It was a city full of life: from the artists in the bohemian Haight-Ashbury district to the digital moguls in South of Market, San Francisco had a vast array of resources to behold. Over a hundred years of history defined the City By the Bay, yet the creatures who would determine the next century had been around since long before the first shovel broke soil on the West Coast in the days of iron and steam.
A heavy fog crept into the San Francisco bay, blanketing the bustling city in its obscuring embrace. It had been a long autumn for the Kindred of the city, and it was sizing up to be an even longer winter. Only a few months prior Los Angeles itself, the Camarilla bastion of the Pacific Coast, had fallen to the jaws of the Sabbat raiders from Mexico, driven north on a bloodthirsty rampage by their enigmatic leaders. Vital elders were slain, numerous neonates lost or murdered, and decades of meticulous planning torn asunder and set ablaze. Many of the wiser Kindred fled the city in the days prior to the siege. The Brujah Justicar, Jaroslav Pascek, ordered a tactical retreat to the city of San Francisco to regroup during the second week of the attack and every able-bodied Kindred capable of answering the call did so. Losses were heavy on both sides and the siege left holes in the Masquerade that could not easily be filled, so the vampires of both factions crept into the shadows to lick their wounds… and prepare for the next battle.
Never before had the city of San Francisco been host to such an array of powerful and legendary Kindred. The Brujah Justicar himself was present, as well as numerous Archons from every clan and even a fair number of potent Independent Kindred seeking shelter after being displaced by the war to the south. The Prince of San Francisco, a French Toreador by the name of Julian Renault, was among the more minor presences within the city now that his throne was temporarily invalidated by the greater Camarilla authorities present and he was visibly displeased by this fact, though powerless to do much about it. The Primogen of the city had been conscripted to perform various tasks by their respective Archons, setting out to establish barriers and watchposts amongst the mortal world in preparation for the attack that was due to come at any moment. The Sheriff, a Gangrel known only as ‘Lupus,’ was similarly tasked, though on a much more personal level, to maintain vigilance.
The city had become a hotbed of Kindred activity, filled with far more predators than it was accustomed to. The Masquerade was in danger due to the overpopulation and explicit orders had been given to the assembled Kindred to exercise extraordinary care in their nightly feedings. Nonetheless, the murders happened. The missing persons multiplied. The crimes escalated. Unable to exercise their usual degree of law enforcement, the Camarilla vampires could do little to police themselves in a time where their attention must remain focused outwards. Alienated, then, from all this activity, were the neonates: the lesser-known vampires whose Primogen had no special tasks for, whom the Justicars and Archons would not deign to speak with, and whom even the Sheriff barely had the time to even acknowledge. Thus, it came as quite a shock when one of these neonates, a young Brujah named Jonah, was Blood Hunted by the Prince’s edict under accusations of diablerie and sedition. Relatively unknown even to his clanmates, the young Brujah had been an upstart anarchist in the late 1980s who was brought into the blood by Edgar Reeves, a respected member of the court of San Francisco who managed the nightclub scene at the time. When Edgar disappeared only a few weeks after the massive influx of refugees from the south, Jonah was captured, interrogated, and found guilty of diablerie by the city Scourge, a Tremere named Lauren Olstes. The Blood Hunt was ordered the same night to formalize his execution, but Jonah managed to escape his captors and fled into the night.
The strain on food supply was another major issue faced by the multitude of Kindred in San Francisco, causing certain areas previously declared off-limits to be opened up by the Brujah Justicar’s command, including the business districts along the north coast and Chinatown, though the latter was still avoided by most sane Kindred for fear of encountering the clandestine group of Asian vampires rumored to dwell there. Lately, the Nosferatu and Malkavians of the city have been working diligently to degenerate certain areas of the city in order to make them more ideal (if somewhat more dangerous) feeding grounds for the swelling population of undead. Masterminding this operation is an elder Nosferatu known as “Warden” who makes his haven in the dank tunnels and sewers beneath Alcatraz Island. He has asked Lens Samaniuk, a young clanmate, to obtain vital records from City Hall regarding the zoning regulations in place over the districts to be “slummified” by the joint operation. A pair of Malkavians, Juan Pablo Esposito and Frank Harris, along with several other members of both clans, have been asked to inhabit the Silver Terrace district, specifically the eastern portion, and engage in covert operations to undermine property values in accordance with the intelligence provided by Lens’ discoveries. Isaac Cole, a Brujah with ties to the San Francisco police department, has also been enlisted into this operation to provide muscle for the Kindred if needed as well as knowledge of police operations and patrols in the area. Jonquil, an older Gangrel who has lived in the area for some time, has dwelled in the Silver Terrace region since the early 90s and knew much of the surrounding area as well as the neighboring lower-class district of Baywood. Given her familiarity with the gang activity in the region as well as the knowledge of where certain “safehouses” could be located, the city wasted no time in recruiting her for this goal as well. The Sheriff himself, as the only ranking Gangrel in the city, bestowed the task upon her with a knowing smirk. He knew that the anarchist Gangrel wouldn’t pass up a chance to intentionally degrade the order and safety of a major metropolitan center. He also knew that she was competent enough to make it out alive if the Sabbat showed up in the southern district unannounced. Finally, the Tremere Scourge personally sought out the young and relatively inexperienced Sergei Rustav, a recently Embraced member of Clan Tremere who had been operating as a body fixer in the Baywood and Silver Terrace districts, to offer Clan Tremere’s unique assistance in this operation and to work with the other Kindred to maximize their efficiency in destabilizing the region and turn it into an ideal hunting ground. It would also serve the two-fold purpose of creating an effective crime-ridden barrier along the southern end of town, forcing Sabbat coming from the south into a hostile territory and making it less likely that they would be able to find suitable havens in that area (due to the vigilance of the local Nosferatu and Malkavians).
Only a week into the operation, however, Kindred in the region started mysteriously disappearing. The first few were virtually unknown neonates believed to have fled the city in the face of the coming conflict. The Malkavian Primogen, however, was the next to vanish. A potent Kindred well over a century in the blood was working with some of his clanmates on the southern end of Silver Terrace when, according to others present, a sudden darkness fell upon them and devoured the Primogen, leaving the others unharmed. Naturally, the testimony of the Lunatics was suspect but none could deny the strangeness of a Primogen’s sudden disappearance. The Prince bestowed an edict upon Kindred operating in the Silver Terrace district: No one is to travel alone. Every Kindred must find one or more others to work in tandem with as they go about their operations. Further disappearances occurred in the next few weeks, however, but the frequency had notably diminished. Several of the vanished Kindred have begun to reappear in recent nights, though little more than bloodstains and ash have been recovered, with only Tremere sorceries capable of discerning the victims’ identities.
Now, in this troubled time, an assembled group of six Kindred meet to discuss recent events and further plans in a small apartment on the northern end of Silver Terrace, a region currently not subject to the accelerated degradation plans of the Camarilla Kindred...
Isaac was pissed.
Not in the alcoholic sense - that wasn't really possible for one of the Kindred - but in the sense that his boss was busting his ass. Again.
"What do ya mean, you 'aint found nothin'?" Had been the way this particular explosion had begun. "The city pays you to find s*$&, Cole. So why 'aint you 'found' anythin' yet?"
What his boss didn't know, was that he had been finding out things - but telling his boss would probably get his badge revoked for 'cracking under pressure', or it would break the Masquerade. Or both.
Yeah, probably both.
Turning up at Jonquil's door, he hammered out the prerequisite number of knocks for her to know it was one of the kindred, and then promptly lit up a cigarette, taking in a long drag.
The others hated that he smoked - the whole innate fear thing. It was a coping mechanism, one left over from before he only needed blood. He didn't really do it to piss them off, but he liked to put them off balance.
The red kettle was busily rattling on the stove in the kitchen when Jonquil's sharp ears heard the stairwell door open and soft footsteps descending down the hall. Quickly, she began pulling out battered mugs and all the necessary fixin’s for tea. Making tea was one of the many habits she picked up from Adam that she just couldn’t let go of. Wake up, feed, and when you can, have tea. “Somethin’ warm to make ye feel alive, even if ye just hold the drink till it’s colder than ye are,” he said once when they were slumming in London, ever the philosopher.
The knock came just as she was pulling out a wooden box brimming with tea bags out of another cabinet. She trotted to the door and pulled it open, not bothering to unlock it since it wasn’t locked to begin with. Whatever was hunting the Kindred could get past a bolt lock without a second’s thought and she was confident that she could handle just about anything else. Wrinkling her nose to the scent of the smoke, Jonquil waved Isaac in as the kettle began screeching. “I do not understand why you insist on smoking those things,” she said as she turned to go back to the kitchen, “Find an ash tray, would ye?”
Isaac smiled as Jonquil opened the door to let him in. "Good evening, fair lady." He said, an amused glint in his eye. Every time they had met, she had expressed displeasure over his smoking habit. As usual, he ignored it.
Moving into the kitchen, Isaac rummaged around until he found what he was looking for. Returning to the main room, he plonked the ashtray down on the armrest of the couch.
"So, heard anything new?"
I arrive, and check the time on my grandfather's antique pocket watch. I count the number of seconds until the perfect numeralogical moment to arrive before rapping on the door in the somewhat contrieved manner the other insisted upon.
Entering the room, I let a faux smile rise to the surface. Honoring the contrievence, I draw my own large mug of tea, fortifying the small puddle of wet leaves with a pint of excess blood from the last buillet I pulled out of a gang thug.
"I am thinking of our better's assignment for us, and I think we are only gnawing one end of the bone. I understand the value of driving people out of a region to make it more hospitible to the night life, but perhaps we should make sure someone is giving them a place to move to."
"I digress though, the drink bags crave comfort, so how do we take that away from them? Perhaps mentioning a lurking shadowy doom capable of carrying off ancient horrors beyond their comprehension might have the right effect, but I don't think an ad campaign is going to be smiled upon."
One of my personal goals is to pursue the Path of Life/Healing, whatever you want to call it. The thaum ability to heal mortals, perhaps capping off with the ability to ressurect one (dear old grandpa)
This goal may be a pipe dream, and I accept that.
Anyway, my above conversation was introductry small talk, nothing to serious.
"Three of them, you say? Waiting for me? No one else, though... right? Ok. You sure you didn't see any traps? Well... They'll probably expect me to show up last... I had better go in now."
With a wince, Lenz allows the rat to bite his finger and lap up the blood.
Lenz watches a dapper-looking fool walk by and, after watching the fool turn the corner, puts on the fool's face.
A man you never seen before knocks on the door and immediately lets himself in, quickly closing the door behind him and leaning against it. This eyes seem to dart to every corner of the room at once and finally settle on the three occupants. When he notices the look of alarm on the occupant's faces, he narrows his eyes and, with a slight sneer, says,
"Warden sent me."
For an instant, the strange man seems to fade away and becomes a large, gray, and bulbous monstrosity with wiry hairs poking out all over its heavily blemished skin. Either the thing is hunched over, or it's head really is sicking out somewhere near it's armpit area. It seems to glare out of tiny red pinprick eyes, and no lips cover a large toothy maw. Hardly does the image register when the monster is gone and the man stands once again in it place.
This is, of course, Lens's standard way of entering a room.
"Your place is filthy, Jonk." For the first time, Lens smiles. Jonquil had been to the patch of sewer that Lens calls haven.
"So... Did I miss anything?"
Jonquil rolled her eyes in Isaac's general direction as he slipped into the living room. She walked back into the kitchen and poured herself a mug of tea, savoring the warmth and smell. Perched on the window ledge, she said to Isaac when he reappeared"Nothin' new on my end, but things seem to be moving along nicely."
The others began filtering in, each going through the motions of liking their present company.
"Survival of the fittest, Sergei. If the mortals can't make it, then they don't deserve to. Culling the flock, trimming back the deadfall, all that jazz. You're right about them craving comfort and safety. Perhaps if we were to start leaving clues for the mortal police that one of the LA gangs has started moving in, trying to open up new territory a small panic would start," she mused to Sergei after he came in.
Ignoring Lens and his usual entrance, Jonquil slid open the window behind her. A blast of cool night air and the sound of traffic filled the momentary silence nicely as she rearranged herself so that her long legs stradled the frame.
A staccato knocking on the door preceeds Juan Pablo Esposito letting himself into the apartment. His dirty Grateful Dead t-shirt and worn jeans seem to be an afterthought as he perches crosslegged on the nearest flat, unoccupied surface. Late as always, he barely acknowledges the presence of the others in the room, save for a quick glance at Jonquil.
"Orale, bonita! If I were alive, thos' legs'd stop my heart."
He goes back to writing in the journal he always carries, muttering a string of Spanish under his breath.
Down the street a rundown Econoline is parked in the shadows and the driver hums along to a worn out cassette of The Cure, tapping her thumb on the wheel. In the passenger seat Frank nervously twirls a pen through his knuckles over and over- watching. "There's Juan Pablo." he nods to a figure entering the Jonquil's building. "Let's give him five minutes. If he stays, I'm in." Glancing at his watch Frank continues twirling the pen and resumes watching out the window as the minutes tick by. "Get some take out or whatever, but stay in the area. If anything goes wrong, I'll call you." Jittery, nerves spun out as a consequence of her near constant exposure to Frank, Alison nods and gives him an odd sort of smile as she starts the van.
Halfway across the street he pulls his jacket close and glances back at the van when Alison pulls away. Technically white, these days the layer of grime and graffiti seem to predominate. The battered old van was a harbinger of sorts on these streets, foreshadowing the decline of Silver Terrace.
Outside the door Frank can't help but wait and listen for a moment. Satisfied, he tries the knob and finding it unlocked lets himself in unannounced. Latest of the late he glances around the room, nodding a general greeting and adds, "So this is what's left of our wrecking crew? Congratulations to you all on evading the whole pile-of-ash routine." He cuts through the room and finds a seat on the window frame where he can keep an eye on the street. "Any plans on continuing our good fortune while working a little magic on Silver Terrace?"
Turning away from Jonquil with a faint grin, Juan Pablo addresses Frank.
"Hola, panchito. The Way will lead us to what we need, amigo. We need only await the dawning of the Truth into our minds."
With a flourish, he finishes writing a passage in his book. Closing it, he turns his attention on the rest of the room.
::Blinks questioningly at Juan::
"Uhh.. ok."
Lens clears his throat loud and liquidly. He fixes everyone in turn with a slightly crazed stare, as if daring them to speak before him.
"Anyway. I got a couple of ideas I'm going to try. I think I can to make it so several of the businesses in Silver Terrace will end up going under. It's amazing what kind of havoc results from adding an extra one or zero to a local business's city tax requirement. And nothing adds to a general feeling of hopelessness like a lot of empty storefronts.
"Now, it seems that the City wants to move more cops in to put their boot on everybody's neck, which is pretty much all cops are good for. No offense, Issac."
Lens offers Issac an ingenuine smile.
"Well, this isn't just bad for us, this isn't good for anyone. However, the blood and will of any bureaucracy is money, and any reallocation like this will require requisition orders and whatnot... These things get lost, and cops don't get paid. Unpaid cops are angry cops. Angry cops are too busy grumbling to one another over their donuts to see what going on around them. And angry cops shoot people.
Having a bunch of blind, trigger-happy, cops wandering around with a grudge is a great way to drive up the crime rate and scare away business. This is good for us."
For a moment, Lens appears flustered, as if he didn't expect to talk so much. Then he frowns and appears to be silently mouthing the entire speech to himself again, and nodding as he checks himself for accuracy. Satisfied, he nods again to his listeners and settles back into his chair, obviously ready to hear others' thoughts.
Jonquil, almost involuntarily, tightened her grip on the mug she was holding when Juan commented on her legs. Two hairline cracks formed from the pressure of her fingers on the mug and tea began to ooze from them slowly. Her lips curled in derision, she said sweetly "And if you don't stop talking about me like a peice of meat, you'll find yourself without a heart."
She stood and gently placed the cracked mug in the sink, forcing herself to be calm and finding a modicum of peace in the simple act of moving. A sticker a former tenant slapped on the cupboard caught her eye. "Ignore your rights and they'll go away" was emblazoned in white on a red feild. With a smile, she turned back to the group. "Your right, Lens. Cops who don't protect and serve, and are a little too rough with the local populace, create protests. Protests can easily turn into riots. Riots scare Americans very badly. We could very easily destabilize this region even more with just one riot, becuase it speaks so loudly. I know some people that would be more than willing to whip a crowd into a frenzy, and with our special talents, it could become even easier."
As she spoke, Jonquil began to pace. Her peice said, she suddenly stopped moving and leaned against the counter once more, her fingers tapping impatiently. "So, who wants to get beat up by the cops?" she said with a grin.
"Whipping a crowd into a frenzy should be easy enough between me and Juan." Frank smiles slightly, "I've been doing it in local bars just for amusement as part of our initiative. Simple enough to take it to the next level. I've been thinking though. We've got Silver Terrace on the right path, but violence, a death here and there... these things are temporary. They create fear, but still the residents hope. They can hope that order will be restored and eventually the city will pony up the money to flood this area with cops as long as those respectable elements remain. In the long run, after things settle down we're going to have hurt our own interest. We're the ones who live here. You want to try to feed in a neighborhood flooded with cops? He hunches his shoulders, shivers, scans the street from his window ledge, and turns back continuing, "So I ask myself, 'Frank? What really causes humanity at large to write off an area as lost, irredeemable?' And I so I tell myself, 'You know Frank, it's got to be generosity and second chances. People see poor shmucks down on their luck and they run. They all love a nice story on the evening news about Johnny McCrackrock makes good, but only when it's a nice little story with a 'Back to you John' ending. When Johnny McRock moves in next door it's a different story, am I right? Say a drug treatment center opens in Silver Terrace? How about a halfway house for convicts or mental patients? A soup kitchen? I think these are the kind of things... What was that? Did you hear that? Looking around in alarm, he half rises and reaches for his phone in his jacket pocket before realizing no one else heard anything.
Clenching his jaw, he cracks his neck and stands leaning against the window frame. He watches the street intently while nervously flipping the phone over and over in his palm when he continues,"As far as making it happen," Frank frowns. Juan, "You got any pull with a church to get a soup kitchen set up? How 'bout the black hoody crew, Jonquil? Did a piece on anarchists feeding the homeless vegan dumpster feasts back in New Orleans. Bonus points for anarchists AND the homeless. I got nothing for the treatment center unless Lens has any ideas there." Briefly checking for responses, Frank zones in on Isaiah's cigarette and starts to ask him to put it out before he catches the place on fire, but checks himself. Instead he stares at it's burning tip intensely, head cocked to one side, jaw popping as his teeth grind together.
A double blink and Frank shakes his head as if coming out of a trance,"Here's the deal though- I think we're missing an opportunity here. These refugees are in our city now. We got the go ahead to wreck the area, but we ought to be able to get a little more out of this arrangement. Here's a little game we played back in Louisiana. By-the-hour hotel. Furthers the ultimate goal and gives us a little bit of clout at the same time if we have a safe place to offer some of these refugees to feed while the cops are heavy on the street." Frank pauses to gauge any interest, and glances nervously at the street again through the window.
With a nervous laugh he looks back to the others, "Course that all supposes we don't get ashed by then. What the hell is going on and what are we going to do about? Lens, you damn sewer rat... you holding out on us? I thought you guys were supposed to know who's up to what before they even get around to planning it?
Juan grins and caresses the cover of his journal. "Oh yes, I can get some soup kitchens set up. Close to what's left of the good parts, too. As for stirring up the pinche policia, a few shot people and a riot will turn everyone against them. Won't be that hard. We'll show them The Truth and it will destroy their little minds."
He suddenly gets a distant look in his eyes and begins writing madly in his journal.