~Midnight- Orlando, Florida

Nina bursted out of the club through the double doors, bullets zipping past her head as she desperately sought cover. Club Vagabond and the rest of Orlando blurred all about her as she raced down the dirty backstreets and alleyways of downtown, ignoring the simply fact that her celerity was blatantly breaching the Masquerade. She wepted, feeling her unlife would never be the same for what she had seen.

"Oh Sandra, my dear sire. Please forgive me."

Blood tears swelled and freely fell from her violet eyes as her supernatural speed dropped to a crawl, and her skin paled more than usual from the lack of blood. The alleys she now ran in grew darker and more viciously clotted. Everything was cast in shadow; from the neglected dumpster to the piss-stained cardboard box mansions.

"Toreador...." The name of her clan spoke at Nina in a whisper from the unsettling darkness towards a deadend she had passed a second before. Although the sound was barely audible, it was deafeningly loud to Nina, and sudden fear locked her body stiff as a surf board. She was under the impression that she was alone.

After several moments in mid-step, reality returned to Nina, and she turned to face the whisper. Ten yards in laid an old and rusted grocery cart on its side, and pouring out of the top was old soda cans filled with cockroaches. Simply the sight and smell would've made the young Toreador wince and gag, but Nina's fear and curiousity prevented any response to the grotesque display of filth.

"W-who's there?" she stammered, and for what seemed like an eternity, she stood and stared with her eyes fixating on darkness. Nothing moved, nothing crawled, every detail was as calm as a photograph; and so was Nina. The stench of day-old garbage and the stale taste in the air wrapped itself around the straining blackness and buzzing of a panicked mind, and yet she refused to cringe. Even the sting of clenched muscles didn't prove a strong enough urge for her to flinch, the fear swelling in her chest was evidently more powerful.

"Nina La'Collot," a deep calm voice spoke that seemed to come from thin air, "such irony that a fashion freak like you should die with the trash." Before she could blink, speak, or widen her eyes, seven thin black tentacles sprung from the darkness towards her. The tentacles struck her square in the chest, knocking her to the ground, and began quickly wrapping around her body. Before she realized what happened, felt pain, or even thought about screaming, a second set of tentacles reared up from nowhere and struck her. She didn't know where they hit her, but the last thing Nina saw before blacking out was the final visage of her blood-soaked body with the tentacles squeezing and crushing her from every direction.

Glimmering with her own blood, Nina realized what the tentacles truly were: fourteen black scaled fingers.

~Two A.M.- University of Central Florida

James wasn't the sort of kindred who made habits out of boredom, especially something as base as biting his finger nails. But as the Setite standing in front of him continued his barrage of insults directed at Leo the Malk, the idea of nail-biting became more and more appealing above listening to the current topic. Eyes half-glazed over, James leaned back in his comfy computer chair, forgetting his environment.

"James, you worthless Brujah. Wake up!" As vision returned to the slumbering giant, Judas' impatient serpentine eyes stabbed at James like daggers. "Forgive me if my debates affect you like a lullaby, I was only trying to bury some sense into some of your thick skulls!"

"Judas," leaning forward to regain his balance, James adopts an apathetic tone and composure as he degrades the Setite, "bitching about the Malk's compulsive behavior doesn't get us anywhere and it cerntainly doesn't concern me, so why do you give a fuck if I'm listening or not?"

"Because, you nitwit. In these types of debates, you never know when something important might be said. Like an obscure threat which would later lead investigators to the murderer's front doorstep." The serpent slowly folds his arms in front of his chest and triumph seeps into his features.

James drops the apathy for downright confusion. "That makes little fucking sense, Judy."

"Stop calling me that, damn you!" Blush fills the pale Setite's cheeks and anger fills his cold heart as snickers and giggles from the other Independents in the room spill forth all about him. "The name is Judas, got it?! How many damn times do I have to tell you? Even the stupid Malkavian has gotten it right, haven't ya Mikey?"

The short green-haired punk rocker Malk finally decides to speak. "Actually, Judas, my name is Leonardo..."

Interrupting, the serpent dismisses Leo with a toss of his hand. "Oh who asked you anyway? When the hell are you going to tell us what really happened in this city five years ago with the werewolves? And don't give us that Anarch bit again."

"But it was the Anarchs that were involved! I've told you that, with the Sabbat aswell..." Leo decides to stop before being cut off again, which, as usual, he is.

"Don't feed us that bullshit again! We want the truth!"

Irritation had been settling in before, but now it was intolerable for James. As the final words fell from Judas' lips, the thick Brujah, along with several others whom had had enough, rose from his seat and left the conference room without a word. Out on the street, James hopped into his used and abused Lincoln, and headed west towards Colonial Drive. Along the way, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

Lifting the phone to his ear, a sigh of relief left his lips as he read the incoming call number. "What's up bro?"

"Nothing much James, just wondering where you're going."

"Gotta head to Tampa, m' friend. Some business needs to be taken care of, if ya know what I mean."

"I see. Well just so long as you're back soon. Abdul and I need your help in bringing a certain Camarilla Ventrue to the Houses' attention."

"Ahhh, are the Cammies trying to move in again?"

"Always, but the blue-blood isn't anything to concern us. We do, however, wish to make an example of him for the Sabbat."

"Sabbies trying to move in too?"

"Seems so."

"Looks like both sects really have no clue what they're getting themselves into, again. We'll deliver the message, and then the Master can pay us our dues." A small sinister smirk splits the big man's face at the thought.

"All to be discussed later. Get done, then get back."

"Understood." Returning the phone to his pocket, James began considering the next steps of his plan. "Let's hope those idiots over in Tampa are smart enough to give me a run for my money... and blood." A wicked laugh erupted from his throat as the beaten-down Lincoln sped through the empty streets towards the west coast, holding very precious cargo.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Apparently, writing is good therapy, so I think I'll start posting again. Here's a different character though than before, with a different 'edge'.

((tempted but i wont))

~Four A.M.- Tampa, Florida

The occational police siren and constant electrical buzzing was always an odd transition for the cainite whom spent most of his nights in Orlando's much noisier and chaotic atmosphere. Though it was a slightly more pleasant city with a relatively low werewolf and Sabbat population, the hoops the Camarilla forced all residents to jump through were sometimes more aggrivating than any horrors Orlando offered. Speeding excessively down road 275 deeper into the heart of Tampa, James pulls his cell phone free and hammers in a number.

Two and a half rings come through before the other line picks up. "James? I wasn't expecting you till tomorrow night."

"Yeah, well, I didn't feel like waiting. An opportunity presented itself a little earlier than planned, so I jumped on it."

"And the results?"

"We're all set. Just tell me where they hold the Elysium nowadays so I can meet up with Nethy and you can get the bag in the back of my shitty Lincoln to your haven."

"You know the locale, old spot near the Sun Dome."

As James replies, he adjusts his course. "Ahhh, good. That layout is easy to get around, this should be simpler than first thought."

"Keep your trunk unlocked this time."

A toothy grin splits the big man's face. "Don't worry, it'll be taken care of. Just be sure to make the call at the exact moment General Elusium is ready to begin. That way the Primogen will all be present when they get the news and I have my perfect alibi. Don't be sloppy, Ishmael, or your corpse will be the next to be displayed before your sire with no ransom."

Silence fell over the other line, but both parties caught the jest as a sliver of humor spilled into both their tones. "Whatever you say, kraken. Drop the pieces into place, then get the hell out of there so we can catch up on the good ole days. Breaking bread with Anarchs is good and all, but I prefer to spend my free time with a fellow hunter."

"Business before pleasure, get your tail to the spot. I'm here." The line goes dead before James can hang up and repocket the phone. The Lincoln slides off the main road to a darkened lot, where it parks and spits out its driver. James makes his way to a blacked out building and knocks on the side door twice. After half a minute of waiting, he knocks one more time. Before he can return his fist to his side, the door swings open to darkness. The invitation is read clear, and the big man steps through the threshold. The door quickly slides shut behind him and lights flare about him to reveal ten or so security ghouls with jittery glances and itchy trigger fingers.

Armed to the teeth, each one raises its weapon to put in James' thick face. "State your business." One whispers.

Without putting his hands in the air or showing submission, the big man smirks as he speaks. "Relax, addicts. I'm tolerated in this city, so lay off with the fireworks in my face and shit. I wonna speak to Nethlar Shadowborn, the Warlock."

Astonishment snaps the ghouls into motion, each lowering their weapons and beginning the procedures of transporting a cainite to the Elysium's secret location. Paperwork was scrattered throughout the room in a seemingly panicked rush for efficiency, but as always with tortured and punished ghouls their effects fell short of acceptability. The display amused James.

One steps up to the big man with a pen and pad. "Name of tolerated?"

"James Johnson." The ghoul nods, writing the name down so he can return to other paperwork involving the matter. Before they start pushing him towards the hidden garage in the back of the room, James gives in to his humor. "You bitches need to chill out. Your masters must be beating the shit out of you regularly." Sadly, his comment earns no response, and they hurry him into a transport vehicle with blacked-out windows.

Like most times before, James made little attempt at looking for hints of the building's true location, the idea always seemed pointless to him. The Elysium wasn't his home, so it made no difference to him. As the vehicle came to a stop, the side door swings open and he is released into a parking garage with elevators, as usual. As he waits for an elevator to open, other arriving guests make their way to the only way up from the ground floor. A pair of doors slide open to an empty lift, and once in, a grin of contempt greets those rushing to catch the elevator with him, only to arrive a second too late. 'Pity', he thought as he pressed his desired floor, but not at all did he feel it.

When the floor he seeked arrived and the doors opened to his destination, James felt unease as dozens of Camarilla vampires littered the hallways all about him. Their self-involved bickering and cold predatory stares lingered on his shoulders as he made his way past the rabble to the Prince's Chamber's front desk, where a Tremere with thick glasses sat comfortably behind a desktop computer monitor happily clicking away. The sight sickens James, nearly forcing revulsion from him. Despite the poor setup, he still manages to, atleast, begin his question, "Where can I find Net-" before being cut short.

"Down the hall to your left is where you can get Acknowledged by someone who handles those matters. This area is reserved for people whom want to make an appointment with the Prince or are waiting for their time to speak with him. Move along." Without looking up or even missing a click, the mini-Warlock continues his click fest.

After a moment of background noises and irritating clicks, a single word quietly escapes the silent giant's tongue. "Nerd." The comment brings the immediate response of a scornful glance from the computer geek, which quickly melts into a look of realization of the massive kindred before him, then finally rests on a cautious stare. "You're not here to be Acknowledged, are you?"

With added effort on control, James replies steadily. "Your city only allows someone like me to be Tolerated, which I already am. I'm here to speak with Nethlar Shadowborn, pup. Where is he?"

Control over the conversation is lost to the small Tremere, and he gives in without further trouble. "He should be on his way back from a clan meeting to speak with the Prince, within minutes."

"Then I'll grab him first." With that, James turns his back to the little Warlock, and steps away to lean against the wall.

A few moments pass before the familiar sight of little Nethlar turns the corner on his merry way to the Prince's Chambers, surrounded by his protection force. As the Tremere takes count of those in his sight, his eyes stop on James and the tiny smirk on his face drains away to a grimace. Without wasting time, the short Warlock quickly dashes forward through the hallway to close the distance. The sight of such a powerful and revered kindred rushing in such a manner brings stiffled gasps and many shocked expressions about those witnessing, but James greets the old vampire with open arms and a sly smile.

"In here, quickly!" Nethlar shows James into a side room where he shuts and locks the door, leaving his bodyguards outside. "God damn it James, what are you doing back?"

"I wanted to say wassup to my 'lil baby Tremere. Have you been eating your veggies?"

The comments are ignored as Nethlar responds. "I didn't call for you James. You came on your own accord, now tell me what this is about."

Seeing his attempts at humor failing, James continues on with the business. "Alright alright. It's come to my attention that the Camarilla is sending recon to Orlando again."

"That's not my jurisdiction, the fools going to O-Town are from Gainesville, and they don't take heed from the advice of other Camarilla cities. There's nothing I can do for you."

"Well there is another thing that needs discussing then, since the Cam thing is already being taken care of." James narrows his eyes on the old cainite before him, whom in turn quirks an eyebrow with interest. "We're getting Sabbat in Orlando again. Tell me, has the number of Sabbies here in Tampa increased lately?"

The question forces Nethlar to think about the subject considerably. "There has been a slight increase, but now that you mention it, how about we trade a little info for info."

"What do you have?"

"I have sources telling me that the Sabbat from Miami want all of Florida-"

"What else is new?"

"Apparently they going to start sending war packs again."

"That doesn't sound too good for Sarasota, does it?"

"If the Sabbat eat up the west coast first, Sarasota will fall in a matter of hours. If they try to slide up the east coast instead, and succeed in pushing you and your Independent friends out of Orlando, they very well could take all of Florida."

"That won't happen, they're moving into an area that they'll regret fucking with from day one."

"Are you sure? What do you guys have set up over there?"

"Us? The Indies? Jack shit. Barely a force to reckon with."

Nethlar's expression drops a few notches towards apathy. "So what's going to keep Orlando from falling to the Sabbat?"

"Where do you think all the fleabags live in Central Florida? They hate Orlando, so they live on the outskirts. Why do you think it's so difficult to enter O-Town unmolested? They have a friggin' parameter set up, duh. Kindred like me and my brothers can hunt the streets of Orlando all we want so long as we don't mess with the werewolves, and in turn they repay with the same respects. In times of war though, we have been known to work together as long as we have a common goal. Orlando is secure, that I guarentee."

The Warlock's lips twisted and contorted from James' words, aswell as thoughts entering his mind. He continues with a more cautious approach. "It isn't very safe to live in an area completely surrounded by creatures that actively hunt vampires."

"Why do you think we stay in the center? And where else is there safety from your own kind than in the middle of a ring of fire."

"Well this is certainly useful to me. I take credit for well devised plans on defending against the Sabbat, and secure the safety of my position in my city at the same rate. James, I always look forward to your interloping into my city. Please, do it often."

"Oh of course, Shadowborn, but since when was this 'your' city?" Quirking an eyebrow, blatant humor seeps through James guise with much intention.

The Tremere adopts a smile of pure comfortable joy. "Oh you know very well James. I have always owned this city, whether I'm Prince or manipulating the pathetic Ventrue whom holds that office, I still get what I want."

"As expected, then payment can wait till it comes in the mail this month. No rush."

"You are too kind, I need to start tipping you."

"That'd be nice." With that, James unlocks and opens the door and exits the room, Nethlar following behind gingerly and smugly. As they enter the hallway once again, waves of kindred are making their way into the main meeting room for General Elysium.

"Will you be joining us, James?" Nethlar's inquisitive question snakes its way into the big man's ear.

"For once, I think I will." Under James' 'mask', a vicious smile splits his face from ear to ear, though the appearance everyone else gets is a simple grin. Nethlar shows James into the meeting hall and to his spot as Seneschal while his bodyguards rejoin his sides. As the finally stragglers make their way inside, the beginning procedures of the meeting go underway.

Before him, James could see the Primogen, Whip, and Whip's assistant of all six clans of the Camarilla, aswell as the supposed Caitiff Primogen and his underlings. The sight of such a hierarchy loosens James' hold on his Beast, the blatant corruption so evident to him and so ignorant to everyone else it nearly drives him sick with anger. Before the scene becomes a problem for him, the merry sound of the Toreador Primogen's cell phone rings loud and clear amongst the scattered chatter in the room.

"This is Sandra, who is this?" James watches patiently and expectently as the events unfold. After the Primogen answers the phone, the happy little smirk on her face fades to a thin flat line. "I spoke to Nina a few hours ago when she was at her favorite club, and she's not in Tampa so this isn't a funny joke." Her mouth drops to a frown and a shocked and bewildered expression takes her appearance as her voice instantly rises to a hysterical pitch. "Nina?! My little Nina! Hold tight my childre, I will save you, I swear!" The stress forces the Toreador to jump to her feet, clenching the phone with a death grip. "I'll do whatever you ask, just please don't kill my favorite little childre!" Blood tears freely pour from the Primogen's eyes, ruining her fancy garb and pooling crimson about the floor.

With the plan moving to the next phase, James decides to make his exit. "Well Nethlar, I'm not a Camarilla citizen, so I guess I'll take my leave and shit right here."

"Not staying for news reports and the like?" Nethlar asks with a sense of loss in his eyes.

"Nah, I gotta meet an old buddy out in the slums. Smoke some Pot, feed off some mortals, dream about the good old days and shit. I'll catch ya some other time, Nethlar."

Nethlar responds with a genuine grin and understanding nod, and James stands from his seat to leave the meeting room. Few eyes follow him as he moves, as most attention is placed on the frenzying Toreador Primogen. In the Elysium hallways, only security ghouls and maintenance crews were in his way as he made his way to the elevators. But as he steps into an open elevator, he finds he'll be sharing the trip down to the ground level with a female cainite, one he's never seen before and cannot recognize clan so easily. She's headed in the same direction, and like him makes no attempt at conversing with the stranger. When the doors open for them to exit, she quickly leaves first to hop into a black limousine. James pays no mind as he makes his way to his own escort.

"Sun Dome, right sir?" The ghoul driver asks from behind a black cover glass seperating driver from passengers.

"Yeah, make it snappy." The silent trip back to where he left his trashed vehicle forces thoughts of the female in the elevator. 'Sabbat? Shit, there's something else going on around here.' His thoughts nip at him until the transport stops moving and the engine cuts off. Before waiting for aid, James kicks the door open and steps out, ignoring the assisting ghouls. Exiting the blacked-out building and heading towards his car, James catches the frail thin form of his comrade leaning against his vehicle.

"We're all set." The black-skinned Assamite standing before him held a posture that demanded respect yet also allowed openings for comments.

As James extended his hand for their formal handshake, a relaxed expression covered his features. "It's good to be back in the company of a friend, Ishmael."

Accepting the handshake with a vigorous grip, Ishmael gave a sigh of relief. "It's good to be back in the company of someone who can kick other peoples' asses for me." The Assamite pats the big man on the shoulder before opening the passenger-side door and sliding in.

Getting in on the driver-side, James shuts his door and cranks the engine to life. "Now.... let's head to a place where there are fewer Camarilla eyes." The Lincoln pulls out of the darkened lot, and merges into morning traffic.

~Sunset- Tampa Elysium

As the last Primogen enters the dark meeting room and finds his seat, Seneschal Shadowborn closes and secures the door with a heavy sigh. The Toreador was still whimpering from the loss of her favored childre, occationally shouting her displeasures of the situation to the nearest cainite still listening to her. Though her grief was genuine, it wasn't, however, the first 'favored' childre she had lost. At least not the first in this century. As the blood tears fell and her goblet of vitae continually being drained and refilled, Shadowborn began to wonder just how genuine her act was given the circumstances.

"Sandra," Nethlar began, "just what was Nina doing in such a chaotic place like downtown Orlando? The only place for a Camarilla Neonate to go from Tampa is either a small ways south to Sarasota or all the way north and east to Gainesville. Any other direction and you run the risk of Sabbat, Lupines, or unhappy Independents."

After a few extra sobs and another sip of blood to wash down the tears, the Primogen managed to reply. "Club Vagabond is a wonderful underground establishment where a Toreador can be a Toreador and no one dares to interrupt her fun. Decades back, before everyone was pushed out by the furballs, my progeny and I frequented the club quite often. Even my sire attended a few visits, and he was most impressed by the appeal of the club."

"But why was she there all alone?" A hint of both irritation and confusion slipped into Nethlar's voice. "She was told many times never to go too far east on I-4 (Die-4, to the natives), never past Plant City without a ghoul escort and atleast two Sheriff Deputies acting as protection. In the seven years she's been with us here in Tampa she never violated that rule. What reason would she have to go all the way to a war zone alone?"

In an instance, the Primogen became silent and shifted her eyes to the floor. The room was quiet for a few moments before Sandra picked the conversation again. "She's... curious. She may have snuck into my photo catalog a few weeks ago and read my notes on the place. She's stubborn, she hates missing out on the fun."

Cautiously but boldly, the Seneschal interjects. "But how could she have gotten the opportunity to make such a trip? There's alot of red tape for her to pass simply to travel east from here."

Again, the Primogen goes silent, but not for too long until the Malkavian Primogen gives her analysis. "Sandra, sweety. Your aura is wrecked with guilt and shame. Tell me pumpkin." All eyes reposition to the Toreador, who shifts from stagnant to hysterical.

"Oh dear Caine! I've sent my childre to death!" Once again, speech is lost to the Primogen, who again has to be physically reprimanded. After a few more goblets of vitae are refilled and drained, as well as a number of calming displines are used to sedate the frenzying kindred, the meeting-now turned interrogation-continued.

"Sandra, what did you do?" Nethlar, now much more in control, presses the most important question firmly.

"I may have..." swallowing hard, the Primogen regains some of her composure, "assisted in transporting her to Orlando."

The rest of the room hushes as the Seneschal continues to question. "In what way did you assist in whisking her away to downtown Orlando?"

Miserably, Sandra confesses to the first ploy. "One morning, not too long ago, little Nina hopped into my coffin with one of my pictures of Club Vagabond. She was terribly interested, and incredibly persuasive. So I went looking for a... makeshift escort, someone I could pay off to keep quiet."

The Brujah Primogen gives his piece of mind. "You broke Camarilla law."

"It was supposed to be a simple overnight getaway, just so she could have a taste of the pleasures therein. I spoke to her and her escort only a few hours before I got the call of her capture, and they were going to be back way before sunrise."

Nethlar inquires with a suspicious tone. "Who is this escort you keep referring to?"

"A Caitiff, a contact of mine from a previous... conspiracy. He's clean, that I am certain. I've checked his aura a hundred times and I honestly don't think he's capable of organizing this plot to ensnare my childre."

"Have you tried to contact him since this incident?" Nethlar's tone slowly bewilders more and more as the story runs deeper and deeper.

"He's only reachable early in the evening. After eight or so, he's considered 'on-duty' and won't take any new jobs."

Shadowborn glances over Sandra's shoulder and slightly nods his head. The city Scourge drops his Obfuscate from behind the Toreador and slides a cell phone into her hand. "Call him." The Seneschal's eyes flash a dull red momentarily as he folds his arms across his chest and takes a seat in front of the Primogen.

The slightest sign of a tremble is evident to Nethlar as the Toreador punches in the numbers. The phone rings once before it's picked up on the other line. "Boomer, it's Sandra, we need to..." The Primogen's face twists with surprise then despair. "What? How the... alright. Come to the Elysium, you'll be allowed to enter. Alright, just get here." With that, she hangs up the phone and passes it back over her shoulder without even looking.

"Well?" Nearly impatient, Nethlar inquires.

"Something went horribly wrong. He said he took his eyes off her for one moment, and the next she was gone and he was being chased by people with automatic weapons. He's been running since last night at Midnight, seconds after he hung up with me before, and now he's up in Jacksonville."

Smugly, the Ventrue Primogen states his position. "Sounds like your Caitiff escort wasn't worth the money."

Like daggers, Sandra's eyes settle on the Ventrue like a cold breeze. "Something else must be to blame for this, he may be an illegitimate child but he is very efficient at his work. That, I promise."

Finding an opening, the Nosferatu Primogen decides to squeeze something else out of the conversation. "Perhaps if you tell us of your previous 'conspiracy' -as you put it- with him. Maybe then we can pass judgement on whether or not he is efficient in what he does."

Seeing herself being backed into a corner, the Toreador rises to her feet in a display of defiance. "I see no reason in churning old buried dirt in this room with the likes of you. I stake my reputation as Primogen of a Camarilla city in vouching for this misbegotten leech, is that not enough for you?"

The Ventrue quirks a grin and begins. "In truth..."

"Enough of this," Having heard enough of the vilifications and insults, Seneschal Shadowborn ends the slanderous remarks with a wave of his hand. "When will he be here?"

Shifting her attention back to her superior, Sandra nods her response. "Closer to one or two tomorrow morning, he wasn't sure."

The Nosferatu finds another opening for attack. "How does the Caitiff know where the Elysium is? The lists of Caitiff in Tampa never mention a 'Boomer' anywhere."

Merrily, the Toreador replies to the comment with a taste of pleasure in her voice. "He's a traveling Caitiff, of course. He knows the locations of every Elysium in Florida, it's called having Contacts. Something I'd think someone like you would know atleast a little about." Grudgingly, the sewer rat withdraws from the spotlight.

The Seneschal signals to the Scourge in a discreet manner before turning his attention back to the Toreador. "Sandra, if your contact cannot give us a proper lead to investigate this matter, you will either lose your childre or whatever ransom they have demanded from you."

Shock covers the Primogen's face. "What?! This is blasphemous!"

"You crossed the line when you violated Camarilla law, now you will have to either pay the piper or succumb to the consequences."

"Why can't we go to Club Vagabond to investigate? Why can't we observe this matter closer to the crime?" Hysteria began seeping into the Toreador's voice again.

"That is absolutely out of the question. I won't jeopardize the unlives of more Camarilla members because you sent your childre into a death trap."

"But you have a contact from Orlando! I saw you speaking with him last night... send him!" All eyes turn to Nethlar after the comment.

It was rare when someone pointed out something going on in the Seneschal's nightly activities, even more rare when it involved a character as shady as the one she was referring to. His words took a very dark appeal, with rage oozing into every tone. "The man I was speaking to is a representative of the Independents whom dwell in Orlando. Asking him to pry into this could loosen what little connections we have with that damned city. If I lose him as a contact, then any Camarilla citizens found in Orlando will be destroyed instead of sent back here in a wooden box if sent at all. I won't lose that only handhold because you don't have any sense in keeping a leash on your more ambitious progeny. If your childre is found by him or one who works with him, she will be returned and spared. If not, she is a lost cause, and you will have to deal with that. Because I will not, repeat, WILL NOT bother him on such an unimportant matter as this!"

The room becomes dead silent as Shadowborn regains his composure and control of his beast. "We will wait for your Caitiff friend to state what he knows. After that, if there is no lead to follow upon, your childre is lost unless you wish to pay. Understood?"

Subdued, the Toreador nods her response with her eyes nearly weeping towards the floor. Getting the response and respect he desired, Nethlar nods to himself and turns to the door. Before exiting the room, the Tremere asks one last question. "By the way, what is the ransom?"

Sighing heavily, Sandra looks up at her Seneschal with eyes filled with shame. "Fifty thousand in cash and twenty pints of my blood... why?"

[i:0c85c203e9][b:0c85c203e9]ooc:[/b:0c85c203e9] Sweet writing, I hope theres more coming :D [/i:0c85c203e9]

~7:17 P.M- Tampa Slum District

"...jus ta shake da bastards off m' fucking trail! I want out man, true dat. I be slippin' in yo halls an' shit with three or foe ta go, and den I be gittin' da shit outa dis bitch. Feel me? Good." James hung up his cell phone, then slapped Ishmael upside the tattooed back of his ashen head for snickering.

"Sorry man, couldn't help myself." The Assamite's apology was pure counterfeit, and the darkened room with no windows and one dim corner light didn't help hide his falsity.

"Yeah whatever. I gotta pick up the package in a few, so let's hop into the wagon and get this rollin'." Both cainites leave the grim establishment through the only door and quietly move into the beaten-down Lincoln parked in the lightless cul de sac. The engine turns over, and they speed out of the area.

~9:58 P.M- I-4 just outside of Orlando

James had his radio blazing to his favorite Orlando rock station moving at seventy mph in the left lane down I-4 back towards Tampa, when the station switched to a different show. "Ahh fuck, I hate Love Line." As he leans over to turn the dial, a vehicle speeds up on his right and sideswipes his Lincoln nearly off the road. While he regains control over the car and his bearings, the vehicle takes a second swipe which knocks the Lincoln nearly halfway into the grassy medium.

"Son of a bitch!" Hopping back onto the highway with little ease, James sneers over at his racing opponent. Confusion strikes him as he stares at the angry face of the female cainite he shared an elevator with only the night before. The redhead was paler than him and a quarter of his physical size, but little of this mattered since the foe made the first strike. She's slides over for another swipe, but James is ready and slams on the brakes. The black Grand Cherokee cuts over into the left lane right in front of the Lincoln, then immediately brakes to close the distance, but James buries the accelerator and dives into the right lane.

"You stupid fucking bitch!" James screams, gripping the steering wheel tightly and squeezing the control on his beast even tighter. "Do you have any goddamn idea what I'm carrying in this piece of shit?!" As the Lincoln races past the Grand Cherokee, its enraged driver cuts the wheel back into the left lane to clip his adversary's front end. The rear bumper of the wagon hooks into the tire well of the SUV as it veers into the lane, tossing the top-heavy gas hog off the road and into the slick, grassy medium. The vehicle cuts deep into the green before turning sideways and rolling down the medium highway, carrying with it the shrieking crunch sound of twisting metal meeting more and more resistance.

James smiles and happily loses count of the number of flips before he can't make out any detail in his rearview mirror. "Too bad honey, Mr. Johnson can't afford distractions tonight. Too much is riding on this cargo." The banged up Lincoln zips down the dark highway towards its destination, having not even missed a step.

~Quarter after one in the morning- Tampa Elysium Entrance Garage

Standing amongst the Primogen and all the Sheriff's Deputies, Nethlar Shadowborn began to hate his position. The Toreador had finally ended her ceaseless squalling, seeing how's no one catered to her pain anymore, atleast not anyone among those currently present. New arrivals wanting to brush up on their brown-nosing techniques still approached with sympathy, which fired up the song and dance routine again, only to end once the pity stopped flowing. Nethlar began to wonder how much precious blood the gluttonous kindred burned through on a nightly basis, further convincing him that perhaps it was time to find a new Toreador Primogen for Tampa.

A new arrival pulled up, and the group prepared themselves for yet another yowling fest. Instead, a thick cainite with pale skin and average height jumped from the vehicle with a look of contempt. His short blonde hair looked greasy atop his dented face and dirty clothing, though the fire in his hazel eyes lead you to believe that his impoverished appearance was ment to deceive the less attentive and inform the more alert.

"Sand, all I want is my money and I'm outa here." His tone was direct and contained, and obviously in a big hurry.

The Toreador steps up to the dirt pile of a kindred without hesitation. "Not before you tell me everything you can about what happened to my childre."

Reluctantly, the Caitiff relaxes in his stance and gives in. "Like I said, she was there one second, and gone the next. The jackasses that was chasin' me didn't give me the chance to stop 'em and ask if they'd tell me what they did with her, and I wasn't about to try anyways."

"What can you tell me you stupid Caitiff?!" Sandra's control over her beast begins to wear thin. "You must've heard or seen something!"

Taking a step back, the clanless cainite decides to stop pussyfooting around with the senior kindred. "Alright, fine. There was one thing they shouted at me while I was bookin' my ass outa the club."

The Toreador's lip quivers slightly, then a single word thunders from her mouth in a deep voice. "Speak."

Eying her companions, the Caitiff uncomfortably shifts his weight. "They said if you ever wanted to see Nina again, you'd wait for them to call you and pay the ransom. Nothing more."

"That's it? You didn't overhear orders or names being shouted or anything?"

"Hey man, you haven't taught me Auspex yet, you know my hearing is shitty."

The Toreador clenched a fist but then immediately released the tension. Sighing, she steps away from the cainite with little enthusiasm left in her posture. "You're right, you're right. I can't expect you to be able to do what you're not capable of." Turning her back, Sandra begins walking towards one of the elevators. "You're free to go, Boomer."

"What about my cash, Sand? Now I don't wonna make it look like I'm greedy or anything, but I atleast deserve payment for what I did accomplish right."

Sandra halts her step and turns to face the Caitiff again. "Fair is fair. I take it this will be the last time we work together."

Boomer's expression contorts slightly, then nods uncheerfully. "I'm splittin' chicken, babe. Headin' to the west coast or maybe further, I ain't messin' with this shit. Too deep for me."

Nodding, the Toreador points to one of the deputies observing the conversation. "He'll take you to a money cache one floor up, and set you up with five grand in unmarked bills for services rendered to me." Boomer nods uncompassionately, and steps over to the deputy who reluctantly moves away from the group towards the elevators. Before either come close to the lift, Sandra's cell phone rings. Glancing down at the number, the Toreador goes from apathetic to nearly unhinged. Desperately grasping for the phone, she answers in near-hysteria.

"This is Sandra! I'm here, tell me what I must do!" Boomer and the deputy stop and spin around to see the commotion. "I will, I will. Just please don't hurt h... alright. No deceptions. I promise, I won't jeopardize the unlife of my childre anymore." With that, Sandra hangs up her cell phone and returns it to its pocket. "Tomorrow at the dock 28, midnight. If I don't come alone, she's gone." The group collectively nods, a hint of pity seeping through but held in check. "Go get paid Boomer. There's no need for you to be involved any longer, you carry too many of my secrets."

Boomer nods sincerely before stepping onto an open elevator with the deputy. "I hope shit turns out alright for you Sandy girl, I really do. Atleast ya know what happened back in the day in Baltimore won't ever reach anyone else's ears. My lips are sealed."

"Take care of yourself, you slimy, greasy Caitiff." A tiny grin cuts into the side of the stalwart Toreador's lips.

A toothy smirk splits Boomer's face. " You too, ya stuck-up, fascist Torrie bitch." The clanless cainite points his finger at the Primogen in a friendly manner right before the elevator doors close.

The Malkavian Primogen steps up beside Sandra gently and places a hand on her shoulder, which is received warmly. "Forgive me dear Sandra, I was wrong before. His aura was clean, and he was truthful."

Closing her eyes, the Toreador slowly releases a heavy sigh. "Thank you for being apologetic... for whatever it's worth." The group sluggishly moves to comfort the now tearful Primogen before heading back upstairs.

~Quarter till two in the morning- Near the Sun Dome

The Elysium transport vehicle pulls into the hidden garage of the dark building, and drops Boomer off with the security ghoul force. The ghouls, informed of his reasons for being in the Elysium, mark him off for the books and release him from their safekeeping back onto the streets of Tampa. Walking past the darkened lot, Boomer makes his way across the main street and into one of USF's many parking lots.

Seeing his vehicle unmoved from the spot he left it in, and his close Independent friend leaning against it as usual, James drops his 'Boomer' mask and strolls up to his piece of shit Lincoln. Ishmael's smile widens as he notices the wad of cash in his friend's hand. "I take it we're successful."

Grinning, James makes his way to the driver side door before commenting. "Of course. There are many ways to pull off criminal activity and not face the consequences." Opening the door, the big grinning man slides into his seat as if gliding on air. His Assamite companion snickers to himself as he opens his door and tosses himself inside.

"Like what, James?" Ishmael turns to face his ally and quirks his elbow up on the side of his seat. "Gimme some pointers on how to be a bad guy."

Starting the engine, James slowly shakes his head at the comment. "First off, there are no good guys in this game, so hypothetically there are no bad guys either."

"OooOoo, consider my ass educated." The Assamite licks the sides of his fangs as he speaks, the humor building almost too quickly for him to keep his posture.

"Alright, bitch. You're educated." James smirks wide as they pull out of the lot onto the university road. "Secondly, any time you can trick your victim into paying you to lie to them, is always good."

The Assamite nods thoughtfully, absorbing the mood with utmost pleasure. "Sneaky, cloak and dagger." Ishmael adds, more to the conversation than directly to his companion, as the Lincoln pulls onto the main street.

"And finally..."The smirk stretches even further as the next comment dances off the big man's tongue. "don't ever let those whom your fucking over know anything about the real you." The pair share a much deserved laugh as the rickety pile of scrap metal they're sitting in rolls down the street towards road 275.

As a break in the laughter shines through, Ishmael turns to look his companion in the eye. "James, I swear... you should've been embraced an Assamite."

Nodding, James leans back comfortably in his torn up seat. "Don't I know it, Ishmael. Don't I know it..." Laughter erupts from the Lincoln again as it continues its path down the empty streets of Tampa, reaching its destination once again undisturbed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(OOC: I had fun typing this thread up. :D 8) :twisted: :wink: )

[quote:6375da4e6f="Arcane"](OOC: I had fun typing this thread up. :D 8) :twisted: :wink: )[/quote:6375da4e6f]

Heh. It shows. I had fun reading it.
::greedy look:: Is there more? :shock:

((I hope so, I have been enjoying it as well))