ValinoreanDawn
Namarië
December 31st, 2023 A.D.
Audio, sound, reverberating waves invisibly cascading through the air, rebounding, reverberating, striking eardrums to the tune of the pulsating stereo speakers. Blaring beats and jives to the gyrating crowd. Bodies, flesh, pumping and grinding to the power of those invisible waves of sound. Warmth, texture, smell, a proverbial barrage to the senses amid hazy purple-pink vapors lanced by strobing lights. An atmosphere of opulent degeneration to the desires of Human desire. Scantily clad, hands and fingers groping and prodding, lips roving with vagabond tongues on others familiar or unknown. The environment both intoxicating and exhilarating at the same time. The Exhange L.A. Night Club offered a buffet to the hedonistic entrapments of the mortal coil.
Evidenced by a scenery which spoke for itself. Couples intertwined in dance, strangers laughing and engaging in affairs of their own accord, drinks and illicit substances consumed with wild abandon from dance floor to bar stools. Bathrooms home to those engaged in proper use or the straddling affectations of a nighttime fling. And that was only the first floor. The balcony above the large central dance space held a morass of lounging and jostling party goers.
"So, a Bourbon gal, eh?"
Masculine voice, lower and deeper, weighted down by a man's own Adam's Apple one might say struck the observant ears taking all of this in. Ears belonging to a woman in a dark red dress with matching lipstick. Brunette locks pulled back into a long ponytail. Complimented by circular orbs of milk-white with a rich almond core, brown eyes, pleasant in color and tinged with flecks of green, came to gaze at the owner of the masculine voice in question. A man of average height, thin, a short bit of scruff around the jaw line indicating what could have been a beard. Eyes brown but duller in hue. Black haired and bearing a bead of perspiration.
"You're nervous."
The young man let out a surprised gasp and looked down at his own drink, a Modelo beer, "Ah, yeah, yeah. I jus-."
"Tried to pick up a woman and you feel like you're failing...miserably."
The man took a swig from his beer while looking about anxiously. Glancing back at a trio of similar young men, all dressed casually like himself, giving thumbs up and gossiping amongst each other. The woman in red turned so that her face could not be seen by the trio and said, "I enjoy an Old Fashioned because I feel like I'm the same."
The man perked up at this additional response. Seizing the chance he replied, "Well you don't look old."
A grin creased her face and she glanced at the man with a wry expression, "Charmed," she held out a hand, "Bellatrix."
The man took it quickly, perhaps a bit too fast, "Clark." But the blood pressure in his hand was all that she needed to feel. For felt it she did, even see it, hear it. Pulses of life emanating from that unceasing clockwork organ embedded in Clark's chest. The laborious Human heart.
"Of course, Clark." His name coming from her mouth with a playful tune.
"What brings you out tonight?"
"Felt like needed to socialize and I like clubs."
"Oh? But I've never seen you before, here at least."
Bellatrix touched the nape of her neck, not out of feeling but it seemed appropriate, "Oh, well I usually go to other places."
"Word, you got a favorite club?"
"Mmmm...no not really," she glanced at the floor and the densely packed ill-lit environment, then at the gossiping friends, "You wanna dance?"
The beat changed, and the crowd roared as the Club DJ amped up the pace of the tune, an ironic contrast to the clumsy, "Yeuh," of Clark as she got up and took him by the hand. Walking with a long strut Bellatrix led the anxiety ridden young man past his friends with a playful wink. A wink answered by even more whoops and hollers for Clark's triumph.
Moving onto the densely packed floor to an area even less well-lit Bellatrix pulled Clark close. Working her womanly frame across the front of the young man, his blood pressure quickening to engorge certain extremities, his grin nearly ear to ear. Bellatrix didn't pause as she spun away and approached with gesturing hands, swaying hips, the young man giving his own far less smooth dance moves in response. Coming to the fore of the man's torso she pulled herself close and wrapped her arms around his neck. Clark's own hands wrapping around her waist to rest on the small of Bellatrix's back. She gave a playful kiss on the neck, Clark giggled happily, "Wow, baby, you're just full of sur-wow," he felt a pinch and pleasure waxed over him.
Spreading along his neck in perfect matching contours to his own arteries. A pinch to slight pain and he moved to pull away but found her grip tighten. He spoke with pursing lips as the pain mounted, feeling his flesh open, a warm rivulet slowly running down the side of his neck, "Hey," he tried to pull away again but to no avail. A sense of panic erupted inside his stomach. "Hey, hey Bella?"
Pain once more gave way to pleasure as she adjusted her mouth. His body relaxing as the warmth of his blood running down his neck as dizziness crept into his skull. Clark slumped suddenly which forced Bella to catch him, detaching herself involuntarily from his neck, and his eyes caught sight of Bellatrix's mouth. The elongated canines causing his brain to begin screaming with uncanny valley ridden terror. "Ugh, oh," a hand reflexively went to his neck and came back into view covered in dark crimson, pressure sporadically erupting from his neck as his brain finally processed that she had invertedly nicked his carotid artery and the pressure was his own blood spurting like a leaking faucet. Run.
"Oh, uuuu, fuck," he stammered as he slipped and then stumbled backwards. Rising as adrenaline glands dumped the potent fight or flight chemical into his system. Hands gripped him, Bellatrix's as she leaned in, "hey, hey, you're o--," he swatted and ran with adrenaline fueled movements, glancing back only to see the woman in red lick her lips with a glare. The glare of a predator witnessing its prey run. Clark stumbled forth as quick as his sluggish legs could carry him, amid the alcohol and drug fueled party goers who remained blissfully aloof to his plight, bumped and jostled along as his breath quickened in fear. He looked back and there following him with a playful, predatory, smile muttering the words of the song now being sung with glee was Bellatrix.
Eyes widened in horror he dove along through the crowd until he met a door. Red exit light above his head he burst forth to trip and fall into a back alley. Landing on the pavement amid the cool Los Angeles nighttime breeze he sprinted off towards the parking lot and the sounds of people outside. Hand gripping his beck as blood leaked between his fingers. Vision beginning to swim with edges of blackness slowly creeping along the periphery. Clark was close, only several meters from the parking lot as he ran along the side of the building in the dark unlit alleyway, towards the lights and salvation. Ooof! Clark tripped over his own feet as his body tried to move with the mounting blood loss. Rolling onto his back in pain he froze as coming to stand right above him was Bellatrix with a wry smile. Blood, Clark's blood, stained her chin and as the darkness crept along his vision, he heard her say, "What, don't wanna go all the way with me tonight baby?"
January 1st, 2024
Night
The evening news droned on in the dark apartment with black out curtains covering the pitch-black bedroom as not even the streetlamps of Los Angeles reached this far out. The graceful feminine figure lounging on the Queen-sized bed awakening suddenly and meandering forth in a white tank top and short shorts. Moseying over to the kitchen, still in complete darkness, she glanced at the microwave clock. 10:14PM. A minute later the alarm on the smartphone by the bed chimed off a tune. Bellatrix let it play as she hummed to the tune while pulling her hair into a loose bob. Reaching over to open the fridge she reached down and took a plastic pack full of deep red liquid. Opening a drawer with the other hand she produced a straw and poked it through the top of the package. Placing the other end in her mouth she gingerly walked over to the couch in front of the television and sat down with legs crossed. Slurping on her crimson, iron smelling, nighttime breakfast.
Idly watching the anchorman report about more missing persons and the heightened crime and violence among the vast metropolises. How gangs had permeated various neighborhoods and every night there were shootings, drive by's, robberies, arson, and car thefts. Bellatrix let out a small, "hmmpf," at this news before sitting back and letting out a sigh. Another night...
***
January 1st, 2024
11:00PM
The Masquerade, the lie, deceit giving humanity a sense of reality. Should it come crashing down, Gehenna will be upon us, for the wrath of mankind shall undo all the labors of our Kindred. Kindred and Kine. Together but forever separate. Cainite and Man. For centuries we have upheld the Masquerade, but now, in this cursed city the façade is in danger. Danger of cracking. The mask is slipping, but can we catch it? The Kindred feud, the Werefolk howl, the Changelings gather, and the Hunters circle...
Sunland, Los Angeles
Night Work
*click-click*
A turn of a key, the hum of an engine block coming to life, the slight crackle of tires on pavement. Off in the distance a wolf howled at the moon, up in the forests and hills of the Angeles National Forest, a wilderness circling the concrete jungle. The hills and mountains of the Sierra rose up to the North and East like the enclosing ramparts of an earthly battlement. A heavy beat, the drop of a bass, the headlights flare to life in front of the car. It possessed a sleek, grey, body complete with the symbol of a mustang on the hood. Mach 1 in silver letters was embossed along the back. The vehicle roars louder as it picked up speed. The dark silhouette of the driver shifting into high gear as it rocketed down a dimly lit suburban street. Passing hooded figures, night walkers in fishnets, and gangers prowling their corners. A few casted glances, stares, and more than one cat call as the muscle car sped on by. It was out of place in this decrepit neighborhood of broken dreams and crack filled homes. The driver paid no heed to the pondering's of the squalid, the poor, the wretched. Moving rapidly, taking a left, not stopping at the red an white sign demanding one halt. No, the driver kept going. Paying no heed to the hoots and hollers of a crew walking their territorial beat. Like a pack of dogs scouring their tiny lot of piss filled land for fresh meat. Disgusting creatures. The vehicle kept going, like a galloping steed, its muscles not feeling the strain or tire as its fuel injected engine burned its life essence.
I'm giving you a night call, to tell you, how I feel...
A rapid clockwise turn of the wheel. The car drifted gracefully, practiced, the driver no doubt possessed skill at the wheel. He, for it was a male, effortlessly maneuvered their hands from the shifter, pressing the clutch, and cranking the wheel in one smooth movement. The car didn't drop a single degree of speed as it throttled onwards. Down an even more decrepit neighborhood. Past boarded up homes, an office building, and a few shops unglamorously bearing red and white signs on their doors. Foreclosure. The life of this forgotten landscape of ruin and economic downturn long since bled white. Leaving nothing in its past but broken bottles of booze and flea ridden vagabonds lurking in their fallen masonry.
I want to drive you through the night...down the hills...
An intersection. The green lights giving way to a sickly yellow. The car picked up speed. Red like a demon's eyes. The car powered through the intersection as another car came in from the right. The second driver, in a brown beat up Cadillac, slammed on his brakes with the screech of metal on worn axles. The mustang deftly swayed left out of the way before straightening out in a fishtail heading straight. Keeping itself on course towards the destination looming at the edge of the block. Amid red and brown brick warehouses pockmarked with broken glass windows. Layers of dust caked them like the linen of the deceased. Broken, laid to rest, to rot on empty streets. The car flexes its metaphorical muscles as the headlights die, relinquishing their clairvoyance, leaving the driver in darkness.
I'd rather tell you something, you, don't want to hear...
The car swerved, the driver cranking the wheel, holding down the clutch, shifting into a lower gear as he rammed through dingy rust laden iron gates. The gates crashed to the cracked pavement with a loud twang of vibrating iron punctuating their rapid fall. Like the slap of flesh on water from a thirty-foot drop. Life, where there should not be, yells and shrieks. The driver's window rolled down, and out came an arm bedecked in a fine dark grey suit sleeve. In his hand was a sleek black firearm. A Heckler & Koch P30L. The driver had crashed into a courtyard, largely empty, with low brick walls just high enough to block direct view from the street. The small warehouse was akin to its ruined cousins lining the street beside and before it. Rapid movement to the left.
I'm gonna' show you where its dark...but has no fear...
The flash of a muzzle, the bark of combustion, and the shrill cry as something squishy crashed to the pavement. The car swerved in a half circle as two more flashes broke the night. Those halos of light and fire accompanied by the barks of anger. A body, unlike the first which did not bear fangs, crashed as a hole was blasted in its head and heart. Thud, a humanoid figure jumped onto the hood, a shrieking wail of challenge. The car stopped abruptly. The figure gracefully jumped backwards and off of the hood. Only to be met by the steel beast at full throttle. The sickening crunch of bone and skull on pavement followed. A skid, dragging the broken corpse trailing red vitals across the pavement, but now the warehouse was alive. Several figures dashed out of the warehouse. The passenger window rolled down, a longer barrel emerged, an AR-15 blazed away with rounds girded in liturgical script. Downing four of the slower, human moving, figures approaching armed with their own weapons. The driver door opened, the driver rolled out, having expertly throne their car into park amid their dashing maneuvers.
There's something inside you...its hard to explain...they're talkin' about you boy, but you're still the same...there's something inside you, its hard to explain...
Bang-Bang
A blur of movement came to a rapid halt as it sunk to the ground face first. A second appeared to the drivers left. Swinging to the side, knocking the pistol away, and giving a savage kick. Propelling the driver back several feet to roll onto the pavement. The blur didn't stop, the driver rolled to the right, swung up with a low sweeping kick. Catching the blur at the back of the knee. Bringing it down in time with a savage open palm punch to the nose. The crunch of a shattered nasal plate ramming back into the skull, puncturing the frontal lobe of the brain, gore weeping from where the nose had properly been. "AGH!" The driver ducked as a yelling woman with a baseball bat swung wildly. Swinging himself around, grabbing the woman's arm, her brown hair dirty and ill kept whipping around in the still air, her momentum carrying her to the ground in a submission move. Crack. The driver snapped her wrist. Bone and gristle protruding from her ruined forearm. Stomp. The woman was still. "MUTHAFUCKAH!" The driver whipped his head around to catch a wooden board on his shoulder. Dislocating it as he used the momentum of the strike to roll away. Putting precious meters between him and his angry, dark skinned, fanged opponent. The driver, eyes wide, reached behind him as the vampire leapt like a mountain lion on a wounded stag. A smaller pistol, a Beretta 93R, whipped out and flashed four times. Slowing, arresting, stopping, and finally causing the vampire to fall back in disbelief.
"Courtesy of the Camarilla." said the driver between clenched teeth.
Putting the pistol down the driver grabbed his left arm and with a grunt popped it back into place. Rotating it once, twice, three times to be sure the bone nodule was firmly back in its rotator cuff. Picking up the pistol, and the previous P30L, the driver advanced on the warehouse. Kicking open the metal door on rusty, brown, mottled hinges to reveal the horror within. A trio of young women and a Polynesian male, tied to a support beam, slumped in a circle. Their wrists cut and bled dry. On the North wall to the left one could see half a dozen other corpses hooked up to IV's. They'd been drained. The driver whipped to the right as he spotted movement. Bringing up the P30L to chest level and snapping off a round. Clipping a rushing Asian male vampire in the shoulder causing him to turn. A second, more well aimed shot, tore through its cranium to pulp its brain.
"Oi, who the bloody cocksuckin' fuck do you think ye are?" The Irish accent, Dublin, the driver brought up the P30L. "Hemshaw."
"Ye lad." the tweed coated, brown tie, cigar smoking Irishman grinned. A vampire who smoked cigars, intriguing. "Smoking again Hemshaw." replied the driver. His face a calm mask against the contrast of the situation.
"Old habits die hard John." The Irishman stepped closer, allowing the driver named John, to get a better look at his face. It was pale, with jet black hair that was loosely combed and accordingly wild, his blue eyes shone dull. A vibration in John's pocket caused Hemshaw to chuckle. "That the Camarilla?" A shake of the cigar as he exhaled thick grey smoke. Letting loose ash fall to the ground trialing ember and smoke trails. John hadn't broken eye contact or showed any emotional sign this entire time. He spoke directly, "Clean up."
Hemshaw made an 'O' with his mouth as he paced a couple feet to his left, turning slightly askew from John, raising the cigar up to his mouth and sucking in deep. "Always was a charmer that lot." John gave a slight nod, less of an agreement and more get on with it. "In a rush John? Eh, they keep you on a tight leash these days. Even as a contract killer that----."
Bang
A human bearing a Glock 18 crumpled from behind Hemshaw, across the room, having entered from a side door. Hemshaw didn't look at all perturbed by this development. He just puffed on his cigar. "So, they got you runnin' around LA killin' whoevah they like, that the ticket, cut some deal with ya?" John returned aim to Hemshaw and shrugged. "Call it what you want Hemshaw. I came here for you."
Hemshaw let out a small laugh, "Eh, ya, fancy that---looks like I'll be taken the rest of my crew to the hereafter am-I-right!"
The sound of car doors outside the warehouse caused John to quickly look back. Hemshaw grimaced as he let his cigar fall to the ground. He rocketed towards John with a cold fury. John's gun barked. Hemshaw bit the bullet straight in the heart. But he kept on coming. John reached for his left sock, and pulled a thin wooden stick, a stake. Plunging it into Hemshaw's chest cavity. Cracking rib and puncturing his aorta. The stake effectively froze Hemshaw in place. The vampires' vitae streamed outwards as it slowly bled to death in its own way. "Shame you didn't bend the knee Hemshaw. The Primogen Council gave you a choice." Indeed, order was desperately trying to be regained among the Camarilla and the surviving vampires of any repute that owed allegiance to that sect were putting in effort to form their own clans behind them. The oldest of each accepted Camarilla clan stepping forth as their acting Primogen.
John ripped the stake out. Hemshaw slumped to the floor, propping himself up on some broken masonry. He reached into his pocket, not for any weapon or device, but for another cigar; while, with his other hand he pulled out a cutter. Clipping one side his hand slipped. The cutter clacked as it hit the floor. "Be a good lad, eh?" John knelt next to the dying, withering, faded vampire. Picking up the cutter he clipped the other end of the cigar. Pulling out a simple steel lighter he flicked the top open and turned the flint wheel with a rapid thumb movement. "You always loved Cubans, Hemshaw."
"Can ya blame me...eh eck!" Hemshaw coughed up vitae, blood, as he slumped further on the floor. Puffing his last as he withered before John's eyes. The sound of feet outside, John turned around rapidly, to be confronted with one of the Camarilla's own. An older man wearing carharts and a brown brimmed hat. Several other vampires, ghouls, and affiliated mortals stood behind him.
"Left quite a mess Johnny. Should have waited for us." spoke the older man.
"Yeah well...Hemshaw and the other newly minted Anarchs might have been gone by then." John patted the older man on the shoulder as he walked out. Letting the cleanup crew get to work at getting rid of the remains, torching the evidence, and confiscating anything valuable. It was like it never happened, and if some human forensics team could track something, not that anyone calls the police out here anyways, they'd just find some ashes and broken surgical instruments at best.
The Mustang Mach 1 blazed out of the courtyard a minute later...
