The Journal of Rebecca Allen

December 23, 2009; New York – Wolf and Woman

Wed, 30 Dec 2009 07:41:00 GMT

"...I can tell, you got questions. I'm here now. So at least for the time bein', I'm all yours."

"I told you, you don't owe me explanations."

"No. But I do owe you piece of mind."

"Not sure anybody can give me that."

"Who the fuck really can nowadays? To you, me or anyone... Don't mean a guy can't try, right?"

You can try. But why bother? You have your own problems to deal with, and you'll be gone to do just that soon enough. So what would be the point of me leaning on you now?

"You really ain't mad that I left the Covenant? And that I'm off on 'sick leave?'"

"Mad? Why would I be mad?"

"I dunno. I mean you said so yourself. You ain't one to really trust people. So someone you do trust leaving well... figured you'd wanna kick my ass for ditchin' out."

"It's just a Covenant, Benny. That's not why I trust you."

I can see so much of me in him, and of him in me. Both of us at war with something inside ourselves, both of us swept up by a tide and trying to find a stable place to stand on sand that crumbles away beneath us with each new wave. I used to be able to lie – to wear whatever mask I needed to wear for a given time or task – but somehow that talent is out of my reach now. And stripped of my costume, I find comfort in the type of people who never bother to wear one. Benny doesn't lie. He doesn't placate. He's never tried to change me. I feel younger next to him, as though centuries don't separate us. As though pain and madness and confusion haven't yet taken hold of me and I can believe in something again.

But he's leaving. My port in this storm begins to recede and I am left watching the last of its light fade, knowing that what awaits me is a lonely and tempestous sea.

"You're a sweet girl... doing whatever the fuck it takes to fight for what she thinks is important... even if nowadays what's 'important' happens to be nothing at all. You'll fight for that too. To prove, even if just to yourself, that it's all bullshit, and that nothing really matters in this world. It's noble. And so are you."

Noble? Sweet? I might have been sweet once, when I needed to be, but I've never been noble a second in my life. I've done what I needed to, fought for whatever I thought I believed in, sure. But I've also run and hidden when things got too hard, burned bridges just to watch the flames, and avoided defining myself so meticulously for so long that I've shattered my own mind into pieces.

But I do fight. Even now, when I can't name a single belief or ideal to which I can cling for hope... even now when the whole world seems made of lies and foolish games... I'll shadowbox if I have to, just to be fighting. There's nothing else I can do.

"You're more perceptive than you get credit for, you know that Benny?"

"No, baby. I just care enough to watch. To listen. To notice."

A last, long kiss, and he steps away from me. He regards me now not with the eyes of someone young and aware, but of an animal studying something unfamiliar. Benny has left the building; only the wolf remains now.

"Y'know how you said I was more perceptive than I get credit for, Rebecca? Truth is you're a hell of a lot stronger than you get credit for."

And he's gone.

Maybe he's not that perceptive after all.

December 21, 2009; New York – Adrift

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 08:41:13 GMT

"Adelaide, have I ever told you the story of how Rebecca saved me?"

I don't know how Edward does it. Even at my best I couldn't have kept such a comfortable coccoon of virtue wrapped around myself if I'd been through what he has. And yet here he sits, wide-eyed and filled with hope and propriety, regaling us all with the tale of Saint Rebecca and her valiant stand against injustice in the name of Edward Bloom. And I realize I have no idea who he's talking about.

It wasn't that long ago I was married to a Prince and a respected – if irreverent – member of local society. I knew what I believed in. I cared about things, and I fought for them. I could look someone like Edward in the eye without feeling like his innocent gaze might burn a hole through me. Part of me wants to force his eyes open and disbuse him of his illusions about me. But part of me just wants to hide, and try to enjoy the idea that someone still believes I am anything but a worthless whore gone mad. He has to learn eventually, though. Everyone does.

Instead of learning, Edward teaches. Maybe that's good. Maybe he can teach Prince Howard's childe to survive this world without it breaking him – or maybe he'll make him that much more fragile.

"It is as though in our basic survival instincts... those of flight and fight, of mate and feed, we are reset. We spend our lives learning to overcome these baser instincts, only to have to learn again as Kindred."

"I'm not convinced overcoming them is the best answer," I say. "Maybe that's why we all lose our minds – humans have enough trouble pushing that rock uphill without having to do it with a larger rock for hundreds of years."

I realized that the only thing worse than caging a Lion and letting it grow complacent (or rabid) was doing so when there was no cage at all.

Augustine's words still ring in my head, and now I hear his ideas spilling from my own lips.

"We have great potential," Edward tells his student. "It is a matter of learning that, and controlling ourselves."

"The problem is this: we're all basically pressure cookers. And you can either let the steam out a bit at a time, or explode all over the kitchen. Either way, that steam has to get out."

We aren't human anymore, and the whole game about fighting off the inevitable is a paper cage. One that can be abandoned.

I am no longer your virtuous saving grace. Can't you see? We all fall eventually. It'll happen to you too – maybe not tonight, and maybe not tomorrow. But the longer you hold out, the more it will hurt when your rose-colored glasses finally shatter. Virtue and control no longer belong to us – we are born of chaos, and chaos spreads from everything we touch. We are death and destruction and fear. And you either accept that and find a way to deal with it or you wind up broken.

Like me.

But who am I to judge? At least Edward has made a choice.

You of all vampires can see the cage. If you can walk away from it, you might even hear The Call.

If. If only. If only he were still here to tell me how to listen. Instead the world is filled with noise, but none of it makes any sense. I held out so long, sure that I could stand unchanged and unmoved by the tide, that instead it tore me to pieces. Now all that's left of me is fragments carried by aimless waves, with no direction and no hope of reconciliation. Somewhere beyond the endless blue there are distant shores. Islands on which I could wash up and perhaps begin to rebuild, if only I could choose one.

But I can't choose. I don't remember how.

OOC: Because she's the Carthian Princess

Sun, 20 Dec 2009 05:45:38 GMT

Now that I have a picture, you should all be aware that Rebecca was gifted with this:

It has 13 crafts successes on it. :D

OOC

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 03:23:46 GMT

(Apologies if you've already seen it. I'm re-posting it here so I can have a link that isn't locked to a Cam filter if anyone wants it.)

feralgangrel asked me to write this, so please don't think it horribly arrogant of me.

With the oWoD coming back, you might be considering playing a Tremere. If you have done this before, please ignore this post and/or contribute anything I might have missed. If you haven't, or have only played a Tremere in a tabletop or troupe setting, here's a few things that might be helpful to know:

You will be shat upon.
House and Clan Tremere is all about structure. And structure means that someone will be above you on the totem pole. No matter how brilliant, badass, or generally awesome your PC may be, said PC will have a boss. That boss will have a boss. That boss' boss will have a boss. And at least one of those bosses is going to be a dick. Even if none of them are dicks, at some point you're going to wind up getting tossed some shitwork your boss doesn't want to do, like sucking up to the Prince after that whole accidental Firestorming incident so the whole clan doesn't get exiled.

Sometimes when you're shat upon you won't deserve it. For instance, my old chron PC was once brought in for questioning: after a long scene during which she was tortured and interrogated, it was determined that she did nothing wrong. She was still demoted three circles. At the time I admit I freaked out and got angry. But in the long run, it was something that built RP and intra-clan relationships (of good and bad kinds) for me. But I got shat on because I was low on the totem pole. That's life as a Tremere – and make no mistake, attaining a high rank does not exempt you from this. In fact, the flavor of shit you may be swallowing only gets scarier as you go up.

Your free will will be compromised.
The Thing about the Pyramid is, the Pyramid doesn't care what you want. It doesn't care if you want to be Prince if that isn't what's good for the Clan at that time, or if you worked for months building an awesome haven if they want you living in a chantry. (And honestly, any Tremere with an Apprentice rank should be living in a chantry unless there's a really good reason not to be.) The Pyramid doesn't care who your allies are, or if doing its bidding will lose you friends.

At some point it is very likely that your PC will be asked to do something that runs counter to your concept, nature, or personal desire. This is a terrific opportunity for RP if you take it as such. Part of the fun of playing a Tremere is the constant struggle between free will and the personal vs. duty and obligation. But for that fun, you get put into some very uncomfortable positions. There will be situations where you will be asked to side against your allies, where you will lose the trust of those around you because of required secrecy, or where you will just be asked to do something you don't want to do. The fun of it is in choosing how you deal with those scenarios – do you disobey and risk the fallout or compromise your ideals? – and in learning how to navigate the minefield.

But if you don't like being bossed around, second-guessed, or having other people get a say in the direction your character takes... Clan Tremere is not going to be fun for you.

If you're in it for the Thaumaturgy, think twice.
Yes, Thaum is cool. There's about 400 paths that can do just about anything you can think of, to say nothing of the rituals. But there are downsides too.

For instance, Thaum is a mental discipline. Social and physical traits can be artificially increased through status or power use, but mentals cannot. If you're using Thaum combatively, a lot of your challenges will be your mentals vs. your opponent's physicals. Guess who has better chances?

Also, Thaum is expensive. Think about the XP sinkhole that is having a million in-clan disciplines plus rituals.

If you fuck up, you will probably get caught.
Clan Tremere is filled with people willing to stab you in the back to get ahead. And they all have Auspex. So if you're going to be the guy teaching Thaum to the local Brujah, or selling ritual items for boons, or keeping a demon in the basement, or plotting to overthrow your dick of a boss: think really hard about it. Think about your plan. Think about whether your plan is worth possibly losing your PC. Think about whether there's a patsy you can set up to take the fall for you. Think about who might be watching you all the time. Think about the fact that if you go to a con, there's a 50/50 chance a Councilor will show up and do a ritual that forces you to admit any ties to the Infernal you may have (yes, this happened to me – luckily my ties were clan-sansctioned research and I got to live, yay!). Think, and think hard.

And don't count on the "they won't proxy in to get me" thing, either. Clan Tremere doesn't proxy to you. Clan Tremere stores your blood and explodes your heart from miles away if you refuse to show up for your Tribunal.

Online play is a big part of Clan Tremere in a global venue.
Part of what's great about playing a Tremere in the Cam is you really get the experience of the Pyramid in a way a troupe game can never provide. It's a living, breathing thing inhabited by actual players. To that end, the mailing lists and potential IRC channels are a great resource for playing the Pyramid. They allow you to interact with PCs from all over (provided your PC's boss says it's OK, of course) and watch the fireworks when someone far away fucks up or does something fantastic. I've been in IRC channel sessions where the Pontifex showed up and randomly started quizzing A1s about their ritual knowledge – a thing that was tense for everyone, but also interesting because everyone got the chance to interact with the big scary boss man.

Then there's the cons. Cons are where the big scary clan meetings happen – where you will be face-to-face with a Pontifex (or six), and maybe a Councilor. Where group rituals are done and any misstep might get you noticed by not just your superiors, but theirs as well. It's also where you meet other PCs from other areas, learn how other areas structure their chantries, and get to really understand what a large and awesome thing the Pyramid is supposed to be.

Your ego will be beaten, bloodied, and bruised.
This ties into my first point, but it bears mentioning again. Tremere are not the clan to play if you want your PC to be the awesomest guy in the room all the time. You are always underneath someone's bootheel, and that someone might be a total dick or just hate you. Other clans look down on you because you're murdering pretenders to Clan legitimacy. You will probably get your ass kicked in at least one fight if you're entirely Thaum-based. Your superiors might claim your accomplishments as their own and toss off their failures onto you. You will be knocked down and get back up over and over again, and your PC will get stronger and more interesting every time.

All this might make it sound like Tremere suck to play. But they really don't. You just have to be willing to see everything as an opportunity for RP and character growth, and maybe learn to love pain just a little bit. You learn to stroe away every little piece of information, to navigate a constantly dangerous high-wire between sect and clan and personal desire, and to be a part of some great stories. I think Tremere are one of the harder clans to play because there's so much you need to be thinking about all the time. But that also makes it really rewarding when you look around and realize that you've accomplished something, whatever it may be.

December 5, 2009; New York – Goodbye

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 07:54:44 GMT

"Do me a favor, girl. Tell Becky I won't be gone forever."

He walks away, and I know that I'm supposed to leave with everyone else, but I follow him anyway. Rebecca will want answers and I can't risk not having them for her. The damage would be terrible. And after the night she's had, I'm not sure she can take it.

But what to say? He's obviously agitated, and he wasn't at all pleased when he realized who I was. It seems like days before he finally shoots an exasperated glare my way.

"Be'c-ermm... fuck. Claire, right?"

"For the moment, yes."

He tenses, and a low, threatening growl escapes him.

"What is it miss... Claire? Folks are leaving but you keep lookin' like you wanna talk t' me, girl. W'sup?"

"I realize this is a lot to absorb and I do apologize. But after what happened with Angelo, Rebecca really needed a rest."

His head cocks to the side, like a canine regarding unfamiliar prey. "After what happened with who?"

Oh dear. He didn't know. I have to think fast – better to tell him now, or let him find out from the inevitable gossip? And how to even put such a thing? But his bestial eyes are fixed on me (how does Rebecca deal with such a creature?) and I tell him as delicately as I can. His rage is palpable. Like a living thing, reaching out from inside of him in clawed tendrils seeking to ensnare and destroy me. Fists clench, fists unclench. Snarls and grunts choke from deep within. The fear takes me until I understand... he can't hurt me without hurting her, and he knows it. What I am seeing is not a beast out of control, but a man fighting to maintain control.

"It would hurt her terribly if she thought you think less of her."

He calms, more from surprise than succor. Didn't he know? Before he even speaks, his arms drop to his sides and his posture relaxes.

" 'S 'at so?" he says with a sad, exhausted smile. "An' why's that? I mean... I ain't really thought it mattered to her what anyone thought about her."

"Most people, it doesn't. But she trusts you. She likes you. You're honest."

He's so tired, poor thing. The weight of centuries hangs on a frame only decades old and it's crushing him. I can feel even now how Rebecca worries for him. But she's careful not to get too close – some creatures mistake caring for captivity. Some baby birds need to fly or fall from the nest on their own. Still, it's difficult not to be moved by the sight of him. He should be out seeking fortune and reveling in all this city has to offer someone so young. Instead he's here, a man torn apart and trying to rebuild.

"I'm not well, Claire. You let Becky know that. I'm not well. And I just need to get better is all."

He steps away from me, then, and raises his jaw in what might be defiance and might be veiled hurt. "You should go now," he says. "We still gotta cleanup and then I'm callin' it a fuckin' night."

"If you'd like to say goodbye to her... she may be well enough by now."

He declines.

The sound of my shoes on the floor seems to echo louder than churchbells as I walk toward the door. She would insist upon staying. She would want to soothe him. But he doesn't want us here.

"Yo Claire!"

His voice startles me. "Yes?"

"Listen umm... I just... yeah... umm... Try an' keep 'er safe f' me, will ya? I mean uhmm... yeah."

"I will. Please take care of yourself for her."

Early November, 2009; New York – Three Tiers (Part 3 of 3)

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 08:22:10 GMT

"Who might I have the honor of addressing now ma'am?"

"You can call me Claire. And don't worry, I'm not like the other one. Quite the opposite actually."

He doesn't believe me, of course. That awful Isabel has made such a mess of things I'm sure he thinks I'm here to hurt Rebecca as well. He regards me with disdain, and I wonder why. Is it because he cares for Rebecca? Or is it simply because I remind him of what he's been through himself? I could understand either one. Such traumas stay with a person longer than anyone is willing to admit, and a bias against a construct like me would be no surprise.

But he won't understand. He wants to rush her, and she isn't ready. He isn't in here with her; he doesn't see how she struggles and sufffers, the poor thing. She needs me.

"I'm afraid I can't agree, unless you think you're able to be in charge on a more permanent basis. You're another way to avoid the situation..."

He can't see how far she's come. There was a time when the actions that drove her to this state would have caused her to hide away in sleep for perhaps decades at a time. She kept a tenuous grip on what is commonly mistaken for sanity for so long by hiding from all the things that sought to break down her walls. But this time she chose to stay. This time she chose to face the storm, no matter what it brought.

Of course she didn't expect it to bring... us. Perhaps she would have hidden if she had. But it's too late to think of that now – we are here, and we must abide.

I understand his concern. He sees her as broken, and he wants to fix her, whatever his reasons. But how can I allow him to push her faster and farther than she is able to go? That kind of pressure now would only exacerbate her troubles. These things take time.

"Do you think time is unlimited?"

"No, of course not. But that doesn't give you the power to force things that can't be forced."

"I am not forcing anything, merely nudging persistently. I think that perhaps your self preservation instinct is blinding you from the peril you all face together, such selfishness seems out of character."

Selfish? The word strikes me like a blade. I exist – I was made – to care for her. To protect her. I exist because she needs me to exist. How can that be called selfish?

Even now I can feel her anger simmering inside me. It's hard to blame her, even if I can understand his complaint. He's just so stubborn. He won't listen, he won't understand that what worked for him won't work for her. Perhaps he was able to repair himself by sheer will, but Rebecca will need time. She has close to no one and nothing left to trust and can barely make sense of who she is, and he asks me to press even harder on her. Can't he see what that would do?

Or doesn't he care? His face betrays no hint of emotion. Perhaps he's here to amuse himself at her expense. The cruelty of the idea wounds me.

He won't speak to me about young Kato. He only hurls insults and accusations. He says I make her weak, that I am a parasite. And yet he claims to understand – how can he understand and speak this way? She needs me.

I'm sorry, Rebecca. I can't let him keep going at you this way. Maybe another time, when you're ready.

"You obviously aren't interested in listening to anything but your own voice. I'm terribly sorry, but I just don't see any point in belaboring this any longer."

He leaves without further argument; a small mercy. It's a pity. If he truly is concerned for her then I would have liked to have him help her. I wonder if there is anyone who can be trusted.

Is there, darling? Do you have anywhere else to turn?

No matter. You don't need them anyway. You have me.

Early November, 2009; New York – Three Tiers (Part 2 of 3)

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 07:58:52 GMT

Cold salt air fills my lungs, the wind beats at my face. It calms me. Out here I can think without the stench of roses seeping into my pores and her infecting the air. Shade's watching me. I can feel his eyes on me, and it makes me want to carve his heart out of his chest and toss it overboard. But I need what he knows.

"OK. Tell me everything."

I knew when Kato spoke of his wife that he didn't mean one of us. And he wouldn't be stupid enough to marry a mortal. But I trust him. He's always been smart, and he's never lied to me. When he told me he was leaving to be with her I assumed he knew what he was doing. He's always known what he was doing. Kato wouldn't lie to me...

But Shade's telling a different story. That Kato had gone mad, lost track of time and place. And I wonder now if I only heard what I wanted to. If I didn't read between the lines and give him what he needed. If what I thought was giving him freedom was really my neglecting him. If I failed him.

"I thought you'd want to help... but now I'm worried about you too."

"I have enough people worried about me. You want to help me, you help my find my son."

He won't listen. Pull it together, he says, as though if I could just decide to evict that bitch she'd be here tormenting me and building torture gardens in my home. As though I can just will all of this away.

Men and their lectures. I'm so tired of men who want to tell me what I need, and who I am, and who I should be, and what I need to do, and what they'll allow me to do. Of men acting out of arrogance veiled as concern or intelligence. Men who act like they're doing me favors by baiting me and then pulling back the carrot until I agree to be who they would like. They've got themselves so convinced of their own greatness that any scrap of false chivalry they toss your way is supposed to be some great honor.

Kato wasn't like that. He was different – wise. He never tried to fit me into any box, and in return I gave him the same courtesy. And it may have doomed him, and all Shade wants is to sell me on Scientology.

Do this, do that. No help finding your son until you've finished your vegetables and reached the nadir of self-actualization. If he happens to die in that time, well I guess you just weren't good enough and isn't that a pity you can't do what you're told.

The knife is within reach.

That's a bad idea...

I could put an end to this right now.

Please don't. I don't want to have to do this...

He's not going to tell me anything anyway.

Oh dear.

The world begins to spin, and I wonder if I've had too much to drink. I watch as the cheap cigarette Shade gave me tumbles to the deck, my fingers refusing to obey my desire to catch it. Everything dims.

"I'm terribly sorry. I don't think this conversation is one that Rebecca is entirely ready to have in depth. Things are still very difficult for her. But maybe I can clear up any questions you have."

Early November, 2009; New York – Three Tiers (Part 1 of 3)

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 08:43:49 GMT

"I was in the neighborhood and thought you might appreciate a family visit."

He wears the pretense about as well as he does that ridiculous cowboy hat, and I hardly have the time or the patience for interruptions right now. But there's something pathetically sweet about the way a man who hasn't had the time of day for his relative in years is suddenly so interested.

And he is interested. His eyes betray his curiosity: about me, about her floating home, about my garden. He plays dumb, asking coy questions. But he knows. He just wants to dance. It's hard to say why – maybe he enjoys the game, maybe he wants to test my limits. Though he declines to indulge his curiosity the way Mr. Cole did... pity. I think he would have been amusing.

But he dislikes me. He blanches at my touch and calls me mad. He's wrong, of course. It's his Rebecca who is mad. If not for her fragile little psyche crushing beneath the weight of her own deeds, I would never have gotten in. And much as I would love to walk this pale form of hers out into the sun... she's the only life I have left. A bitter irony.

"Now tell me why it is you're at war with Rebecca?"

The same boring questions every time. What do you want, why do you hate her, what did she do, why won't you leave the poor girl be, on and on and on. Filthy impersonations of concern. If any of them really cared they'd have locked this body up by now, but they let her wander free, trying to drown me in drugs and drink and men. They let me wander free to grow stronger. They hate her as much as I do. They hate her simpering frailties and her petulant tantrums. But they have to pretend, to maintain the appearance of civility. Until, of course, I have won.

You see, dear? They don't want you either. And eventually I'll have stamped out the last little spark of Rebecca and we can all be set free of you. It will take time, of course. But we have time. All the time in the world for you to pay for what you did to me. And no apparitions you can conjure to pat your little head will save you.

He tries to bait me with questions and insults and lies. They'll throw you over, he says, the two of them. More will come and there won't be room, and you'll be forgotten. If only he'd agreed to the table, I could be flaying the skin from his bones right now. All his gambits could give way to screams and blood.

I could do it anyway...

No. I don't have her temper.

And still, as he postures and assaults me with barbs wrapped in small talk, I can't help but picture his face awash in red and his throat cut from ear to ear. Eventually I don't even hear him speak – just see his lips moving and hear the gurgling sound he would make choking on his own blood.

"Kato..."

Wretched little shit made me let my guard down. Trying to call her to the surface with taunts of her precious little boy was clever, and I left him the opening to do it. He's smarter than I estimated. But I won't be sent away so easily.

"Who's trying? Don't worry about Kato, he's gone. There wasn't anyone there to pull him back from the crazy he was slipping into. No one he trusted anyway..."

Her words now. Her voice. This body moves outside of my control.

NO. Not this time, you pitiful whore. I have work to do. Don't listen to him. Sink back down where you belong.

"His wife was a spirit Rebecca, he's not with us anymore. He's as gone as if he lost himself to the beast."

"...Are you telling me that Kato is dead?"

Stab him. You've got the knife in your hand, just put an end to this. Indulge that mama bear fantasy of yours and rip him to shreds to protect your cub and then run off into your subconscious to have a good cry about it so I can get back to cleaning up the mess you've made of my garden. Kill him. NOW.

The flesh on his throat gives slightly at the blade's pressure. He doesn't fight me.

"Where is my son, Shade?"

Early November, 2009; New York – Fire and Iron

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 22:20:27 GMT

We spoke, once, in another time, as other people. Like you said, people change.

I remember the conversation. We spoke of forest fires – of how sometimes the only way to save the forest is to burn it down, of rebirth from the ashes. Did he plant the seed back then? Or have I not changed as much as I think? Even then, when I was idealistic and wide-eyed and wanted to heal everyone, I knew he had a point. Sometimes you can't build until you destroy. I wonder now if the years between then and now have been the fire burning me down. If all my confusion, all my anguish, all my horror has been the death that comes before rebirth. Maybe I am someone else now – someone I was already beginning to become back then.

But who? Is the fracturing of my mind the result of that confusion? I've always fought against being defined. Maybe I fought so hard this time that I cracked under the pressure. Instead of being reborn by the fire, I let it burn away my core, and all that is left is chaos.

I tried for years to find someone else to serve, another master. I found many, none have any truth to their actions, only the same boring routine.

I then realized that it wasn't the people I served or their silly pedantic games, or even the nauseating courts night after night. It was me. I was the problem. I was the only one who could change.

So I did.

The games, the routine. He isn't wrong. I've run from all of that for so long, existing on the fringes, looking in from the outside and pounding my fists against the windows in frustration. I've dabbled in the trappings of society but never committed. I've hidden. I've played along. Nothing satisfied me. Is it because I never decided? For all my obstinance, I've never really chosen whether to exist in this world or to withdraw from it. I dance on the fence and malign my discontent.

But which is the better path? To dive in and drown in pettiness and politics, or to reject it all and be alone?

Or is there a third path...?

I realized that the only thing worse than caging a Lion and letting it grow complacent (or rabid) was doing so when there was no cage at all.

We aren't human anymore, and the whole game about fighting off the inevitable is a paper cage. One that can be abandoned.

You of all vampires can see the cage. If you can walk away from it, you might even hear The Call.

His words chill me. But I wonder if what disquiets is the inhumanity with which he speaks, or the fact that I can't say that he is wrong. I know the feeling of being caged. I've played so many roles and worn so many ill-fitted skins and told myself they were means to an end. But what end? Where did it get me? I'm not free – just the opposite, in fact; I am a prisoner of my own mind. I drown myself in any distraction I can find to hide from... what? Her? Me? Or the decision I've spent centuries refusing to make?

I can see the cage now. I put myself inside it.

November 3, 2009; New York – Caesar is Fallen

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 05:38:22 GMT

The Emperor was naked, and now he is dead.

He never had a chance, marching out into a society he no longer understood and which no longer recognized him. But age breeds arrogance and out he strode, chest puffed like some proud bird, and expected deference. There are, of course, always those weak enough of mind and will to follow anyone who claims to lead, and this time was no different. I still remember their accusing eyes on me. The shock that anyone would dare question their precious leader was as sweet as perfectly aged wine.

Introduce a little chaos and you'll see who people really are.

And they showed their true colors, the followers. When the tide turned against their chosen messiah, they turned with it, lacking the courage to die for their alleged convictions. Cowards. They hope to build an ordered society yet they bend at the first sign of danger. With followers like that, who needs Eresian strumpets?

No, he never had a chance.

I can see them now, gloating over their great victory, as blind to their hypocrisy as they were to their foolishness. Children, unable and unwilling to admit what they do not know. They killed their emperor and with it their pipe dream of order. It's delicious.

Still, I do wish we had gotten to speak again. I had hoped he would find a way to respond to my letter. There are so few anymore who are worth breaking.

But I am patient. I will tend my garden and wait, and another chance will come. Those who claim to care for Rebecca know not how to defeat me, and the one she has chosen to live with her as a guard sees no need to try. And so I will only grow stronger even as she builds new goddesses she thinks will protect her. I will grow stronger, and I will wait. And when she has diminished and I am returned in full, my work may begin in earnest.

October 4, 2009; New York – New Girl in Town

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 08:28:35 GMT

The garden is lush and abundant with new growth. Vines cover the walls and the roses bloom in every color imaginable, their fragrance mixing with that of the apples on the tree and permeating the air. The tree, in the center of the room, is magnificent. Enormous and black, its branches reaching up and then outward where they crawl across the ceiling like fingers. Against the blackened wood, the apples shine a brilliant shade of red, like rubies surrounded by emerald leaves.

It would be beautiful if it weren't so terrifying.

She isn't here. I listen for her and strain my senses looking, but she doesn't come. The garden is silent as I walk toward the tree (rose blooms turning to face me as I pass), waiting. I call her name and receive no answer.

"She isn't here."

The voice behind me is soft and warm. I turn to face my visitor and she smiles, stepping toward me.

"It's alright," she says, her words gliding across the room like a warm breeze. "I'm not here to hurt you. Quite the opposite, in fact."

Her eyes sparkle the blue of the sea; her cheeks are flushed and pink. Her golden hair is tied in an artfully tousled chignon. She continues toward me. The roses turn away from her as she passes and the leaves on the tree close with her approach. When she is close I can feel her warmth reach out and envelop me. In spite of myself, I am comforted.

"You poor thing! Just look at you. She's got you terrified, hasn't she? Well don't you worry. I won't let her hurt you. You're safe now."

"I don't understand..." My voice sounds slurred and dumb, not like hers, which rings clear.

"You need rest," she says, taking my hands in hers. "That Isabel, she's been tormenting you so badly that you can't even think anymore. But that's all over now. I'll hold her at bay and you can rest."

She smiles again and I want to throw myself into her arms. Instead I am frozen in place, but she pulls me to her and I collapse into her embrace. She smells of clean salt breezes and fresh linen. My body convulses as I choke and sob while she coos gently, comforting me. I'm tired, and scared, but somehow she feels safe. A lighthouse marking the way home in a storm.

When I open my eyes we're out on the starboard deck. The boat rocks gently with the calm winds that carry across the water. A full moon shines brightly and illuminates the world in chades of blue and violet. It takes a moment to recognize the feelings of calm and safety – they haven't visited me in so long. She squeezes my hand and turns to walk away.

"Wait – I don't understand..."

Her smile warms me when she turns. "You can call me Claire."

And she's gone, carried away on the mist.

•••

Awake drips slowly down from above, sounds and sensations coming into dreary focus as though I'm swimming through honey. I open my eyes, expecting to be outside, but find myself in bed. The weight on my mind tells me that the sun isn't yet down, but I fight back sleep and scan the room. I'm alone.

It's alright, I'm here. Rest now.

October 3, 2009; New York – The Open Door (continued)

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 06:31:48 GMT

This can't be real.

I must be dreaming. Or drunk maybe, though I don't remember drinking anything... I close my eyes and tell myself it isn't real. That when I open them again, all of this will be gone. I wait.

But when I open them again it's all the same, as though I've walked right back into a memory.

The room is lined with beds filled with rose bushes. Not new – they've had time to grow and to bloom. At the far end of the room is a circle hidden from view by a circle of potted trees. My stomach turns just looking at it and thinking of what might be inside.

"You alright?"

Simon's voice startles me. How long have I been standing here? Hours? Days? Did I call him? I can feel my mind searching for the answers but all I can seem to find is the fog of my confusion and the sound of her laughter.

He heads straight for the trees.

There's a table inside the circle. Its heavy wood is stained with blood and covered with nicks and scars. Behind it, a cross leaning on the wall, of smiliar make. Both are fitted with heavy shackles. Nearby are two smaller tables covered with tools. Knives, whips... other things I can't identify.

Simon is dead calm as he starts asking questions: when, who, how. I'm torn between finding his temperance comforting and infuriating. It would be naive to expect sympathy, but his reaction is too difficult to discern: is it concern? Accusation? Something else? The last thing I need right now is another unanswered question and the blank slate he presents itches at me like spiders crawling on my skin. I can't sit here re-hashing the last year to him. I need answers.

Cole mentioned the cross. That's a good place to start. Simon's still talking as I lay my hand on the wood and concentrate... and the answers come.

I can feel the storm rising inside me as the wood gives up its memories. My vision goes red and Simon's voice is drowned beneath the screaming inside me. My nails dig into the wood. I want to kill her, to carve her eyes out all over again, to hear her beg for mercy. Instead I hear her mock me, knowing that she is untouchable.

So I do the only thing that I can.

The potted trees hit the wall with satisfying crashes and the metal tools clang and clatter loud enough to almost shut her out. I rip the bushes from their beds, thorns cutting at my hands and face. The noise, the blood, the shredding soil... it's enough for a while.

I'll only rebuild, you realize. You can't stop me. And you can't kill me.

•••

Quiet now. The tide is rolling back away from the shore; the storm has passed. Simon offers me a flask. Victor is with him this time. The questions begin again, and I answer.

"I think that the mind has an incredible ability to forget the horrible things that have happened to it."

"And?"

"And maybe this was one too many murders for you. Or maybe she's using her Acolyte gifts to haunt you from the Twilight. Or maybe there's something else going on here. That's what we're trying to find out."

"One too many? How many people do you think I've killed? I could count them on one hand."

"We're not all built to be monsters. Maybe you're not one of them. And maybe this is why."

"Yeah, I guess. Lucky me."

Funny thing, time. It's wasn't so long ago I was chasing after him, trying to offer a hand, only to have him push me away. Looking at him now I can't help but wonder if our roles have been reversed. I wonder why he's still here – Simon used to reserve a particular flavor of disdain for me. He found my wide-eyed idealism foolish and eventually came to find my cynicism contemptible. But he seems so concerned now... maybe he's just a sucker for lost causes.

He looks to Victor. "Any thoughts on the moment at hand?"

"Yeah, leave her alone. This is who she is and it is how she is coping with things. I don't think its a good idea to mess with the healing process."

"You call this healing?"

"You did something that I would never do. You murdered someone in cold blood that had no means of defending themselves. That has to have some cost to it on the ole psyche, so yes, I think this is how you are healing."

"Yeah well, she had it coming. And anyway, she's getting her payback now. She thinks this is hilarious."

"No, it isn't her, it is you. Just a part of you that is capable of killing someone that can't defend themselves. You probably think that you would never do that, could never do that, but you did. So it's better to blame her for it all instead of facing it."

"No. I've done worse. Just last time I had the sense to go to sleep for a few decades afterward."

"Worse how?"

I curse myself as soon as I hear Simon's question. I wasn't thinking, and I don't feel like getting into all of that now. Luckily Victor intervenes.

"Well, put on your big girl panties because you can't just run and hide from this. It's going to be in your face until it works itself out. Going to sleep will just make it worse."

I know he's right. It's always been my instinct to run, but it won't work this time.

•••

"Destroy it." Simon's voice is quiet – Victor has gone, having said his piece, and Simon's formal mask has slipped away.

"She'll just rebuild. That's all she keeps saying. Over and over and over."

"Do it anyway."

"More than I have? Look at this mess. I think the damn bushes actually fed off of me."

"Just... try." He lets out a sigh. He's not accustomed to comforting people. Sword arms are rarely soft. "It'll be alright."

"You seem actually worried about this."

"I am."

"...why?"

"I'm always worried."

It's hard to blame him.

October 3, 2009; New York – The Open Door

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 01:43:25 GMT

The door is locked.

It's always locked.

I tell myself that there's nothing on the other side – that behind this door is just machinery. I've walked by it a thousand times and always heard the sound of motors and gears coming from inside. But I don't hear anything now.

•••

"Simon, what does it mean if an Invictus calls you by your first name?"

Simon's explanation doesn't help. Cole seems to think we're much closer than we are, and the details of our conversation are coming back slow – as if we'd spoken years ago – even though he's only been gone a few seconds. None of this makes any sense. I know that I was at the last gathering. Well, she was. But what the hell did she do?

"Is this a brother-sister conversation, Rebecca?"

"Well it sure as hell isn't a prince-peon conversation."

I can't remember the last time Simon and I had a conversation that wasn't either stilted or some form of verbal combat. It's surprising to find myself leaning on him this way – almost as surprising as it is that he's letting me, but it's cold comfort. She was here, he says, and she wants to stay. She said he should prefer her to me. That he should help her. But he says he wants to help me.

I can barely concentrate on what he's saying with her laughter echoing from every corner of my brain and I feel like a tidal wave is rising just behind me, waiting to crash over my head. I'm drowning. She's holding me down and swimming toward the light and I'm drowning.

"Just don't give up," I hear him say. "Don't lay down. Promise me."

•••

I'm still staring at a locked door when I hear footsteps on the upper deck. Victor's home. I close my eyes and feel the boat rocking around me – rough seas tonight – and try to will my hands to stop shaking.

You sure you want to do this, darling?

Yes.

No.

Shut up.

A deep breath and I open my eyes and start working on the lock.

•••

I remember now – I told Cole everything. I told him about her and I have no idea why. He asked, and he looked at me with those awful pleading eyes of his, and the words just spilled out like wine from a dropped glass. Eventually curiosity wins over cowardice and I approach him again. I need to know.

It's oddly comforting to watch him twitch as he starts to explain. At least he's as uncomfortable about this as I am. Shackles, he says. Hooks and pokers and knives. I want to rip his throat out, call him a liar... but I know he isn't lying.

"It wasn't me. It was... but it wasn't... not really."

"If you're concerned about your performance Madame Allen, you shouldn't be. You were quite excellent."

If it were any other night he'd already be dead.

"Sam, I don't even own any of that crap. Where did she take you?"

"Your boat. The room on the lower deck."

"That's impossible. There's nothing down there but machinery."

•••

A soft click as the lock finally gives way.

My hands start to shake again as I grip the handle and open the door.

Early September, New York – An Unexpected Guest

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 06:33:36 GMT

I missed the boat. More specifically, I missed the water. I've come to take my living arrangements for granted in recent years, but months inland have made me appreciate my home on the sea all the more. I step out onto the deck and inhale deeply. The first chill of autumn is beginning to make the air crisp with just the slightest bite of the coming cold, and the breeze coming off the water hits the skin like tiny needles late at night. It's what I imagine being alive must have felt like, if I could really remember the millions of little feelings associated with being alive. But that horizon seems farther away all the time.

Then the mist swirling around the deck begins to change. It moves as if of its own volition, building upon itself into a dense cloud that begins to take the shape of a man. I feel my body tense into a defensive stance as my mind curses the blade left behind on the nightstand inside. Victor's within calling distance... maybe. I wait, focusing my vision as acutely as blood will allow, and finally begin to recognize the form thickening before me.

"Benny... nice to see you. I think."

He's caked in blood and ash, fangs and claws extended and coated with similar grime, eyes glowing the color of burning blood. His aura is boiling. Before he even speaks – which he does in curt and predatory tones unlike his usual vernacular – it's clear some piece of him has slipped out of place.

"I heard you were... at the gathering here in New York, a few nights back?"

Close, puppy. But no biscuit.

"That's what they tell me."

A hint of self-awareness as he looks down at himself, muttering an apology for missing me at a party I don't remember attending anyway. Benny's still in there, then. Somewhere beneath this... whatever this is. It's a start.

"I've been... thinking is all, Becky. I've just been thinking..."

"Thinking doesn't leave you covered in blood and ashes, Benny."

"Oh, that? Eh. Unfortunate trappings of getting shit done sometimes. Problems that needed to be dealt with - so I did. Problem people. Problem Vampires. Problem... other things. Nothin' I couldn't handle, though."

"So am I a problem you've come to deal with?"

"Yes, Rebecca. Yes you are, I'm afraid."

He's laughing. But he isn't lying.

"The problem being that I've missed you. The solution being that we spend more time together. And I'm dead-set on solving this here problem, girl... feel me?"

Something still not quite right. A square peg whose corners have been filed off to fit the round hole. Like his skin no longer hangs right over his soul. Like he's something else wearing Benny Martinez as a costume and thinks it's ridiculous.

But that happens to everyone eventually.

He's tired. Bending beneath the weight of his own confusion – mortal family, Kindred society, animal, man, monster. Once he finally relaxes it's easy to see the slump in his posture. He's a hundred different creatures trapped in the body of a boy who can't make sense of any of it. I remember the feeling: the fear, the crippling melancholy, the rage that burns crimson behind the eyes. I miss it sometimes.

"Being around us all the time tends to change you."

"Yeah... yeah it does, doe'n't it?"

"You'll find the irony is that everyone who told you that you need to 'grow up' and 'stop being naive' will now scorn you for losing your youthful innocence."

"Or just stay away. Avoid you and treat you like a potential threat 24/7. It's annoying."

My goddess, he's delightful. Almost as much fun as Jason.

Gradually, he calms. The beast retreats and lets Benny slip back into place for the moment. He isn't who he was, but he's as close as he's likely to get. What boiled under his surface now only simmers. Still, I tense as he slips an arm around my waist, and shiver as he lays gentle kisses on my neck. Something still too unfamiliar to be entirely comfortable.

"Look. it was really good t' see you, girl. But it's obvious I still ain't 100% and i don't wanna stick around just t' upset you, a'ight? So. I'm comin'a see you again, Rebecca. When I'm a lil more myself. 's 'at cool?"

You aren't upsetting me."

"...Yet."

"What makes you think you will?"

"The Animal inside me's closer to the surface than it ought to be. Makes me act... different. And if we're to stay friends... or... however close to that a pair of blood suckers can be... then cave-man Martinez needs to step it back again, feel me?"

"I've seen worse. Anyway, no one's really themselves anymore. But sure. I get it."

"Yeah... I suppose y'do, huh?"

His expression darkens and I find myself willing him not to say the words I know are coming next:

"We still have to talk, though. About Connecticut."

Suddenly he feels much too close and the whole city and the ocean feel much too small, and all I want is to run. Fortunately Benny runs first.

"I'd kiss you, but you're like a cat in bath. Shame really. I really did miss that pretty face o' yours somethin' fierce."

"A cat in a bath?"

"Skittish..."

The word barely echoes as he collapses back into mist. I wait, watching it curl away over the side of the deck and blend with the fog coming off the water before turning to get a bottle from the bar.

February 17, 2009 – The Gift

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 06:48:03 GMT

The box is wrapped in cheerful silver paper that glitters in even the faintest light. No return address on the outer package. I am careful before opening it – shake it gently, listen, smell, see. Nothing appears out of order. I gently separate the edges of the paper, anticipation crawling over me as the paper crinkles between my fingers.

Red tissue paper, cradling a pillow in the matching shade, itself cradling a bottle. Glenlivet, 1987.

And a card, typewritten: For My Darling Becky

Poetry. About... motherhood. And a typewritten note:

Wishing you well on this special occasion – Want to go out for a drink?

No signature.

I find myself looking over my shoulder and I'm not sure why. I think. Check the date. Check it again. No occasion springs to mind.

I concentrate on the note still clutched in my hand – feel my fingers pass over the grooves made by the typewriter keys and inhale the smell of the ink. Who are you...?

The answers come slow... amusement, a kind of prodding humor, like a child playing a prank. Beneath it... excitement. Determination. Anticipation. Invitation. It's something akin to a child shouting, "Look ma, no hands!" The desire to share something.

But what? And who? Kato would sign his name; this is unlike him. And the others... I don't think the others will be inviting me to celebration anytime soon.

Want to go out for a drink?

My eyes make their way back to the bottle. A twenty two year-old scotch. Is that a clue? 1987. I was... nowhere. Off the grid. Wandering the world aimlessly. I don't recall anything I would call an "occasion," or very much in particular about the year at all save the terrible fashion trends of the era, now seemingly determined to revisit themselves upon society. But somehow I doubt my anonymous admirer is interested in fashion. No, this is... the feeling... is somehow... familial.

Want to go out for a drink?

Something about that phrase... something familiar, itching at a corner of my brain I can't seem to reach.

It's maddening.

Early February, 2009 – Game Over

Sat, 14 Feb 2009 20:09:41 GMT

I've made a life out of readin peoples faces,
And knowin what their cards were by the way they held their eyes.
So if you dont mind my sayin, I can see youre out of aces.

I hated Kansas. I could never understand how anyone could live in a land-locked state where the dust whips around like snow and the air is dry. But it was there that I learned poker – a game as much about observation as it is about the cards in your hand. The trick – the one that so many never learn – is knowing when to walk away from the table.

I've survived as long as I have by knowing when to leave. Some would call it running, but I've never been the type to stand for an unfair fight just to maintain an appearance of strength. That's a foolish game better left to men who don't know better. I prefer to live another day and let those who underestimate me realize their mistake too late.

Now every gambler knows that the secret to survivin
Is knowin what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
cause evry hands a winner and evry hands a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.

When it was time to die, I died. When it was time to go out on my own, I left. When it was time to sleep away the sins of Europe, I rested. The acute mind knows when to play the cards on the table and when to leave the game.

There's no game here. I've spent my chips on bad bets that yielded nothing, and I have no allies at this table. It's time to go.

You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when youre sittin at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin when the dealins done.

Early December, 2008; New York – Enjoy the Silence

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 05:30:54 GMT

It's quiet.

It hasn't been this quiet here in days. Not since she came.

I can remember the sight of her as clear as if she was standing here now – blonde hair whipping around in the wind, framing a pretty young face twisted in a spiteful scowl. She'd left him for good this time, she said. He'd pushed her too far.

Has she gone out? Perhaps trotted off after the other brother since his vain attempt at pretending to give a shit in order to wrangle himself a visit fell through? Yes, probably. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.

I didn't believe her even then – partly because I've heard it before and partly because I wouldn't put it past him to send his little Stepford Wife to keep an eye on me. It wasn't long ago he had Thomas babysit me while he was still in the room. Sending a spy into my home wouldn't be such a stretch for him. And it's better than him following me around with the god damned camera, I suppose.

She was a pleasant enough distraction, anyway. Her presence coaxed Brogan into a visit, and though it's been taxing having to hide my activities within my own home and having to make sure my things are locked safely away from her nosy little eyes and her eager little fingers, it has filled the time. Though if she's going to pick up smoking to impress him, she would do well to learn to buy her own cigarettes.

How can she care so much what he thinks about her every move? How can she swear to be through with him out of one corner of her mouth while plotting her next ruse to earn his attention out of the other? Can't she see the weakness in that? The naiveté?

"Because you luuuuuv him."

Her words, echoing back at me like a clanging bell. Her childish, teasing, impish little smirks and drunken school girl giggles. Her blatant scheming, completely lacking in subtlety. She's no spy. She could never keep the secret long enough. What was I thinking?

"Maybe one day you'll be able to admit it to yourself."

Silly child. She doesn't understand anything. Where the hell is she anyway? It's much too quiet.

I finally venture out of my room and up into the sitting room, listening for any hint of sound the whole way. Perry's quiet mewing from the chair; otherwise just the wind outside and the gentle lapping of water against the hull.

Finally, an answer: a note. Whiskey, cigarettes and flowers by way of a thank you, and a polite and curt good-bye.

That certainly didn't take very long.

OOC

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 03:06:20 GMT

I'm gonna post someday, I promise. Because I'm all like, actually playing again and have actual shit going on, and it's fun and stuff. Except I'm always too sleepy or too braindead to write up any of that stuff that's going on, which sucks because I need to be like, writing shit, even if it's just silly old game stories.

So yeah. Soon. Or something. When I'm done mentally hibernating.

November, 2008; New York – Burning Up

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 00:37:14 GMT

We're not supposed to come to the Rack these days. Contaminate in the system. You can almost feel it in the air as you walk the streets – the Kine pulse with an extra energy that isn't natural. I'm close now. It shouldn't be too hard to find a source.

But I stand out in a crowd, and I don't want to be remembered. Not here. I duck into a dark spot and slip a mask into place – let them see what they want to, as long as its non-descript.

I pick a club and step inside. Immediately I'm hit by the wall of sound and the heat of a hundred humans drunk with liquor and excitement. Music pumps from every corner and colored lights swirl and flash. It'll be impossible to use my senses to see if there are enemies about, but that's not what I'm looking for anyway. The bass thumps in my brain and I feel myself calmed by it – it quiets her some. I want to dive in, to dive into the sea of vice, but I focus. I'm looking for something else.

And it isn't hard to find. He sticks out like a sore thumb, the boy in the corner. Cleanly-pressed khankis and a neatly-buttoned shirt in a crowd of low-slung jeans and high heels – for a moment I mistake him for Thomas. His drug comes packaged one pill at a time, a cartoonish flame emblazoned on the foil that holds it. He's indiscreet but no one seems to mind.

No good swallowing a pill I'll only spit up, so I find a recent customer instead. It's almost too easy to find a willing victim in a place like this. Hot blood, familiar taste – too metallic. I've had this before. I take more to be sure; he'll have what he thinks is a powerful hangover tomorrow.

It kicks in fast. The feeling is different than anything to which I'm accustomed. Like flying and falling all at once, exhilarated by the breeze as it blows by. Before I know what's happened the dance floor has swallowed me and I'm a part of the mass of bodies undulating to the beat. Color and sound blend; it's hard to tell where anything ends or begins. Like being on a merry-go-round going 400 miles an hour. I feel... free. It's a feeling I'd forgotten.

But nothing lasts forever.

Hard to fight the feeling of my flesh being seared off the bone as I run for somwhere to hide myself so they won't see me. Blurred faces as I run at top speed – forget the car; I can't drive like this anyway. Instead I push myself harder to run faster as my blood boils. It takes every ounce of restraint not to scream.

I hit the water hard and push for the bottom, ripping the clothes from my body as I go. Still it burns and I notice for the first time the black network of veins that pulses under my skin. The sea muffles the scream I can't hold in anymore.

I have no idea how long it's been or how soon the sun will be up. I can't bring myself to care. The pain is finally beginning to subside; I'll stay here until I'm sure it's passed.

November 1, 2008; New York – Through the Looking Glass

Mon, 03 Nov 2008 01:19:09 GMT

He trusts her. How sweet.

How foolish.

She fights me. But I'm stronger now. I have him to thank for that, he made her vulnerable. Gave me just the opening I needed to stretch my legs a little. It's been so very stifling crouched inside her weak little mind. But that's behind me now.

I don't know how she puts up with them. They're all so simple and so terribly boring. One conversation after another of stilted small talk from predators who should be bringing the world to its knees. Even the murderers rush to hide the evidence of their exploits lest it upset the delicate sensibilities of the assembled.

They're like children. They hide from their true nature and from their true potential. So much could be accomplished if they would only accept what they are. We could unmake the world.

And then there's him. She's so attached to him and I cannot manage to find a single reason why. Certainly he makes an entertaining toy, but he's so terribly repressed. His desperate glares and painful attempts at discourse are almost more than I can bear. She thinks he's knows her so well, but he has no idea that she's gone. He doesn't even miss her.

Poor girl. Does it hurt to be so delusional? No, you can't answer of course. You can only try to fight me. Your screams are like a symphony...

Ahh, it seems he's caught up. Excellent. Now we can play for keeps.

November 1, 2008; New York – The Bitch is Back

Mon, 03 Nov 2008 00:22:26 GMT

Cold water shocks my skin as I hit the surface; I push myself to the bottom and try to lose myself in the heavy silence. The water here is different – murkier, darker with pollution. But it's cold and quiet, which is all I require. It's the only place I can hide.

The last glimmer of light from the city above fades to a dim glow and the world finally goes mute. I linger for a moment, enjoying the silence and the dark, content to wallow here in my abyss before I force myself to try to remember what it was that let her in again.

Was it Thomas? I hadn't expected him to do what he did – the memory of it causes my spine to shiver – but wasn't it what I had wanted? Or had I only demanded because I expected him to resist?

He was cold even in relenting. Unsurprising. But why give in at all?

"Because I know that even though you enjoy making my life hell, you would never actually hurt me. I can trust you."

His words, the last thing I remember before the incredible pain. Before the blinding rage. Before the regret in his eyes as the sharpened wood finally found purchase in my heart.

"How long was I gone?"
"A little under two hours."

Two hours. Gone, just like that. She's never broken through for so long before. She's getting much too strong. Maybe it was a mistake coming back like this – maybe it would have been better to go back to wandering the world outside of this broken society of ours. A frivolous life, but one far less taxing. Maybe it's time to run again. This city hardly looks the same anyway. Gideon is gone, Julian has been called away again, and even the faces of the adversaries are new. Hartford has crumbled as has what once passed for family and my mind seems quick to follow. What point is there in staying to watch the world burn?

And yet... isn't that what I wanted? Augustine used to say that a forest sometimes needs to burn to live again. I've sown the seeds of destruction – whether it was she or I matters little now – and am now in the eye of my own storm.

I've spent centuries running from my problems. But wherever I go, she'll follow, bent on punishing me for what I did to her. I could run. But there seems little point now.

April 21, 2008; Connecticut – Unexpected Guests

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 03:21:41 GMT

I barely remember sinking. It happened slowly, so slowly in fact that I barely noticed until it was too late. I never felt her pushing me beneath the waves; never noticed how much control I was yielding. Until it was too late.

Now I can't get back.

I'm trapped down here, darkness on every side except for the muted light above me, my every movement slowed and clumsy in the water. Cold. I try to scream but produce no sound. My every sense is stilled or slowed by my wet prison – every sense except one.

Perfect clarity of sound as she toys with him, as he plays along to analyze her. He knows. He can see. But he won't let me out.

Monster. Bastard. Leave me trapped here so you can collect some data for your damned experiments. Is this what you came here for?

I force myself upward, pushing against the tide she's created to fight toward the surface. She's fighting, keeping me down, and it seems to take forever to push against her. I can feel her getting stronger every second. The surface is like thick glass. I pound away, but I can't build any momentum with the water resisting my movements. The waves laugh at me as they throw me around like a ragdoll in the storm she's made. I can't break through.

Above, she grins and ridicules and beguiles. She tells him lies. I wonder if he can hear me trying to scream. If he can feel the choked sobs that won't release themselves from my chest, or see me bloodying my hands and face trying to escape and regain control. I wonder if he even cares.

She pushes back. My strength is waning. She's going to win. But then...

"Asriyah... I believe that perhaps that is our place together then?"

The tiniest crack breaks the surface at the sound of his voice speaking the name.

"Remember when we'd spend hours on either side of the bar in Vermillion. When I taught you to cheat at poker?"

I push. The crack grows wider.

"I never forget... I can still remember the red dress you wore in Maine when I offered to dance with you. You never did give me the chance to do so you know."

The surface breaks, and the maelstrom sends winds and waves in every direction. Every corner of my mind is filled with her screaming and the rattling panic as I fight to put her down again. The effort exhausts me; I have nothing left with which to face the questions I know are coming. It's bad enough he's seen what he has. Bad enough he's here, in my home, watching me fall to pieces. I won't let him pick me apart while I'm too weak to stop him.

So I do what I always do. I prepare to run.

"I think we should get you settled in your room. It's late."

April 13, 2008; New York – After Tea

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 23:17:21 GMT

"Get away from my car."

"Fine. But recognize that I am not alone in my stubborness. You - and Victor - share that with me."

Thomas steps away and I gun the gas before the door is even closed. I almost wish I hadn't warned him – a few broken bones would do him good. Or at least it would make me feel better.

The arrogant little bastard still doesn't get it. I don't know which makes me angrier – that he refuses to take Victor's threat seriously, or that he refuses to understand what he did wrong. He still insists it was for the good of the Movement; he still defends his selfish lies. He's still a traitor.

But so am I. Except I did what I did for him. He has only ever done anything for himself.

I hate him for that. Or I would... if I could. Even now as I push for more speed to calm the screaming in my head, I can feel the few drops of him in my cold veins pushing me to try and save him. Would I still try if not for that? Or would I leave him to be murdered by his own hubris? I don't know. And that's worse than anything else.

I want to hate him. I deserve to hate him. I know that Victor is right about him. He's just another hypocrite, and the Movement's indulgence of him only makes us all a joke all over again. He feels no remorse for his treachery. He feels no remorse for what he did to me. It's questionable whether he's capable of feeling anything at all. He deserves what he gets. I know he does.

But I can't let it happen. And I don't know anymore if that's because of anything genuine, or just a few drops of blood.

I do know that Audra has it wrong – I'll never be able to love him again. The Thomas I loved died a long time ago.

The engine protests, pushed beyond its limit. I want to push it harder, crank the engine until it explodes. I want to tear the world in half and destroy anyone who gets in my way. But I don't know if those thoughts are mine either.

Too much. Too many things I can't control. I need out.

April 9, 2008; New Haven – War Without End

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 04:15:19 GMT

Justin looks nervous. He should; a room filled with predators there to kill him after the opening of his alleged masterpiece. That thing still hangs over him. But his family isn't here. I don't see how they could possibly be unaware of the performance... but even my most acute senses pick up no sign of them. Maybe they're keeping a low profile.

His hand is shaking when he places it in mine. Something in his eyes reminds me of Jason – they're only a few years apart. I am unable to linger on this thought thanks to Gwyneth's escort.

What the hell is she doing here with Abigail's husband?

A closer look reveals that it isn't him. Some stranger, wearing his face. This does not ease Abigail's temper.

But the lights dim. Time to start the show.

•••

The crowd dissipates, leaving only the predators and the voluntary prey. We waste time as the men ask their questions, unwilling to take the word of a child and a woman for any worth at all. Aidan pretends at continued relevance and pollutes the room with his pompous posturing. Justin, for his part, remains surprisingly calm and answers as best he can.

He doesn't like the fate he's embraced. But then how many of us ever do? What we plan and what happens are rarely coincident. Best not to plan at all...

Julian speaks up.

"Justin... if the scenerio... the future... which includes us does not fair well either... why bring it to us, enlist us as it were?"

The boy meets Julian's gaze – something not many of his age would do lightly, let alone given the knowledge of which he is possessed – before his eyes fall on me.

"Because of her.

"Out of the futures I have seen, yours seemed the most... reasonable. And the least bloody."

Oh my, Rebecca... such ideas in the heads of these boys. How do you do it?

I shake off her taunt and for the first time I see them... two of them, hidden at the back of the room.

We aren't alone.

Two spies hidden and one disguised as one of our own. Nothing good will come of this.

Good.

No. No, that's not what we came here for.

My dear, when will you learn? You cannot stop the tide. Best to embrace it.

Too late to warn them anyway; Felipe has already begun chanting and bleeding himself. I can see it almost before it happens – the mask of Malek falls away to reveal the enemy beneath; then men in the back come forward. We cannot stop the tide. Best to embrace it.

I reach for my knife as they come forward.

There is a short period of argument before the blood starts to flow – everyone's fingers twitching atop the triggers, hoping the adversaries will flinch and back away. The already righteous rage of the Derzhava is only fueled by Gwyneth's choice to remain in the arms of the enemy; it doesn't take long for the pretense of negotiations to fall apart.

They try to stop us, to kill Justin before he can reach the stage. They fail. And so another force intervenes.

"YOU KNOW NOT WHAT YOU DO! I AM CONQUEST! I CANNOT FAIL! I SHALL ENDURE BEYOND YOUR INSIGNIFICANT LIVES!"

The voice comes from Felipe's body, but it is not his own. Something older... darker. Something that carries with it a wind that burns like open flame. Something that needs to be stopped.

I'd forgotten how easily humans die. A few bullets and a swipe of Abigail's blade and Justin fades, bleeding his last on the ritual altar. He got what he wanted. Felipe collapses.

That should have been the end of it. But then Gwyneth...

I have been a traitor. I have died for my treachery. Maybe she believed in what she was doing. Maybe she thought it was the right thing. But then, no soliloquies are sung for traitors, especially by the Derzhava. I doubt that she will be remembered well.

•••

I exhale hot cigarette smoke into the cold air of the early spring and watch as it dissipates. The clean-up is bustling inside; everyone collecting their trophies before the area is wiped clean of all previous sins. But like the smoke, the fact that the threat is no longer visible doesn't mean it has ceased to exist. It has only changed form. Become invisible.

"Out of the futures I have seen, yours seemed the most... reasonable. And the least bloody."

Men. I don't know where they get these ideas.

OOC: Pimp My Wiki

Thu, 03 Apr 2008 11:56:44 GMT

My Requiem wiki needs some love: http://carthian.cam-wiki.org/Rebecca_Allen

I put up a newer picture. But I have no idea how to do all that cool shit to make the page less generic. Also, before today I had no idea there was a separate "whole venue" wiki. I thought it was just the Covenant wikis. WTF is that about?

And quotes & rumors are love. Or not. Whatever.

Soooooo... help me, wikimasters!