Difficult, Dangerous And Occasionally Toxic

Paul and Michael Meet.

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 00:03:35 GMT

This is what happens when you let your little darlings off the leash "for fun":

***

"No limits, this time?" Paul asked.

Patricia shook her head. "No. First one to walk away loses."

"And what does the winner get. Satisfaction again?"

"If you like." She shrugged.

"No," Paul decided. "Not this time."

"A major boon, then." She shrugged again. Apparently the stakes weren't important to her. Paul decided to make them important.

"Winner gets whatever they want from the loser, short of their life."

Patricia looked suspicious. "Or enthrallment. I'm not going through that again."

"So you think you might lose?"

She frowned. "It seems I might."

Paul smiled. "You wouldn't have admitted that before."

"I said I was in a rut. I didn't say things had fossilized completely."

"And I'm the only person who can push you out of that complacency?"

"You're the only person I can trust to try." She admitted.

"I'm flattered." He meant it.

"And interested?"

"Absolutely."

"Alright. Tomorrow night, then?"

"Why not now?"

Patricia bit her lip. "You've already got something in mind?"

Paul nodded. It had occurred to him a few months after their last association. He was quite pleased to have an opportunity to try it.

Patricia knew that she was cornered. The best thing to do would be to give in gracefully. "Okay, shoot."

"I want you to be Michael Worthington for me."

Patricia's mouth dropped open. Clearly, this wasn't what she had expected. "Excuse me?"

"Assume your sire's visage, his persona." Paul smiled at Patricia's surprise. "Roleplay him, as it were. It shouldn't be too difficult, right?" They both knew that the dregs of his soul and not a few memories still existed within Patricia - a risk of diablerie.

Wondering what he could want, but doubting that there was anything new he could learn - not after those few strange weeks in London - Patricia did as Paul asked.

Paul saw a man of around forty years, average height, athletic build. His oval face had a slightly feline aspect conferred by a pointed chin and wide-set green eyes. A hint of disorder in the chestnut brown that flopped across a wide forehead. Paul noticed the clothes - blue jeans, a black tee-shirt, sneakers - and wondered if that had been a conscious choice of Patricia's.

"Now what?" 'Michael' asked, visibly puzzled.

"Tell me about our mutual acquaintance, Patricia."

Michael scowled. This sounded like Head Games 101, and Patricia thought they were both past that.

"Brilliant. Erratic. Unappreciative." Michael waved a dismissive hand. "Bitter, too."

Paul's face hardened. The flippant attitude wasn't what he wanted. He was sure that Patricia could do better than that. "No, that's Patricia talking. I don't want that. Don't pretend." He wondered if she should reinforce the request with a command. He'd rather not. He wanted to see how she'd react "naturally".

Michael's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair and he frowned, lost in thought for almost a minute. Finally, he stretched - another feline moment - and his clothes blurred and changed. A tailored suit of black wool took their place, with a button-down shirt and cufflinks, but no tie. Mussy hair spontaneously tidied itself into a neat, if unremarkable, style.

To Paul's well-tuned senses, even the way Michael smelled changed. A hint of some expensive cologne, dry and citrus-y, reached him. Clearly, when she put her mind to, Patricia could manipulate her appearance very well.

Moreover, Michael's expression and demeanor changed - became relaxed and more confident. He rolled his neck, like someone trying to shift a cramp, and he smiled briefly at a satisfying crack.

Paul shifted in his seat slightly, unexpectedly discomfited by the ease with which the guise was changed so completely.

"I see your point", Michael conceded. "This is much better." He looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time, eyes finally resting on Paul. "So, Patricia, still?"

"Of course." Paul fussed with a bottle of whiskey beside him, poured himself a generous measure.

"She's a master of self-deception." Michael shrugged. "I've never seen anyone so skilled at hiding things from themselves. Even things she wanted to know."

"Like what happened to you?"

Michael winced. "Yes. Especially that."

"Why did you Embrace her?" Paul was honestly curious.

"So that she could realize her potential. She couldn't exploit it, the way she was."

"The sadism? An odd sort of talent."

Michael shrugged. "Only when inefficiently applied." He paused. "And she was in the right place at the right time."

"Oh?"

Instead of answering, Michael looked at the whiskey bottle beside Paul, a question in his eyes. Paul nodded and Michael rose to make himself a drink, taking his time with it. Paul glanced at Michael's hands as he manipulated the bottle, the ice bucket, and then his face. Michael returned the quizzical evaluation with a raised eyebrow and a small grin. Paul shook his head in irritation. The Malkavian was trying to be provocative - and succeeding.

Finally, Michael returned to his seat and continued. "I like to mentor people. It's something I do well - help them understand what they really want to be and then encourage them on their way. I thought Patricia wanted to be free to hurt and maim as she pleased." He sipped at his drink, surprising Paul again. Patricia had no stomach for anything but blood. "I was... not wrong, but not entirely correct. She craved freedom but only-"

"Only within strictly defined boundaries." Paul said wryly. This was a conversation they'd had, before.

Michael nodded. "Those boundaries defined by someone else, of course. Someone she could respect, or fear, or love. Or all three."

"Someone truly in control." Familiar territory, indeed, for Paul.

They sat in silence for a moment, while Paul considered the situation. Either Patricia was a far better actor than he had credited, or he had tapped into something that - he believed - neither of them expected. He knew that this could get him killed, come the morning, but like Patricia, Paul's curiosity could sometimes overcome good sense.

"But that's not how I operate." Michael said suddenly. "Patricia was determined to remain in a state of arrested development. So I had to leave."

"Tough love?"

"I didn't say I loved her," he said sharply, a nerve touched. Then, more calmly. "She loved me, of course."

"Of course." Paul remembered something Patricia had said when spilling her guts - literally. "Did she have a choice?"

"To love me? Of course not. She was Bound to me before she even knew what the term meant. Naturally, this meant the decision to leave was entirely on my shoulders, but..." he shrugged. I" expected that."

"You still haven't really told me why you chose her. The right place at the right time?"

"I had time on my hands and the Anarch territories are so refreshingly liberal when it comes to the creation of childer. I needed-" He stopped and chose his words with more care. "I wanted to take my mind off other events."

"Which were?" Paul wondered how far Patricia could extend this charade. Where did it end and the memories of her sire begin? He wasn't sure.

"I'd made some bad decisions. Backed the wrong cadre during some political debacle."

"Which was why you were in the Anarch states?"

"Precisely. A little self-imposed exile to cool off and let the situation back home improve."

"Where did you come from, Michael?"

"Chicago." He seemed surprised by the answer. Paul said nothing. "Lodin is - was - a vengeful swine."

"So I've heard." Chicago was a city that Paul had made a point of avoiding since Lodin's ascension, and saw even less reason to go there now that it had fallen to the Sabbat.

"But we're getting off the subject. Patricia was... my busman's holiday, you cold say."

Paul nodded. I wonder how much of this Patricia is going to remember? All of it, he hoped. Her reactions would be interesting to watch.

"You remind her of me." Michael added. "The same arrogance, the same misanthropy, the same-"

"Taste in suits." Paul interrupted, trying to divert the conversation. He didn't want to be compared to a Malkavian - this one or any other.

"Quite." Michael regarded Paul curiously. "I'm sorry. Does the comparison upset you?"

"I'm not sure," Paul admitted. "It depends on how she feels about you, now."

"A necessary evil."

"Ah. That makes sense."

"Ironically, she's being far harder on herself than I ever was. I suppose the capacity for self-punishment goes along with the capacity for denial."

"Why is she so hard on herself?" Another honest question borne of the moment. "Did she fail to meet some standard? Your standards?"

Michael's eyes narrowed at that - another nerve touched. "Falling upwards, I think they call it."

"She's been a Primogen and a Prince - not many vampires are smart enough or quick enough to walk away from either role. She must hold herself to a very high standard, indeed."

Michael nodded. "I dont' think she even knows what it is. Only that whatever she does, it's just not good enough."

"It sounds like a girl trying to please her father."

Michael laughed. "I'm sure that's at least part of it. A very large part, perhaps. Strange, given how she overwhelmed her real parents. And they weren't stingy with their approval, either. Maybe..." Michael's expression softened, lost in thought. "Maybe because it all came so easily to her - still does at times - that she's convinced she doesn't deserve it. That she hasn't worked hard enough for it."

To Paul, this was the classic story of a clever mind and low self-esteem. Interesting. Not that a low self-esteem is apparent at the moment, he thought. Far from it. "Michael" oozed self confidence to a degree he'd rarely seen in Patricia - if ever.

Paul decided to go for broke. "Does she really need my help, again?"

Michael considered this, then nodded slowly. "Just as much as you need hers."

Paul winced at that.

"Don't be embarrassed," Michael insisted. "Mutual assistance is the most beneficial. And you don't have to worry about her being indiscreet."

Paul nodded. That was, indeed, reassuring. "Why me? Because I remind her of you?"

"You were in the right place at the right time," the Malkavian smiled.

"Hardly an answer." Paul snapped.

Michael shrugged, apparently enjoying a point scored. Finally, "Yes, because of that. Although not at first. At first, she just knew that you had a reputation of being a right bastard and not at all squeamish. Besides, she expected the association to be beneficial, politically - eventually. One of you would end up in the other's debt and, to her, that was win-win."

Paul's eyes widened at that. He hadn't expected her to perceive the situation that clearly.

"And now you're upset that she's not quite as stupid as you hoped." Michael chuckled. "Patricia's motto should be qui bono. In that way, she took to the Camarilla like the proverbial duck to water..." Michael drained his glass in one long gulp. "But surely you don't like them stupid?"

"I don't like them perceptive" Paul explained.

"Then you're in for more than you bargained for," Michael grinned. "She notices the oddest things - small things."

Paul felt the ground shifting under him, tried to regain it by lashing out. "But misses the forest for the trees."
"She's missed the forest for the leaves." Michael still smiled, and then closed his eyes. "Your suit is old-school Saville Row, but your shirt is tres-moderne French and the shoes hand-made in...Rome. You prefer writing to typing, when given the choice, but choose modern pens over antique ones." Michael's eyes opened. "Little things."

Paul stared at his companion. "Parlor tricks," he said, more stiffly than intended. "Hardly difficult for one of us."

"Oh?" Paul recognized the expression of someone taking up a challenge. "And there's something about this guise that shakes you rather badly."

Paul didn't know how to reply to that, particularly as Michael was right. He wondered if Michael knew why he was shaken.

Michael took advantage of the moment to pour another drink. But instead of sitting down with his freshened glass, he looked down at Paul, who was trying not to retreat into his chair.

Paul didn't know why he suddenly felt vulnerable. He squared his shoulders, forced himself to sit upright.

"Yes, you're really..." Michael seemed puzzled, and almost sympathetic. "Quite put out." He put down his drink. "Tell me why."

Paul tried to assert himself. "You're not in charge here."

"Neither is she." He smiled. "Tell me. Please?"

Paul stared up at the Malkavian, momentarily speechless. Then he flinched as Michael ran the back of his hand down Paul's face, the slight smile not moving at all. "Oh, of course." Michael sighed, as if only just realizing something.

"You mean you hadn't noticed?" Paul said, dripping sarcasm.

Michael ignored the jibe and instead, thought aloud for a moment. "When entering a room, you notice the men, first. Then the women. Your tone of voice changes when you speak of your sire, although you prefer not to mention him at all. You'll pick on both women and men for sport, but will only submit to men." Michael watched Paul's face closely. "One man, I'm guessing."

Paul tried to push Michael's hand away.

"That's enough."

Michael remained where he stood. "I don't think it is."

Paul shifted in his chair, wanting to stand. "I said -"

Michael pushed him back down without much effort. "I know. And you're wrong. Look at me."

Paul started at the insistent tone and did so. He shrugged slightly. "And?"

"You misunderstood. Really look at me. Past this face."

Paul stared harder, calling on a Discipline that usually allowed him to pierce all disguises. He blinked rapidly, surprised yet again. "I can't see her."

The half-smile returned. "That's convenient." Again, Michael stroked Paul's face and that, more than anything, surprised him beyond words. Patricia wasn't affectionate - or so she always insisted.

Paul cleared his throat. "What are you-"

"Isn't it obvious? Or is it your turn to be in denial?" Michael cupped a hand under Paul's chin, the other pressed on his shoulder, keeping him in his place.

"But-"

This time, Michael leaned in close - very close. "Be quiet." he breathed in Paul's ear.

Paul nodded, struck dumb by circumstance. I'm being seduced by a ghost! Paul couldn't quite believe it, despite indications otherwise.

Michael pulled at Paul's tie, unbuttoned his collar. "We've all the time in the world," he murmured.

Paul remained mute and motionless, even as he felt Michael'st teeth nipping gently at his neck. "Just do as I say, and we'll all be just fine..."

***

Paul sprawled on the floor, not very comfortable, but that didn't matter. Michael lay half on top of him, arms crossed on Paul's chest, chin resting atop. He was an interesting sight, Paul thought. Hair finally mussed, and apparently unconcerned about the blood soaking into the cuffs of his shirt. Paul wondered if his collar was similarly stained and suspected it was. The smell of blood pervaded the room.

Michael broke the silence. "It's been a while since I've done that. You?"

Paul didn't want to answer the question, but he didn't want to lose the game, either. "Not so long, no."

"Your sire?"

Paul nodded, awkwardly.

Michael smiled, slow and wicked. "I've met your sire. That must be a sight to see..."

"Stop it." Paul snapped, despite the afterglow.

Michael looked sharply at him. "That's just for the two of you, is it? I can't believe that you're stifled by some notion of shame."

"Yes." he sighed. "I mean, yes it's private."

"Not anymore."

Paul sighed and said nothing. Then: "Aren't you worried. About this?" Paul tapped a bloody cuff.

"What? Oh, a blood bond? Hm..." Michael considered what to say. "It was a calculated risk. I had to break you out of that lethargy somehow."

"It seemed more like a spur of the moment thing to me."

"No keeping secrets from you anymore, is there?" Michael replied lightly.

"Are there any left?"

"One or two." He smiled. "One or two." He thought for a moment. "You don't seem particularly concerned, either."

Paul tried to shrug. "I have my reasons." He was not about to divulge that the blood bond didn't affect him. Let Michael think he was Bound to his sire.

The answer seemed to satisfy him. "Fine. You're a big boy."

Paul couldn't resist the straight line. "How would you know?" he asked with a grin of his own.

"Call it braille." Michael laughed.

A moment came and went in silence. Abruptly, Michael stood up. "Well, I can't spend all night rolling around with my elders." He announced without an apparent care in the world.

"Where are you going?" Paul tried not to sound too curious.

"Out and about. I'll see you tomorrow."

"You will?"

"Yes. I'm taking you out to dinner. I'll pick you at nine." Apparently this wasn't subject to debate.

Paul stared at Michael's retreating back, uncertain whether he should laugh or shout.

"Patricia?"

Michael turned back to face him. "What?" Not a shred of concern in his demeanor.

Paul thought better of it. "Never mind. I'll see you tomorrow." In whatever form you're going to take.

Movie Night

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 03:35:52 GMT

Just watched Taken with the gang.

I've never heard Pete laugh so hard in my life.

Well, Heck. I'm Out of Ideas, So...

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 20:48:39 GMT

Following a suggestion from a friend:

This is where my most-important darlings were left by me, when last I paid any attention to them.

They need closure, a ride into the sunset or simply a wallop from the cluebat. Any suggestions?

dr_demontfort - Malkavian vampire. Cosmetic surgeon, ex-Anarch, former-prince, occasional sadist, ex-drug addict. (What fun!)

This one is definitely suffering from several reboots, as she's been played for something like 12 years in three different - and long-term - campaigns. At the moment... returned to Toronto from a year-long trip to Europe, during which she encountered a few former acquaintances and Paul-bloody-Viersan. She's not sure if her two childer (shamelessly stolen from a David Lynch film) are about to throw her out of their shared haven, or are about to bring her in to their Blood Bond. Relatively sure that she diablerized both Michael (her Sire) and Gammon (a nemesis) and is now haunted by hallucinations of both of them. She's wondering if she could return to Europe and impose on sally_wingrove for an introduction and a bolt-hole in London, but not sure what she would do, once there. Return to politics, or remain a rather exclusive cosmetic surgeon with nasty hobbies. She's also nervous about any number of past entanglements (particularly those with assorted members of the Brujah clan) coming back to bite her and not in a fun way. I thought about resurrecting some past characters for her to tangle with but, meh, that's just going over ground I've already covered, really.

She could stay in Toronto. She could go to London. She could wade into a weird dynamic with her childer, or be dragged forcibly into it. She could go somewhere completely new and try to reinvent herself - or attempt that and be haunted by various chunks of her past...

***

dr_logsdon - Tremere vampire. Occultist. Lara-Croft piss-take.

Disgusted with/by court politics in CAST, she hit the road for the sake of the Tremere clan. Dodged a bullet when her Sire was revealed as a diabolist, but was allowed to live. Wandering troubleshooter. Not much of anything in the way of lingering enemies, although god only knows what could come boiling out of the Bedlam's Rest continuity - the weird-ass affair with the chantry-leader was a bad idea for a start. Said affair tinged with a hint of blackmail, imho, but that's just me, but I pretty much just chopped it off when I left Bedlam's Rest and rebooted the character for CAST. Multilingual, heavily versed on occult matters both theoretical and practical - but more of an artifact specialist than a spellcaster.

Definitely a candidate for "And she became chantry librarian in Happytown and lived Happily Ever After" and then I could get her out of my head.

***

liz_carter - Buffy RPG character. (Almost) classic Watcher.

Oh cripes, this was a while ago. The game faded out after the GM had some Really Big Bad Things happen and so I was left to my own devices - and most of her material is in the game logs, not her LJ. With the Buffy 'verse continuity in mind, I figured that Nina et al joined the Slayer enclave (as per the comic book story arcs) and Liz, as one of the few survivors of the Kill All The Watchers Because They're Boring And Pointless initiative is doing her thing in London, or wherever they're hanging out now. Really, I suppose she can be left at that point. She wasn't much more than a collection of mannerisms, a handful of adjectives topped off with a drinking problem.

I would have liked to play her some more and develop her more fully, but circumstances just didn't work out. Given where the post-TV continuity for Buffy has gone, her options are a bit limited. Maybe she's left The Watchers... In which case, she'd probably gone back to teaching full time. Not very exciting, alas, but an ending of sorts, I suppose.

***

renee_vamp - V:tM vampire. Writer. Serial killer. Serious nut-case.

Technically, she was killed out of CAST continuity, but only because I didn't like how she worked out in that LARP and I couldn't think of what else to do with her. I've mentally rewritten her to give her a clan (Malkavian, obviously) and cleared up her history a bit but, otherwise... still drifting from town to town and leaving a trail of bodies behind her.

This is a gal who needs more purpose in her life - beyond the one that has her kidnapping and killing people, I mean.

***

sally_wingrove - Former long-time ghoul. Ventrue vampire. Diamond dealer. Reluctant politician.

Playing a little bit politics - very little, it's a tough crowd - in London and getting as rich as inhuman being can get. Has acquired her long-time friend, Nate, as a ghoul of her own (he was in thrall to another for almost 30 years) and there's been some bumps in that little relationship, although I didn't bother to articulate them. In my own fanon, Sally's extremely inadvisable relationship with the Settite Alexander was dealt with somehow - in some manner that didn't result in her execution, I mean - mostly because I thought it was a dead-end, development-wise (nothing against the GM of that period, I just think that OOC notions colored the IC ones and let's leave it at that). So that somehow is a bit of a mystery.

Again, not necessarily a character who needs closure. She, I can pretty much leave alone.

***

Rachel / Yvette / Yasmin - Former vampire (yes, really), former ghoul. Bodyguard, occasional assassin.

Oh cripes. This is another one that I can't leave well-enough alone. Her last GM left me with a very silly plot-line - Rachel had been cloned, dozens of times by the Progenitors for reasons that make me tired just to think about. By means unspecified, one clone gets loose - Yvette - runs into Paul Viersan by sheer happenstance (he's a nemesis/lover of Rachel's: classic hate-you/want-you thing) - who promptly makes her into a ghoul and mucks about with her memory, at least once at her request. They move to Europe, Paul wants to Embrace her, Yvette says "no way!" and hilarity ensues involving an attempted Praxis, a nervous breakdown, restoration of all memories and a name-change. Yasmin, as she now calls herself, is reluctantly considering becoming a vampire, as long as Paul's sire agrees to do the deed, as she won't accept being his childe, but could perhaps accept being a 'sibling'. The Sire is apparently willing, but the situation was left a bit open-ended. He might make her a vampire, or keep her as his own ghoul in order to teach Paul some sort of lesson...

She could become a child of Paul's Sire, become his ghoul, remain Paul's ghoul, give them all the finger (and burn her bridges quite permanently in that case), be poached by another entity entirely, recalled by the Progenitors (booooring) or have some other long-hidden purpose discovered (a bit deus-ex-machina). I have vague ideas revolving around her becoming a ghoul for Paul's sire and the impact that would have on all three of them, but I fear it might just become a rehash of past incidents, but with three participants instead of two...

***

Andrea Smith - Mercenary and a spy, of sorts.

No action needed. She's a running in-joke wearing an action-movie skin - although I like to think that she's mostly retired from the ol' wetwork, given that she's not as young as she once was. I tend to drop her into whatever fandom amuses me and see what happens - she's crossed over with Spooks and Torchwood, so far. But, yeah, she doesn't need anything else, really.

Sun, 16 Nov 2008 07:52:40 GMT

Well, that made for a change.

I had to carry Pete out of the theater, for once.

I've heard a rumor the boss is going to try to ban us from watching action films. I'm not surprised. Our livers can't take the drinking game, at this pace.

Pete's convinced someone stole his diary, but that might have been the rum talking...

Clearing Out The Attic

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 05:32:10 GMT

OOC - I have no idea where I wanted to this go when I wrote it, a year ago. It's a follow up to this vignette and that's all I can remember.

I'm just dumping it here so that I know where it is, should I ever decide to go back to it. Although, really, I should be ashamed of myself. Spooks/Code Black crossover, forsooth - talk about oil and water!

***

She wasn't expecting a visitor, but she opened the door of her flat, anyway. Hers was a life of unexpected interruptions. She was only slightly surprised to learn who waited on her doorstep. It wasn't like she was making any effort to be inaccessible to him – quite the opposite, in fact.

"Can I come in?" He didn't sound like he particularly cared one way or the other. She thought about the likely reasons for his being there, and nodded.

She directed him to the overstuffed couch she never sat on, and looked in the fridge of her laughably-named kitchenette. "I can offer you vodka, whisky, champagne or coffee." She noticed the date on her only carton of milk and dumped it into the garbage can. "Black coffee." She added.

"Champagne?"

That always surprised them. "You never know when you might have something to celebrate."

"Is that your opinion, or your persona's?"

"Mine." She admitted. He might want to play games, but she wasn't in the mood. Her body still ached from the night before and, although she'd rather pull out her own tongue than admit it, the mugging had unsettled her. A reminder of encroaching mortality, and such. She sighed. Maybe she was getting too old for the field.

"I'm going to make some coffee." She announced, reaching for a tub of pre-ground beans and putting the kettle on. She busied herself finding the French press, the sugar and a couple of mugs, waiting for him to speak.

He held his tongue until she proffered a cup of oily black coffee at him, which he accepted. He took a sip, looked at the mug in surprise, and tasted it again, enjoying it. Another thing she wasn't about to admit to was her stash of Blue Mountain beans.

Finally: "Do you usually give up so easily?"

She stared at him from her perch atop a stool by the breakfast bar. "What do you mean?"

"Today. You just gave up because things didn't go your way. I'd have thought you'd be more dedicated."

"Your ego didn't like being snubbed, you mean?"

He looked as if he was going to take offense, but then decided against it. It was a valid interpretation. "Fair enough."

"You've been approached by how many outfits? And you've told them all to get stuffed. I suppose I was the first person to beat you to it." She twisted the knife a little. "Must be a bit hard, coming on top of all that flattery."

"Is that what you think it was? Flattery?"

"You don't agree?"

"I'd call it greed." He distracted himself with his drink. For a moment, he wondered how she knew that he liked sweet coffee. Of course...

"Sure, we all want something. But not for nothing. Far from it."

He rankled at the mere suggestion of money. "It's still greed."

She backed off from an argument about semantics. "That's what's going to happen when you've got skills that are highly coveted. People are going to want them."

"Except my former employers, it seems." He put the empty mug aside.

"That was politics."

"How would you know?"

"There've been rumors."

He laughed without humor. "I bet there has."

"For what it's worth, I think you've been set up and fucked over, bigtime."

"And there's the sympathy again."

She looked irritated. "I'd ask you to quit seeing everything I say as part of some greater game plan…"

"Except that it is?"

"What makes you think I gave up?"

That caught him off-balance. "Pardon?"

"You're here, aren't you?"

"So I am." He turned the thought over in his mind, scrutinizing a variety of possibilities. "I couldn't let you have the last word." He decided.

"Hopeless? I don't blame you." Perhaps the effort to prick his vanity had worked.

***

Again, I wish to Christ I knew where I thought I was going with this. Oh well.

Not A Good Way To Start The Week...

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 04:58:35 GMT

What the fuck am I doing in Prague?

Again?

I'm in some dingy flat. I have a celphone, but it's not mine. I've got 400 Euros and about the same amount in koruna in a wallet that's otherwise distressingly empty - like no ID, no credit cards, not even a driver's license empty, And I'm armed to the teeth, for some reason.

More to the point, I seem to have lost the best part of three weeks. I repeat: what the fuck is going on?

At least there isn't a corpse in the bathtub, so I guess it's an improvement over last time...

Thu, 13 Mar 2008 06:48:54 GMT

"I don't know about you, Miss Kitty, but I'm feeling so much yummier."

Indeed.

"That Terribly Slow Crashing Trick Which Arctic Ice-Floes Do So Spectacularly In The Spring."

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 09:44:44 GMT

I found somethiing hidden in my apartment. Pretty well hidden, in fact, but I've been having fits of paranoia, lately - ever since that Very Nasty Incident In Kosovo - and they're pretty rough. One minute, you're looking at the ceiling molding thinking it needs dusting, the next minute, you're pulling up the carpet and dissembling the light fixtures.

So, yeah, the thing I found... It's just a couple of pages of onionskin, covered in handwriting - my handwriting. At least, it looks like mine. But I don't remember writing it. To be honest, that's not all that surprising. But this still falls under the category of Definitely Not Good.

I can't afford to fuck around. I've called The Boss and told all. I'm hoping he can clear things up.

But, right now, I've got a stinking migraine. No doubt from decrypting my chickenscratch. I'm going to give myself a shot and go to bed for a few hours. With luck, everything will be clear by morning.

Not Very Cryptic At All

Mon, 28 Jan 2008 07:51:04 GMT

If it wasn't for risk inherent in carving a former boss into pieces small enough to hide - namely the risk of having ditto done to me by my current boss - there'd be a big ol' pile of CIA-flavored chum in the Firth of Forth right now.

I suppose I could have handled that meeting with "Munson" better than I did but, honestly? I'm just glad I didn't deck him in the middle of the pub. That would not have ended well.

Checking In...

Sun, 16 Sep 2007 07:57:28 GMT

It seems to me that all the trouble in my life, of late, has been caused by a variety of men all named Jack.

Great. Just great. It could be worse, I suppose, but I'd rather not try to imagine how.

Our Is Not To Reason Why

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 18:58:54 GMT

I've been ordered to take a holiday. I'd complain but The Boss has a way of being very persuasive. Mandatory relaxation it is, then.

And, oh yes, I did catch up with "Munson". More on that debacle when I feel up to it. Suffice to say it crossed over into sheer farce about thirty seconds in...

OOC: Andrea will be popping by spy_spa for a while, although I doubt I'll make her a permanent resident (I don't like my characters to be in two places at once - jack_harkness_ is a special exception to that rule, for reasons that should be obvious to any fans of that canon.)

Sun, 13 May 2007 06:21:54 GMT

I'm going off-page for a few hours. I have to go talk to one Mr. Munson.

And, Pete? I'm not the reincarnation of Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS. Geeze, you make ~~one~~ a few jokes about guys in dog collars and you never live it down...

OOC Note: If I'd realized that Yasmin LeBon looks a bit like Megan Dodds (in certain situations, all of which I happened to raid for Andrea's likeness, recently) well... I would have rethought things. Ah well, I can use it, regardless.

Glasgow.

Fri, 11 May 2007 21:49:01 GMT

((Activating the Third Person Omniviewnator! What can I say, the piece just fell into my head like this. As is the sequel - jm))

He stared at the dressing on the left side of her neck, and noticed that she moved a little more carefully than usual as she sat on a bench overlooking the Clyde.

She noticed his scrutiny. "You should see the other guy."

"And who was that?"

She wondered if anything could push him out of that monotone he'd apparently adopted as his shield against the world at large.

"Actually, the 'other guy' is the stairwell leading down to the parking lot at a community center." She admitted. "I'm one ambulance-chaser shy of a beaut of a lawsuit."

"Funny." He said, without a smile, looking out across the river. "And what really happened?"

She looked at him, sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I got a phone call, this morning. From one of your countrymen."

Her stomach sank. "Oh?" The odds of that call coming from a friend were slim.

"Yes. Name of Brent Munson, ostensibly a freelance journalist. But his paychecks are ultimately signed by Langley."

The sinking feeling transformed into irritation. "Oh, those fuckheads."

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by her vehemence. "They're sore losers." He conceded.

"If they couldn't have you, they're going to ruin anyone else's chances of recruiting you." She guessed and then sighed, wondering how to salvage the situation.

"That seemed to be their motive." He finally looked at her again. "Not that you had much of a chance, in the first place."

She ran a hand through her hair and winced as – whether at the motion, or the situation was unclear. "For what it's worth, that was my opinion too."

"How so?" She looked surprised at the inquiry. "I'm just wondering."

She shrugged. The mission was completely blown and it was all spilt milk at this point. "You're motivated by patriotism. Because of that, alone, a non-British entity has no chance of recruiting you. You'd see it as a form of treason."

He nodded, wondering why the fools at the CIA hadn't figured it out.

"Money's right out." She added.

He thought of Tess. "Too true."

"So that left ego. That was the angle I was supposed to work. Get to know you, let you come out, then flatter you back into operations – based in the UK, supporting UK or UK-friendly interests."

He nodded slightly, conceding her point. It was a valid approach and the same he would have used in her position.

She decided that he owed her an answer, in turn. "Why didn't you just hop across the river to Six?"

"Because they're all a bunch of unbelievably irritating bastards." He replied, his tone still even, but she saw that his knuckles were white.

"I see." She nodded. "And probable collaborators in the effort that drive you out?"

The anger still took him by surprise. "You're trying to be sympathetic. Don't."

She suppressed a moment's irritation at being read so easily. "No, I'm trying to be nosy. There's a difference."

He glanced at the dressing on her neck. "So what was it really?"

She sighed, feeling stupid. "I got mugged by a couple of punks last night. That'll teach me to walk around here using a cell phone."

He looked surprised. He was surprised. "Then why say it was something else?"

"And look like I'm coming across with the corny distressed damsel ploy, when you're already hyperalert?" She smiled at the notion. "No way. Besides, you really should have seen them. What was left of them. This-" She tapped the gauze at her throat. "Was my own bad luck. I didn't take them seriously and one of them had a knife. Fortunately, he didn't know what the fuck he was doing."

"Always take an enemy seriously."

"Is that why you're so dour all the time? Everyone's an enemy?"

"Close enough."

She shook her head. "You're gonna burn out." She warned.

"Is this more sympathy?"

"No." Her voice hardened a little. "Experience. I crashed and burned a few years ago." She paused, remembering the time. "Let's say I have my own reasons for disliking the guys at Langley."

He felt boredom threaten. "And now you're trying to appeal to my sense of camaraderie."

She didn't say anything for a moment. "No, I'm trying to warn you. Not because I want to recruit you – as that's clearly doomed - but because I've been there and it's something I wouldn't wish on anyone."

"How altruistic of you." Contempt replaced disinterest.

"I know, you don't want to take any favors from anyone. Too bad." She tried to rein in her irritation, without much success. "I was lucky. Code Black was willing to pick me up after I fell down." They've done it twice, she didn't add – as the reasons for the second rescue still rather baffled her.

"And you don't think that this policy of recruiting staff with a wing down doesn't explain something about your collective track record?"

She almost snapped back at him before realizing that he was needling her deliberately. "We pay the bills." She said, carefully.

"Money doesn't matter to me."

"That's not the point and you know it. I like to think that a lot of us have been tempered by our experiences."

"A re-assembled pot is still broken."

"Well, you're not broken. Not yet. But if you keep trying to be the stone-faced ex-spy, you're going to break. Spectacularly. And god help anyone in the vicinity when you do. What sort of revenge is that?"

"What makes you think I want revenge?"

She rolled her eyes. "Please. Call it vindication, if you like, it's the same thing, in your case"

He shifted in his seat. The bench was uncomfortable. "Why are we still talking?"

"Because I don't think talent should be wasted and I wanted to-" She stopped, suddenly deflated. "Fuck it. What's the point? You're hopeless." More accurately, the situation was hopeless, but she was angry and wanted to lash out.

She stood up and threw a business card into his lap. "But my boss doesn't think so, so you can talk to him if you ever feel like it."

With that, she walked away into the gloomy twilight.

Fri, 11 May 2007 13:46:37 GMT

Brilliant. He's not in Edinburgh. He's in Glasgow.

This is what happens when you have non-locals managing the intel. I'd have had more useful information from the goddamn white pages and the A-to-Z.

An Open Letter To Circumstance

Sun, 06 May 2007 08:00:55 GMT

What the fuck?

Edinburgh?

What the fuck am I supposed to do in Edinburgh?

Crap. I know the answer to that question, damn it all.

I thought I was off the honeytrap circuit. What goddamn genius thought up this idea? It wasn't Marlena. She's too smart for this - and so's the target. My money's on him making me in 36 hours and running for the hills in 37. But mine is not to reason why - not in this case, apparently, as The Boss made abundantly clear.

At least I've got a decent cover this time: Yoga instructor with a sideline in self-defense for women. Not only can I do that, but I'm surprised that The Boss isn't worried about me enjoying the cover too much. I'm sure he looked at the police blotter for the city before lumping me with this assignment. I suspect that if I happen to cripple a few would-be rapists, I'd be as safe as houses.

At least I'll have an outlet for my irritation about this bullshit situation... If I didn't know any better, I'd suspect I"m being set up to fail. The target's already turned down the CIA and Mossad, for Christ's sake...

Stiff upper lip, woman. If not for queen and country - ha! - think of the shit you'd be in with The Boss if you didn't give it 100%...

Patricia/Paul - Summary/Braindump

Wed, 07 Mar 2007 04:44:36 GMT

Note: I meant to stitch this all together into a single narrative, but it's been languishing on my hard drive for months and I simply can't be bothered. So you're getting a series of asterisked vignettes, instead. As long as you've pad attention to the past Paul/Patricia encounters, you'll have no trouble here.

Go figure, this involves Yvette, in a peripheral way, and is set several months after she left Paul. See Departure for the circumstances behind that ugly little incident.

***

Patricia glared at Paul, trying to ignore the beast that muttered and growled of its hunger as the strange afterglow faded.

“It’s not so bad is it?” The Ventrue spoke lightly, as if his face wasn’t covered in her blood. “Loss of control isn’t always synonymous with discomfort or even displeasure.”

“You’re an old-fashioned chauvinist,” Trish grumbled, trying to break free and failing.

“You’re trying to change the subject.” He didn’t disagree, Patricia noticed.

“Fine. This is hardly a change, is it?”

He smiled slightly. “Not for me, certainly.”

She let it slide. There had been enough admissions already, this evening. The half-healed gashes in her arm still stung. She wondered where her razor had landed during the scuffle. “If this is just another night for you, then this… encounter was pointless.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Of course you wouldn’t. You’re on top.

Trish thought quickly, and made a proposal that had been forming over the course of the evening. “Then let’s change that.”

Paul looked intrigued, eased his weight a little. “How?”

She spoke firmly and quickly. “Be in London by the fifteenth. Plan to be there for at least a month. Pack anything you like, but I don’t want to see a single one of these goddamned suits of yours. Call my celphone when you arrive, I’ll tell you where to meet me. Don’t make any other plans. You’ll come alone, well-fed, and unarmed”

He raised an eyebrow. It had been some time since anyone had spoken to him that brusquely. Indeed, a change. He wondered what the Malkavian thought she could teach him. Then again, he had chosen to follow up on her offer.

Finally, he nodded.

***

“I’m not another one of your pathetic masochists.”

“I know. Nor am I the usual sort of sadist.”

“And yet you say I can walk away any time.”

“Of course you can,” Patricia shuddered slightly at the memory (was it a memory?) of a conversation with her sire. “It’s not like I could stop you, if you were that determined to go.”

Paul agreed that she had a point. “Now what?”

Patricia shrugged. “Whatever you think you must to heal that poor broken heart of yours.”

“My heart isn’t broken.” Paul insisted.

“You’re lying again.”

Damn. Paul was beginning to dislike Patricia’s uncanny ability to sense falsehood, or even prevarication. He preferred to be the only person in the room with such gifts.

Patricia sat in one of the two chairs that occupied the abandoned storage shed beneath one of London’s many railways. “You got soft. She got to you. It’s time to harden your heart again. Isn’t that what you want?”

Paul nodded. Hearing it articulated so bluntly seemed strange.

“You have to start somewhere,” Trish insisted. “Tell me to do something. Have me stand on one leg until dawn, if you fancy, or pull out my own eyes.” I have to do this. I have to prove that I can. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing?

“And if you refuse?”

“Then you win.”

“And the satisfaction of winning, alone, should suffice, hm?”

Patricia’s expression hardened. “It’ll have to.” And if I know you half as well as I think I do, it will suffice.

Paul nodded, slowly. “All right. I agree.”

***

Patricia knelt on the floor, licking Paul’s shoes. The rank pig blood covering the leather made Trish want to gag, but she had to do as she was told.

Paul sensed her disquiet. “It could have been dogshit.”

Patricia grimaced at the thought. Paul watched her. The simple pleasures are always the best.

Finished, Patricia leaned back, looking at Paul’s feet with an expression like a cat that had just smelled something unpleasant.

Paul smiled. This was just too good to pass up. “Open a vein.”

She stared at him, puzzled, but knew better than to question him aloud. With practiced ease, she dragged a fang along her forearm.

Leaning back in his chair, he put his right foot in her lap. “Do it again, with your blood, this time.” Patricia flinched, and Paul believed he knew why. “Go on.”

Reluctantly, Patricia willed the blood to the wound in her arm, and dripped it across the dress shoe. Anyone else, Paul might think they were being flirtatious, drawing out the process, but he knew better. “That’s enough” he said, after a minute’s work.

Patricia hesitated for a moment, and then bent over once more. The offensive reek of stale blood still lingered but now it was overlaid by something much sweeter.

Paul watched her more closely, this time, seeing the extra attention paid as she chased down the dregs of vitae with her tongue, feeling how she pressed a little harder against him. Kindred blood was, as ever, irresistible, no matter what the source. Paul smiled. This is even better.

He nudged her cheek with his left foot. “And this one, too.”

Patricia’s stony-faced enthusiasm iced the cake.

***

“You’re scared of change. Real change. You’ll only allow it in,” he gestured around them. “Tightly controlled situations.”

“And you’re scared of intimacy.” Patricia would have shrugged, but it would have disturbed the paper cup full of vinegar she balanced on her forehead. Leaning back in order to keep the cup level left her throat and torso vulnerable in a manner that would disturb any kindred. She knew that Paul had something shiny in his hand, but she couldn’t identify it. That uncertainty didn’t help matters.

“Like you aren’t?”

“There are different forms of intimacy. I should have phrased it differently, perhaps. You’re scared of the least appearance of vulnerability.”

“I refer you to my previous response. Any vampire is going to protect against that.”

“Up to a point, yes. But you take it to extremes.”

“How would you know?”

“I know you quite well, by now.” She saw him moving on the periphery of her vision, heard a familiar snap and hiss. “Is that a lighter?” she asked, seeing a flicker of blue in the darkness.

“Yes.”

There are some things that you should never do. Michael could have been standing right there, the words sounded so close. Patricia flinched and the cup tumbled to the floor. She cursed and scrabbled at her face, blinking furiously.

Paul wondered if she was that afraid of fire. It might bear investigation in the future, but for now, it was time to move in a new direction. “Lick that up, then give me your razor”

***

Patricia’s features blurred, taking on a guise very familiar to Paul. The irritation he felt at someone wearing Yvette’s face surprised him. Perhaps he had further to go than he thought.

“Is it a good likeness?” She asked, in Yvette’s voice.

“Very good.” Paul conceded. “May I ask why you’ve done this?”

“I’ve a choice for you”

He shifted a little in his seat. “Oh?”

“You can choose between cutting off my fingers, every last one of them,” she waved a hand needlessly, smiling at Paul’s disgust. “Or you can fuck me. Either way, I keep this face on throughout.”

Paul was puzzled. “I don’t think that’s much of a choice.”

“You claim that rape’s a tactic you won’t use.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then it’s a limit that needs breaking. I don’t want to fuck you.” She insisted with undeniable sincerity. “Ergo, rape.”

“Technically.” He stared at her, looking for dissimulation and finding none.

“Actually,” Trish corrected him. “I don’t understand why vampires insist on recreational fucking, I really don’t. Well, not any more.” She admitted in a moment of honesty. “I suppose you’re handsome enough,” she interjected, “But you’re not my type. No-one really is.” She ignored the voice in her mind that suggested otherwise. That was an issue to deal with on another night.

“Rape or mutilation? That’s my choice?”

Patricia nodded. “Not just any mutilation.” She knew his fetishes. She wondered how much he really understood of hers.

“Why her face?”

“Because you’re angry at her.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Liar. She fooled you. She left you. Some ghoul.”

Paul did his best to ignore the needling. “And if you wear her face, then whatever happens, hasn’t really happened to you. You’ve nicely distanced yourself from the situation.”

“Yvette” frowned. “You’re right.” The mask dissolved, and Paul had to admit that he was impressed at the concession. “But the choice remains. You wanted to push the limits. We’ve reached them. Walk away now, you’ve lost.”

Thinking of Macbeth, Paul picked up a chisel and approached the Malkavian.

***

He smiled at her, a feral expression that made even Patricia start in fear. “You made a mistake. You forgot that we don’t win by keeping to the rules.” He grabbed a nearby chunk of concrete and smashed it down on her, breaking first one leg, and then the other. Hazily, irreverent thoughts of the crucifixion crossed Patricia’s mind. She watched Paul rummage through her bag and belatedly realized his intent as he found the butcher’s cleaver contained therein.

Screaming at the effort and pain, Trish pulled free the steel chisel that had pinned her to the floor. She tried to get up, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She willed the shattered bones to heal, only to find his arm around her waist, as tight as any rope. She shrieked in frustration, dignity forgotten as he hauled her back down to the floor.

“Your success exceeds expectation.” He announced, grabbing her right arm and holding it down. The Beast howled, close to the surface. Paul trembled with the effort to contain it, alarming Trisha even more.

“No!” The word tore free, beyond her control. She shook her head, suddenly angry.

Paul hesitated for a moment. He felt something akin to a convulsion pass down Trish’s arm as she tried to flee and simultaneously stifled the urge.

“No.” Stony-voiced.

He waited.

She braced against him, as ready as she’d ever be.

“No.” self-denial and resolution crammed into one word.

The cleaver came down.

***

He stroked her cheek, noticing how she froze at the touch. Does she really hate it that much? “I’d like to take you to bed,” he admitted, pouring on his unnatural charm. “Perhaps change your mind about certain… long-held opinions.”

She laughed knowingly, “I bet you would. No.”

Paul withdrew slightly. “That’s not quite the response I expected…”

“Bullshit. You know me better than that by now. It’s not the response you wanted.”

“You’re not beyond physical pleasure.” He reminded her.

She ignored that. “This isn’t about pleasure. It’s about salving your conscience by making me feel good and I won’t let you do that. If you insist,” she shrugged. “It’ll be last week, all over again.” She flexed her fingers at the memory. “Ultimately, that would serve my objectives – again.” She mused.

Paul couldn’t let her twist the knife like that. He had his own contingency plan in place, this time.

“Then I’ll have to ask – insist – on something else.”

“Oh?” Too late, Patricia realized that perhaps the meeting was ill-advised.

Paul looked into her eyes, trapping her gaze easily. He wondered if she realized how much that ease revealed about her, but he didn’t have time for speculation. He spoke carefully and quickly. “From this point forward, until I tell you otherwise, you’ll obey any command I give you.” Paul grabbed Trisha’s arm as she flinched, felt her resistance vanish at his touch. Good. “And, from now until I tell you otherwise, you will answer any question I ask you with complete honesty.”

Patricia slapped him. It was a heavy blow, but one that probably hurt her more than him.

“I think we’ll start off with don’t hit me unless I ask you to,” he said, wryly. Shades of Rachel in Toronto, and just as satisfying.

Patricia glared at him, simmering with fury. “Why?”

“Because, despite what you think, we’re not done yet.” He looked her up and down. “I want you to go shopping. Buy a dress, something long and in satin, I think.” He smiled at Patricia’s obvious distaste. “Yes, something old-fashioned and formal. Be back here in two hours and ready to visit to the London court.”

“Public gloating isn’t very seemly,” Patricia grumbled, knowing that she’d do as he ordered.

“I don’t care what you think.” Paul replied mildly, glad to know it was the truth. “Just do as I say.”

***

“This isn’t a date,” Patricia muttered.

“Of course not. But I like watching you squirm when I introduce you like that.”

“I didn’t expect success to be so irritating.”

“Don’t be sour. You’re meeting some of the most powerful kindred in Europe.”

Patricia shot him a look. “I’ve met them before.”

“As the former Prince of a hayseed territory. But now you’re meeting them with me.” Patricia bristled at his words, but he expected that. “Make the most of this evening, Patty, I insist.”

The glass in Patricia’s hand shattered. She looked at the wine soaking her gloves, rather than at Paul, and spoke in a dangerously level tone. “Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you anything I want.”

She took a deep breath. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a special nickname. I don’t like to hear anyone else using it.”

“Who may call you Patty? Tell me about them.” This is something new.

Patricia glared at Paul, but couldn’t defy the order given to her. “Two kindred. I suppose they’re dead by now. They were Anarchs. Bob, a Malkavian occultist and Bootsie, a Brujah…” she struggled for a better phrase and gave up. “Killing machine.”

Paul looked incredulous. “Bootsie?”

Patricia couldn’t help smiling. “Yes. Ridiculous, I know. But it fit him. I always wondered if he meant to choose Caligula, although that wouldn’t have done nearly so well.”

“So why could they call you Patty?”

Shit, here we go. “We shared a blood bond. I’m not quite sure how it was possible, but it was. It happened. All three of us, together. Bob was the brains, Bootsie the brawn and I suppose I was a sort of bridge between the two.” In more ways than one. Some of those memories made her wince. So much more human in my tastes, in those days. “I was a sort of den-mother, I suppose. Especially to Bootsie.” Please don’t ask me what he called me in the end… Trisha prayed.

Paul saw her nostalgic expression and wondered at it. “And that’s why you’re protective of the name?”

She nodded. “It was… affectionate.” She glared at Paul’s doubtful expression. “It was. I loved them, at the time.” She sighed. Yes, so much more humane.

“What happened?”

“Politics. Everything went to hell when it became apparent that the one thing we disagreed on was the political future of the Bay Area. I threw my lot in behind a Camarilla praxis and I haven’t seen them since.” And it’s probably for the best. God, what is Paul going to do with this?

***
“I won.”

“Who said it was a competition?”

“You have, many times.”

“Only as a lure to keep you engaged, Paul. Frankly, I never set out to ‘win’, only to change.”

“Change who?”

“Both of us. I think I succeeded, don’t you?”

“Yes, you did. Although it could be said that you only restored me to my former self.”

“A little more than that, I think,” she disagreed. “Or have you convinced yourself that deep down inside, I’m yet another woman who just needed a good fuck?”

“I think you are, but that’s beside the point.”

She rolled her eyes. “And people call me a freak.” She fiddled with her glass. “So what’s the point, then, if my hypothetical libido is beside it?”

“My point is that I think I came out on top of this… relationship.”

“And I’ll say it again. It never was something to win. There were conditions for losing, granted, but never any for winning.”

“Did you get what you wanted?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Think so?” he looked intrigued. “I think that you didn’t really understand what you wanted in the first place. And you expected me to identify it for you.”

“I wanted change. Something new. A challenge.”

“More than that. You wanted to find a new edge to walk along, not one that had been self-created.”

“And you shoved me right over it.”

“As you did to me, so we’re even.” He paused. “So perhaps it’s more of a tie.”

She smiled, finally. “I think it is.”

Checking in. Again.

Fri, 19 Jan 2007 19:29:48 GMT

It's been a while. I've been busy.

To sum up:

Marlena talked me out of chopping up Mr. On Again, Off Again for stewing meat. In fact, Mr. On - oh, fuckit, his name is John - is, in fact, now working for Code Black, having been counter-poached when he was trying to poach me. I'd sent Blackheart a thank-you card (and a cut of the recruiting bonus) if it wasn't for the fact that one of the few rules I've kept in my life is to not fuck my coworkers. Go figure, they usually know better anyways. Geeze, you do one¹ stint as a black widow and you can't get a date anymore.

Still in London, and I think I've finally gotten used to the place. Good thing it only took three years, huh? I suppose they'll want to rotate me out, now but, really, the city's (and the whole country) has grown on me. You can say what you like about Yankee manners, but the Brits have got this polite thing down, and that makes my life so much easier.

Oh yeah, I finished the latest dissertation and, like the last one, it's already been classified. I suppose I should have a party or something, but no-one's going to believe me when I tell them I've got a PhD, let alone two.

Jason identified a new and sorta interesting outfit - one that's got me wondering how we hadn't heard of them before. To be fair, it seems like the bosses have always been vaguely aware of Torchwood, but as their remit is so different from ours - bug-eyed aliens, by God - they were pretty much beneath the bosses' notice, I guess. Right up until something fell out of the sky and landed on our turf. Then it was suddenly "Let's go talk to our dear professional bretheren" - and hope the bloody thing wasn't going to make us grow two heads, I bet.

As Marlena's the diplomatic one, she did most of the talking. I just did what I know best, oh boy, did I ever.

I'll pull my tongue out of my head before I'll admit to anyone but this lovely diary that the frog-faced git knows what he's doing. Damn. I haven't been taken by surprise like that in a hell of a while.

However, the reputation of Torchwood seems a bit like the gang's. The failures are always more spectacular than the successes and only the bad stuff reaches the press. I can sympathize with that. I think the boss is still dealing with the fallout from Paris. Funny how it seems to have escaped everyone's notice that we rolled up significant chunk of a terrorist network about to blow up the Ministry De Defence.

Well, no time for complaints. I've got memos to write, or something. That and there's an email from this Tosh person answering a few questions about this retcon stuff. If I'm reading the chemistry right, it could save our bacon - but absolutely has to be kept out of the hands of someone like Pete. We'd have half of London amnesiac and psycho within a month...

¹ - translated: 38

Berlin - 2A (Overtime - Paul's POV)

Sun, 13 Aug 2006 02:03:58 GMT

I had been looking forward to meeting Patricia DeMontfort again. She showed an unusual strength – especially for one of her clan - when facing the Brandenburg Gate, and the hints made at her impulsive nature… well, it can be an entertaining mix. So I pursued an opportunity to see her again.

Former Anarch, former Prince. A sadist, a murderer and a diablerist, if the rumors are to be believed. Patricia is a vampire who, should the occasion arise, merits no mercy. I liked her as soon as I met her. Or rather, I should have, and I wanted to. Her established reputation and her behavior at court suggested that we have a lot in common and that’s increasingly rare – as the elders fade away, the neonates and ancilla taking their places are often overburdened with conscience. As, apparently, I am of late.

As I said, I wanted to like her. I did and do, but not in the way I expected. In fact, I'm still not quite sure what it is about her that attracts me, and that in and of itself is simultaneously irritating and intriguing.

Her aura – a mix of psychosis and curiosity - didn’t surprise me at all. An incurious Malkavian is a rarity indeed. Her manner wasn’t as diffident as it could be to one of my station, which I suppose is a legacy of her Anarch past and American associations. Her clothes were clearly carefully picked out and entirely uninspiring. I’m hard pressed to even remember the color of her shirt. Of greatest interest is her face, and what it implied.

DeMontfort’s reputation is not undeserved, that much was obvious by her aura and her visage. We all struggle to keep the Beast at bay, figuratively and literally, but this Malkavian seemed to be losing that fight. At one point, I glimpsed her true face, not the closely-fitted mask of her mortal features and saw chalky, waxen skin drawn tightly over her skull – a reliable sign that the Beast is constantly close.

If Patricia had been hoping – as I suspect she had – that I would ask her to carve me up like so much meat, she was to be disappointed. I wasn’t interested in her ability to inflict pain, but in mine. I’ve lost track of myself, of my abilities.

I was also curious about Patricia’s strengths and potential weaknesses, following her rather facile offer of “help”. It’s very easy to claim the role of Virgil, but so many kindred haven’t been through real hell. If this court is going to need her to face Brandenburg, well… her weaknesses had to be known. And I wanted to satisfy my own curiosity.

So many vampires are so proud of their dignity. It used to be one of my chief delights to tear that dignity from them – just because I can. I’m sure the psychologists have an excellent name for it, but that’s never worried me. I am what I am, just as DeMontfort. But lately, I’ve come to doubt what I am, hence last night. We’re an excellent collection of mannerisms, the two of us, and so alike as to be able to get underneath each other’s skins almost immediately.

I learned a lot in a short time. She’s used to accepting unpleasant commands. Her sense of curiosity is almost dangerously overdeveloped. She likes to push buttons, of course. And she’s rather repressed, which is strangely contradictory for one so Bestial.

I believe that not one single thing that I did to her was new to her. For one so young, she’s had a varied existence and she’s survived it, another telling fact.

Whereas I couldn’t surprise her – one incident aside, perhaps - she certainly managed to surprise me. In fact, I must admit that she seriously upset me. I was quite serious when I warned Yvette that she could make me the laughingstock of Europe. If Patricia has managed to identify her as the cause of my recent turmoil, there’s no telling who else has.

So, Patricia DeMontfort is stronger than I gave her credit for, and I’m weaker than I care to admit. She didn’t fall prey to the Beast, not even with provocation and self-righteousness on her side. Indeed, she positively danced on the edge of madness.

Then again, surely I shouldn’t expect a Malkavian to do otherwise?

It belatedly occurs to me to wonder: repressed or oppressed? If the latter, oppressed by whom? Given her clan, I’m inclined to believe that it’s the former. She’s no doubt entangled in obstacles of her own making. Those obstacles might be worth investigating. In fact, I think I must. She left me knowing that she had the upper hand, and I can’t let that remain the case. I must regain my strength. I must win.

Although… I can’t still the voice suggesting that, for the first time in centuries, I might have to settle for a tie…

Berlin - Two (Overtime)

Sun, 13 Aug 2006 01:52:22 GMT

The night after their first conversation, Patricia DeMontfort and Paul Viersan meet in an office building, overlooking the Pariser Platz in central Berlin. Paul’s façade is firmly back in place, the easygoing charismatic Ventrue entertaining a guest, making small talk as they find their way to a vacant office.

Once settled, Paul looks Patricia over, paying some attention to her hands and her aura – the latter action being quite obvious but, in both their minds, quite understandable. Trish is slightly nervous but, when asked about it by Paul, ascribes it to the fact that she's still not sure that this isn't some sort of trap - which is a reason for the nerves, if not all. As so often in the past, a partial truth suffices.

Paul asks Patricia if she has a knife. Of course she does. She has her straight razor, which elicits a sardonic comment or two from Paul - he's amused by the anachronistic choice. Trish bristles at his words, as the razor is one of the few things she's sentimental about.

Paul doffs his jacket, strikes a pose of a man about to put in a long day at the office as he pushes up his sleeves and Trish thinks "Another masochist" with a mental roll of the eyes and – she must admit – a little anticipation. Ventrue are notoriously resilient and, thus, quite a challenge.

But Paul surprises her. He lounges against a desk that’s seen better days and tells Trisha to cut herself with the razor. It’s not an enforced order, but a suggestion – Patricia knows the difference.

Suspicion and curiosity vie for dominance in Trish’s mind, and curiosity wins. Paul is on the other side of the room and not an immediate threat. So, she cuts herself on her left forearm, as requested.

Not good enough, he says. Deeper.

Still curious, Trish places a second cut adjacent to the first. The blood wells out a little thicker, although nothing like it would from a living subject.

They discuss control. How Paul’s putting them into a situation where they're both tempted to lose it. Pain, vulnerability, the sight and smell of blood. But they’re both smug, feeling oh-so-clever and reasonably invulnerable. They’re well-fed, they know their limits – of course they do. Neither of them is going to admit temptation.

Patricia guesses that Paul is testing himself, seeing if he can hurt another person, albeit indirectly. She, in a moment of bravado, offers him the knife. He refuses it. He’s not disgusted or scared, she notices, just uninterested in wounding her directly.

Silence falls. Patricia moves as if to cut herself again, and Paul tells her not to.

It seems that you think you're in charge, she says. It seems so, he replies, which prompts Trish to cut herself once again, the deepest gash, so far. The pain is now significantly distracting, but the Beast isn't a threat - yet. A sidelong glance at Paul shows that the wounds have commanded most of his attention. Well, not quite the wounds.

Trish flexes and tilts her arm a little, sends a little more blood to the wound, and it runs down her arm, into her hand. She toys with Paul, sensing that he's moved closer – reluctantly, as if against his will - and continues to focus on what she's doing with the rivulets of blood now spread across her palm, and trickling down her fingers.

Trish realizes that, indeed, she has placed herself in a situation of avoidable risk, but doesn't occur to her to wonder if she’s a danger junkie.

Wanting to build on her apparent control of the moment, Patricia decides to push matters further. She dons Yvette's face - having paid the Nosferatu for a little more information about this controversial retainer of his and correctly guessed that she's the one that's put him in turmoil.

For a moment, Trish fears that she’s pushed things too far. Paul's pose of ease abruptly fails and he stops just short of a blow that would have put her through the wall. He's angry, because he believes that Trish pulled the image from his mind. She tells him the truth - that she acquired the likeness via other means. Inwardly, she is relieved that she kept her word to stay out of his mind. She remembers their conversation of the night before.

Trish’s worry ebbs, and she takes satisfaction from the fact that she made Paul flinch - and he knows it. Paul admits that, despite that, he doesn't want to 'accelerate his recovery' from Yvette's departure. The changes that she wrought were unexpected and unexpectedly welcome - some of them, at least. He's sure he'll recover his bad habits – as he puts it - on his own time. Trish assumes that he's trying to downplay what just happened but realizes that she should let it go - for now.

Paul asks Patricia if she's hurt herself like this before. Trish considers lying as she rubs the blood between her fingers, but admits that she has - once or twice, during a very stressful period. Before Paul can impose his own interpretation, she concedes that it was a way of asserting control during a chaotic time. Paul makes an offhand comment about the more things change, the more they stay the same. She winces slightly at the word change and Paul quietly wonders at it.

Paul accuses her of being afraid of change. She counters that, on the contrary, she has realized that she needs to be more welcoming of it, lest she stagnate. He accuses her of lying, of hypocrisy - she's courting change only in contexts in which she can retain control.

She points out that change and control are not mutually exclusive. He says she can't truly experience something different if she will insist upon being in control throughout. Without risk - including the risk in giving up control - there's no true opportunity for change.

Trish asks what “risks” he underwent, to have changed. After all, he admitted that there's been chaos in his world, recently. Paul almost blurts out the truth, but stops just in time as he looks at her assumed face - further firing Trish's curiosity, although she has a pretty good idea what he almost said. Paul suddenly tells her to resume her normal face.

She heals the wounds on her arm, wondering if Paul will make some remark about her needing his permission. He doesn't, which surprises her.

The Ventrue facade is showing some very deep cracks and Trish is in her element. She is a little too cocky to yet realize that perhaps Paul will resent all this when looking back on the encounter.

He asks her if she wants to change anything about herself. She replies with the query as to when this became about her. When she walked in the room, he says. The sophistry annoys her - word games do when she's not the one playing with the words. She turns to leave - again, typical behavior for her when she's vexed. Paul grabs her arm and warns her that she's walking away from an opportunity. By leaving, she's choosing to ossify, is that what she wants?

Patricia realizes that Paul is trying to “harden his heart” but he prefers willing participants for whatever he has in mind. Trisha sees the core of his games-of-choice a hell of a lot quicker than some others have. Then again, they're kindred spirits under the skin - controlling and arrogant and much caught up with the notion of public dignity. Patricia knows that those are the most satisfying sort of people to break. Is Paul asking to be broken? In her hesitation to leave, Paul realizes that he's finally scored a meaningful point and engaged her deeper curiosity.

Paul speaks of Trish’s offer of help, wondering if she really has been through hell as she claimed. Did that mean she’d been forced to relinquish her controlling nature – one that he must admit seems to be a close mirror of his own? How did it happen, he wants to know. What did she learn? Paul is intense, driven.

Paul's intensity is infectious and stifling. Patricia simultaneously wants to get away and take advantage of the situation as her needs make themselves manifest. On impulse, she wipes her bloody hand across his face, realizing too late that it's a bad idea. For one moment, she thinks she's safe as he licks her hand in passing – perhaps that’s all he wants - but an instant of Frenzy follows. Patricia’s strong, but not strong enough. She’s shocked by her physical vulnerability as Paul almost tears her throat out. He feeds from her, growling and greedy and taking a dangerous amount of vitae.

When it's over, Patricia badly weakened, and realizes that she must hunt immediately. Paul, suddenly calm again, tells her that she's a danger to the populace and the Masquerade at this point. Her response is a heartfelt - if unsteady - fuck you.

Paul insists that she could feed from him, if she wanted to. But there's no compulsion, he wouldn't presume, he says with the return of his previous smug demeanor. He seems to not care about the blood on his face. Trish remembers an unpleasant moment when Michael compelled her to “choose” to feed from him and teeters on the edge of Frenzy - an equal combination of hunger and anger.

The needling continues. Paul asks her if she enjoyed it - how long since she had been forced to give up control? It didn't feel all that bad, did it? Certain forms of submission are quite pleasant - it's one of the secrets of the ongoing success of creatures like the kindred, of course. Naturally, this provocation frays Trish’s nerves. She knows she should leave, but she also knows that Viersan has at least one point - if she tries to feed from a human now, she's liable to leave them dead.

But she won’t give in. She isn’t the one lamenting a broken heart. Trish approaches Paul quite carefully and deliberately - and ignoring all boundaries of personal space. After all, it's a bit late for such things. She knows he's trying to provoke her, a little tit-for-tat and she refuses to fall for it. She acknowledges that, come the cold hard light of morning, Paul will probably regret what he's done but she won't let her ass get put in the same sling, so sorry. She is proud of her ability to resist temptation, although with her increasing hunger and urge to lash out at the Ventrue, her resistance is a tenuous thing.

On that bloody note, the pair of them part, but Patricia must concede that the encounter not what she expected and, therefore, rather interesting. She thought that theirs was going to be an encounter of simple violence, not this. This mutual exchange of vulnerabilities was - to overuse the word - very interesting indeed.

Paul, meanwhile, wonders how to continue engaging Patricia’s interest - but in such a manner in which the upper hand is unequivocally his. If he can bring himself to treat her abominably then surely he’s found his 'old self' again?

Sat, 29 Apr 2006 01:13:49 GMT

Back from a dirty weekend and all is nominally right with the world, although I'm starting to think there's something up with Mr. On-Again/Off-Again. I don't think he's married. Maybe he's just bored, or got someone else. No skin off my nose if he is/does. It's not like we have a very emotional relationship, is it? I don't think I'm going to be allowed one of those until I retire - ha ha.

Pete's got that dark-and-broody look about him. I'd better go get him drunk and find out what's on his mind...

Mon, 24 Apr 2006 19:02:49 GMT

The consensus seems to be that we're going to follow up on Blackheart's broad hints that the oppo are hoping I'll change sides - shake that tree and see what falls out.

It's going to take a couple of months, as Blackheart's particularly difficult to fool. Embarrassingly enough, the MO is "Wait until an operation goes up shit creek - a 'when', not an 'if' - and then scapegoat Andrea for it". Not what I'd call sophisticated, but it'll leave the right traces in the right places. Simply faking a few emails and spreading some rumors won't cut it in this case.

Give it a couple of weeks for the word of my so-called crucifixion to get around, and then I'll place that ad in the London Times.

I don't think this'll turn into a full-blown double-agent thing. Not with me in the lead, at least. Maybe Marlena will do a turn in my skin. It wouldn't be the first time.

Right now, I'm concerned with making time for Mr. On-Again/Off-Again, selfishly enough. Apparently we're on at the moment. Thank god for that. Dry spells have gone on for far too long when Pete starts looking good - although the real danger sign is Jason. In a body cast. If I ever reach that point, I'm calling an escort service.

Aftermath - II

Sat, 22 Apr 2006 18:56:22 GMT

Just a job, he said. Sure it is. A way to keep an eye on me, make sure I've got some money - like he didn't give me enough before I left - and, almost incidentally, take care of an unpleasant chore. It shouldn't be too difficult, although I suppose I'll have to cut my time in England short as a consequence. I think I'll go to Australia, afterwards.

Wait, that would be a bad idea - it would be just my luck to run into a certain Brujah and I don't think he'll give me time enough to explain what happened before tearing my head off. The United States are out for the same reason. So many places I have to avoid, although I suppose that my walking around in daylight will do the Masquerade some good, non?

I miss him something terrible. I keep expecting to see him when I go "home", or to hear him when the phone rings. It'll get easier over time, I know it will. I think I can trust him to abide by my request to give me at least a year without his vitae. Then I'll know that I can think clearly. Insofar as that's possible for me - although that has been remarkably easy, so far, which leads me to wonder...

Prague - II

Fri, 21 Apr 2006 22:42:00 GMT

That was interesting.

Prague started off as a washout. The local authorities are, in fact, a lot more competent than my bosses give them credit for. Those few ex-Securitat types lurking in the corridors probably helped - for a change.

So yeah, 48 hours in-and-out and it was just another expense report to file until Elliot-bloody-Blackheart bought me a drink in the airport bar.

For the record, I made a point of pouring said drink into a potted plant.

Then, with a fresh Heineken in hand, I cut to the chase. He was hardly there to ask about my health, was he?

As it turns out he was, sort of.

He wanted to cut a deal, of the kind that would have me - or, more to the point, my bosses - owing him a favor. Our trade makes for strange bedfellows, so I listened to him. With an utterly straight face, he told me that James Muellen is alive and well, and cheerfully working for the oppo.

Muellen has been believed dead for two years - the victim of a nasty car accident that left us with not much to identify, which, yes, set off some alarm bells at first. As one of CB's best analysts - possibly the best - it was the bosses' fervent hope that Muellen was, indeed a charred husk and not doing exactly what Blackheart claims he's doing - living the life of Riley selling a head full of stolen information.

I didn't believe him at first, go figure. Blackheart gave me A Look and asked if I got so paranoid from being raised by a mobster, or did Bureau 14 offer a special class? Neither of those facts should be known to anyone outside my organization, nor 90% of those inside it, either. The public record very earnestly states that I grew up in leafy suburbia, and those six years after college were spent in the Army. Blackheart's a born spy, but... Fuckin' lovely.

"So you want Muellen out of the picture," I told my drinking buddy. "That's pretty obvious. Why not do it yourself?"

"Not my style." Which I can believe because Blackheart's a numbers cruncher and information junkie, not a killer.

"And why pay a freelancer when you can have it done on some taxpayer's dime, right?"

He laughed at that. "You're part of a supra-governmental foundation and you know it." Fine, no worries. That's hardly a secret in our "community".

"That doesn't answer the question."

"I don't like him," he shrugged.

"You want us to take down your competition?" It made sense.

Blackheart refused to answer that, but he grinned into his scotch. "You've got your reasons too."

"Assuming this isn't one stinking ambush."

"Could be. Could be. But the bait would be a little more imaginative, don't you think? Besides, if I wanted you off the scene, that could have happened as soon as you got off the plane on Tuesday."

That pissed me off, but as the pshrinks keep telling me, anger isn't helpful. Besides, the bastard had a point. "Is that a likely scenario?"

"Of course it is, a woman - a person - in your line of work."

"Fair enough." I wasn't going to rise to the bait and ask for gossip.

I think that surprised him. "The crowd's waiting for you to finally go freelance." I think he wanted to see my reaction. Fortunately, playing poker with Marlene's taught me a few things.

"I hope they aren't holding their breath."

"Not quite, no. But I know some people who know some people..." Again, not exactly surprising.

Five, six years ago, I was giving serious thought to giving Code Black the finger and going my own way, but my boss - a dedicated, insightful and truly terrifying man - made it clear that if I quit under circumstances that were anything less than ideal, I wouldn't make it as far as the garage. Upfront guy, my boss. Then he gave me ten grand and told me to piss off to Paris for a few days. He's smart, too.

"If it comes up again, tell your friends-of-friends they better have deep pockets. It'd be so hard to walk away from all this." I said with an airy wave at the oh-so-glamorous departure terminal of Prague International Airport.

There's no point in burning bridges, after all. Besides, if I shake that tree, who knows what sort of fruitful information might fall out?

We swapped info - an address for a classified ad in the London Times. Whether or not he takes that bait... we'll see, I guess. I'll pass along what I've got and it's up the higher-ups if they want to move on it. I'll probably hear about it sooner or later, as getting rid of Muellen would probably land in my in-box.

Bloody unnerving meeting, though. I hate that whole be civil to your competitors thing. I've no patience for it. It's one of the few things Pete and I agree about.

To top it all off, it looks like Blackheart's bought himself at least a few tidbits about me and mine, and now I'll be up nights wondering how he's going to use it. Lovely.

Thu, 20 Apr 2006 15:43:42 GMT

Bloody. I think I jinxed myself.

I'm going to Prague...

...to pick up the pieces left by Cutter.

I really hope that was a figure of speech in the orders, and not the literal truth.

I'm not a diplomat, but I'm a hell of a cleaner.

Ranting In The Void

Wed, 19 Apr 2006 21:48:40 GMT

I hate politics. I hate administrivia. I hate committees. So how in holy fuck did I end up having to run the latest debrief? It's not like Jason hasn't done it from the hospital before. Marlene's got all the charm, and Pete's much better at scaring the crap out of the higher ups. What have I got? A smart mouth and an unsavory reputation, that's what. Jesus, do they want me to shoot the department in the foot? Bureaucratic, I ain't.

Dinner with Russell Crowe was pretty cool, I'll admit that. By god, that man can drink. But aside from that, we hardly covered ourselves with glory in Rock Steady, did we?

I hear Cutter has my picture. I really hope that's as close to him as I ever get. That man is one scary mofo'ing freak - and I say this as one who knows all about being fucked up. If even half the stories about Prague are true...

Scorpio wants to talk to me. I'll talk to him all day long from the other side of a sheet of bulletproof glass. I'll believe he's come over to Code Black three days after he dies supporting one of our missions. I don't care what the shrinks and the hypnotists say they've found, fixed and done, I don't trust him. Then again, I know a lot of my comrades say that about me. They've got a point. Have one nervous breakdown and they never really relax around you ever again...

I'll give the committee fifteen minutes and then I'm going to go visit Jason. I think I've finally found some pron that'll shock him and I want to see his face when he gets the magazine.