with a slight inclination of his head. A look of morbid interest coming across his face. "Are they awake while you perform these," Vincent paused a moment, choosing his words wisely not wanting to offend her."Procedures?"


"My own studies often involve human subjects. Of course they're considerable more still by the time I begin my work. One could try ripping their soul out while they're still breathing. But their screams tend to prove more nuisance than anything else." Vincent can't help but think back to his days as an apprentice watching Aunt Sabrina become so fed up with the wailing of one mortal that she decided to halt her work long enough to suture the girls mouth shut."But, perhaps I'm robbing myself of some valuable insight by conducting my work post mortum. Please, indulge me."


 
He removed his hand from around her and stepped out in front to face her and get a good look at her. "No." he said looking her in the eyes. "And I won't be until I know who you are, Alice. You walked away from me before and if I were still human, or had any inkling you might still be I would have followed if only to..." he trailed off and reexamined her face. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you about this place or the creatures in it. I'm sure your sire made sure you were properly instructed and can survive on your own, there are no good guys in this room. That Brujah..." he looked in the direction Stevens has retreated in and made a silent snarl.

"Alice..." he said regrounding herself with her name and starting again as his hand slipped up and gripped the Ankh around his neck. "Once tonight is over with I want you to come with me, just to my place where we can talk in private until sunrise. You'll be free to leave at any time, I don't want to make a prisoner of you. I just have no one I can trust and even if it's just for a few hours I'd like to know what that feels like again. That is my offer as it stands. There are no hard feelings if you refuse. After this long he can't really call each other friend can we? We have to start from the ground up with new rules. If nothing else we'll know where the other stands."

Yes, if he had to he'd kill even her. It had been too long, really what did he know about her other than a face and a name anymore?