“Welcome, doll, to your new life."
Elyse Benson

---

Tuesday evening, 6 April 2010

GM: It’s not long after Celia has taken the next step up from providing teen girls with massage-induced miscarriages that Jade receives an invitation from an extremely effeminate-looking male ghoul who Celia almost mistakes for a lesbian. He carries himself like a woman, and has a woman’s short haircut, but still wears a male suit. His pampered pale skin, shiny black hair, and manicured hands look as if he spends a lot of time at spas.


He states that mistress, the Lady Interpreter Elyse Benson, has “heard of her talents” and wishes to employ them.

“The lady interpreter would be pleased to receive you at her domain in the Wedding Cake House, Miss Kalani.”

Celia: The ghoul may straddle the line between male and female, but Celia does not seem thrown by his—her? its?—inability to pick a side. She’s more familiar with those who think themselves other than how they once were to do so much as lift a brow or hide a smirk at the half-breed’s expense. She sees the same thing in her sibling, the quiet one, and the new employee she has recently brought on to Flawless. She sees it, too, in herself, though her mask is perhaps more thorough than this one’s.

Celia, wearing Jade’s face, is happy to accept the invitation from the lady interpreter, and she hashes out the details with the ghoul: the location within the city (to see which regent she must ask for permission to visit), and the date and time of the meeting itself. Even this young she knows to follow the proper channels.

GM: The ghoul gives the address as 5809 St. Charles Avenue near Eleonore Street in the Rosa Park subdivision. Regent Donovan’s territory.

He offers several potential dates in the near future that his mistress is available.

Celia: Of course it’s Donovan’s territory.

She doesn’t let her mask slip at the realization that she’ll need to speak to her sire. Or, more likely, that thing that sort of looks like her sire.

She and the ghoul come to an agreement about the date, far enough away that Celia has time to secure the proper permission but not so far as to make it look like she’s playing games with the Malkavian’s time. A delicate balance to walk, but one that she thinks she navigates deftly given the circumstances.

GM: The ghoul bows and says he will relay the agreed-upon time and date to his mistress.

Celia: Celia thanks him for the invitation and asks him to pass her warm regards on to his mistress as she walks him out. She pauses as they pass the rows of cosmetics and skincare products and nail polish, and finally asks what he uses on his skin to keep it so smooth.

“It’s beautiful,” she says to him, genuine warmth and appreciation for someone who takes such good care of themselves evident in her voice.

GM: “Chastity, madam,” answers the lisp-voiced ghoul, bowing again. “It has been 38 years, seven months, and twelve days since I was permitted to pleasure my loins. My mistress knows the male sexual impulse to be a powerful thing, when tamed. When its energies are redirected towards service and pride in service, that pride shines through on the skin. Purity of purpose purifies the body.”

He also cites a variety of skincare products, frequent exercise, and a diet consisting exclusively of pulped fruits, vegetables, and grains. Same food every day, blended with water into a slurry.

Celia: Celia smiles at him as he speaks, nodding her head in apparent agreement. She says nothing about his claim that chastity helps the skin, nothing at the thought of going almost four decades without release.

She can’t even imagine what her poor ghouls would say if she told them they couldn’t get off anymore. Maybe, if one of them displeases her in the future, she’ll kill the nerves down there.

GM: Alana would be crushed. For Randy it probably wouldn’t make a lot of difference. Alana has delighted in tattling over his masturbation habits.

Celia: She wonders how long it would take Elyse to break Alana of her sexuality.

Celia says that his mistress sounds wise indeed and finally sees him to the door, already turning to the next problem on her list: getting permission to visit Riverbend.

---

Wednesday night, 7 April 2010, AM

Celia: She’d be lying to herself if she said that the flutter in her stomach was anything other than anticipation. She stuffs it down as she gets ready for the visit. His herald, she thinks, not even him, but her body pays no mind to what her brain tells it.

She hasn’t been back. Not since the incident earlier this year. New Years Eve. Nico. Even the thought sends a pang through her, and she stuffs that down as well. Deep.

She readies herself for the visit, smoothing out her hair, fixing up her makeup, selecting a dress that is classy but understated. She does not need a ball gown to visit the regent. She drives herself back to Audubon Place, radio on high, though she cannot bring herself to sing along to the lyrics of her favorite song. Not knowing where she’s going, who she might run into.

She doubts he’s there. He wouldn’t be, she doesn’t think. He has other duties that take him away from his haven. She’ll just meet the knockoff, the cheap version of him, and state what she wants, and she’ll be on her way.

Is she the only one that thinks it’s backwards to enter territory without permission to get said permission to visit?

The absurd thought makes her giggle, and she sees it in a flash: brought before him with her hands bound, cited as a trespasser, and she’d have to explain that she was coming for permission.

The drive isn’t long enough to quell her nervous energy. All too soon she’s approaching the walls of Audubon Place…

And the gate with its guards.

Perhaps she should have let Elyse deal with this little tidbit. Or searched for the mimic within the halls of Elysium and approached him on neutral ground. She ignores the way her stomach twists at the thought. Logically, she knows she’s in for disappointment tonight. She knows she won’t see him here. And she could have saved herself the trip, the effort expended on her appearance, the time it took to get from the Quarter to Audubon.

As if any hurdle would ever be too great to keep her from the chance of him.

Pathetic, some part of her thinks.

She blames the collar. How it chafes at her neck. How it draws her to him like a moth to flame, seeking out the very thing that might be her destruction. Though she has never been a moth. Not when she was alive and certainly not now in this ideal body and face, perfection incarnate.

Deep, soulful eyes gaze upon the masked faces of the guards in their black uniforms while her hand moves into her purse, pulling free two bills that will cover the necessary bribe to buy her way in. She passes it smoothly to the man at her window and flashes him a smile, making an idle comment about meeting a friend. There’s a flirty sort of implication to that word, and if the man has even a pair of brain cells to rub together he’ll understand the meaning: she’s a whore meeting a client.

It’s not as if it’s the first time she has played that card.

GM: Jade finds no bribe necessary to facilitate her entrance. The guards simply wave her through, although two cars follow hers to Donovan’s house as they see her in. Jamal’s familiar face awaits hers when she parks and gets out. The large Blackwatch-uniformed man glances over the vampire he’s stuck his cock into, then leads her into the soulless McMansion property without a word.

“You cause any shit,” he says after closing the front door behind them, “he’s given me permission to turn you into my cock-holder. Cut off your arms and legs, and stick my dick up you whenever I feel like it.”

Celia: Perhaps she’d worn the wrong face for this, if this is the sort of welcome she’s receiving. Though she doesn’t imagine that Celia would receive any warmer a welcome. She shouldn’t be surprised that Donovan knows she’s on her way. Eyes and ears everywhere, she bets. She hadn’t even noticed the cars tailing her on her way to Audubon, too caught up in the idea of seeing him again.

Her eyes flick over the large man who has come outside to meet her, though when he says nothing to her in greeting she keeps her own mouth closed until they’re inside and…

Is that a threat?

She almost laughs. She takes a step closer to the Blackwatch man, peering up at him with slightly parted lips. His significant height lets him get a good, long look down her dress. And that color on her cheeks, just a touch, a reaction to his promise of a good time.

“How,” she purrs, “can I take top if you cut off my legs?”

GM: “You wouldn’t,” he says, making no effort to hide how he’s staring down her dress. “I’d just ram your holes forever. ’Til you torpored out. Then keep ramming your corpse ’til it got too shriveled up for me to want to.”

Celia: Jade pouts at him.

“Why would you want that when I’m perfectly willing to show you a good time and look good doing it?”

GM: Jamal looks at her, then grabs her by the hair and throws her head-first against the wall, hard enough to give a concussion if she were still alive. One of his strong hands clamps around her neck while his other one yanks up her dress and rips off her panties.

There’s no request, no foreplay. He just seizes what he wants.

It’s so rare that she can’t make someone want her.

Celia: Vicious satisfaction thrums through her at his loss of control. The moment he lays hands on her the fire in her core ignites, warming her enough that he finds her wet. A giggle passes from her lips as she wiggles her hips at him, a clear invitation.

GM: Jamal makes a fist in her hair and smashes her face against the wall. There’s a messy crunch as her nose breaks, leaking blood. Jade’s Beast howls in her ear. Jamal’s cock rams up her ass. He doesn’t go for her pussy, doesn’t even spit to lubricate himself. Just goes straight for the ass as he savagely humps back and forth, ravaging her little hole. Jade knows the human anus can stretch up to seven inches before taking damage; she’s pretty sure Jamal’s cock is longer than that. She’s not sure how it isn’t taking damage. It has to be. A man shouldn’t be able to fuck like this. She feels like someone is running a power drill inside her. There’s a sudden ripping, a puncturing, a penetration deeper than anything she’s ever felt.

“This is how,” he breathes in her ear. “This is how a man fucks a woman. Up the ass. I’m gonna split you open.”

That’s what he’s doing. Splitting her open. Jade read about a horse doing that to a man in Washington, who was so jaded to other forms of stimulation he turned to horse sex. Its cock was so huge and stiff that it punctured his intestine and killed him.

“That’s what you’re feeling,” he pants. “That’s my dick up your guts. I’m fucking your guts. I’m gonna cum in your guts. You’re gonna have my cum inside you. Forever.”

“Breather girls. They can’t take me. Can’t handle me. I fuck them like this, they die. My cock kills them. They can’t take my fucking cock!”

Celia: Well, it had been hot for a moment. Until he’d started whining about not being able to fuck breathers like this. No wonder he likes her so much: she can handle the monster. Enjoy it even, if the strangled sounds she makes are any indication. She might not need air to breathe but she certainly needs it to speak, so it’s just tiny little sounds that she makes that escape the hold he has on her throat.

If she tells him that she took out her own guts as one of her first projects, will he cry? It might be like telling a kid that Santa isn’t real.

She doesn’t ruin the moment for him. She just takes it like the woman she used to be, her body stretching and ripping around his assault, blood from her broken nose streaming down her face, blood from her torn cavity streaming down the backs of her thighs when his thrusts force it out of her.

Who needs lube when she can simply bleed? Within moments it coats his shaft, giving him the lube he needs to freely move.

Jade makes a sound deep in her throat, though her tightly clenched teeth prevent it from escaping her.

Maybe it’s the blood that does it. The scent of it dripping out of her, down her face, down her legs. The coppery tang hitting the sterile floor beneath her, ruining the otherwise austere aesthetic with tiny drops of sanguine liquid. Maybe it’s the bland, thin smile she sees in her head, the contempt that rises to the surface when she thinks about its owner being the one to have to clean it up. Or maybe it’s the grunt from the man behind her, who thinks that she’s his toy to be used as he sees fit, that he can just take what he wants from her… and how it turns her the fuck on. He doesn’t have an inner Beast, there’s no monster inside of him telling him what to do, he’s just a sick, twisted fuck that takes what he wants, when he wants, and she recognizes the fellow predator despite his mortal prison.

Her thoughts run away with her, fantasies dancing through her mind. Imagining him as a fellow lick. Seeing him with fangs. Pinning her against a wall and biting her while that monster down below ravages her body. He’s already a savage, already strong, already has the killer instinct. His hands have ended lives, squeezed the breath from victims, sent souls screaming into eternity, all without a blink or tear to be found. Cold, uncaring, lethal.

He’d be perfect.

Flawless.

Her Beast, already so close to the surface, slips its bonds. She throws back her head and howls.

GM: Jade doesn’t know how long the red haze persists, how long her Beast runs loose. All she sees is its handiwork.

She’s sprawled on the floor, Jamal on top of her and pinning her hands next to her head. She aches and hurts, everywhere. She must have broken at least several bones. She tastes blood on her split lips. There’s gashes and claw marks all over Jamal’s face, dripping coppery red. Her claws always come out when her Beast gets out. His black uniform is shredded apart. Blood wells from more cuts along his arms and chests. Her dress is little more than tatters.

Jamal lets go and withdraws his blood-coated member from her ruptured and airy-feeling anus. A solitary strand of cum drips from the tip.

“No sex like apeshit sex,” he pants.

Celia: The front of him is wet. Blood, she thinks, but she can smell what else is on him: her. Had she done that, gotten herself off when the Beast had taken over? It wouldn’t be the first time the thing inside of her had simply taken what it wanted.

Maybe it had been him. There’s a thought. And he had said that once, that he “likes the way they squeeze when they cum, how they get it all out.”

Arousal pools like liquid heat between her thighs. She wants to go again. Wants to slow it down, ride him until he can’t remember anything except her name, wants him to bury himself inside of her. She shifts, rubbing against him as he pulls free, amusement dancing in her eyes at the thought of keeping him as her own little fuck toy.

She wonders what her sire would think if she offered him a trade.

She wishes he had a tie. Something she could use to pull him down, to lick the blood from his face and chest, but when she reaches for his shirt it falls apart in her hands, shredded by her claws during her red-out. She sits up slowly, wincing at the pain in her body when she forces it to adjust to the broken bones and torn tendons. The dead don’t truly care, not about that, and with a simple thought she sends the blood to do its job in putting her back together.

“Better than a torso with holes.”

GM: He grunts and buckles up his pants.

She’s sure they could go again, with stamina like he must have.

Or at least pain tolerance.

Veronica would have enjoyed this.

Celia: Charming, that grunt.

Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised.

Maybe she’s blown his mind too thoroughly for him to manage words right now.

GM: Jamal wordlessly leads her upstairs to a bedroom without one of the metal steel doors. It’s a spartan affair with little inside. He strips, showing off his powerfully muscled physique, and takes a quick shower in an adjacent bathroom without closing the door.

Celia: She’s blatant about the way she watches him strip and shower. Two years ago she’d have been a red-faced, quivering mess. Now, though, she enjoys the view. Wants to join him, even. A moment of deliberation—it’s hardly the first time she’ll fuck in the sheriff’s shower—and she’s through the door he’d left conveniently open for her, clothes strewn carelessly across the tile floor. They’re ruined anyway. She pulls the curtain back to join him, stepping into the shower between his body and the shower-head. Maybe if she weren’t as small as she is it wouldn’t work; maybe there wouldn’t be room for the two of them here. But she is small and there is room, especially when she presses her back against him so she can lift her face to the spray.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does. But his hand is around her waist a moment later, fingers digging into her hip, and the other cups her breast and pinches her nipple. She hisses, but before she can do more than that his hand is at her throat, cutting off her air. It reminds her of the last time, when he and his buddy had put another girl on her knees, but she’s not that girl.

Her claws rake down his arm. He reels back, giving her the wiggle room she needs to free herself. She twists, slamming a hand into his chest to push him back. It’s the surprise that makes him take the step more than anything else; in a physical contest there’s not doubt that he could take her, tiny as she is. Big as he is. So big. He towers over her. She has to tilt her head back to look up at him.

Then she moves. Launches herself at him. Forward. Up. Her legs are around his waist, his cock buried inside of her, his hands catching her hips and ass. He grips her tight while she moves against him, lips at his throat. Two steps carry him forward, slamming her back against the shower wall with enough force to knock the useless breath from her lungs. She arches into him. The water cascades down their bodies.

Maybe a breather wouldn’t like it, fucking in the shower, but she isn’t a breather and she can’t get enough of it. She whispers in his ear, urging him to go harder, faster, and feels his ass flex with every painful thrust. Filling her. Stretching her. Hitting that spot inside of her again and again that makes her eyes want to roll back in her head and her back arch and her nails rake down his back—

And she does, they do, and her fangs are long in her mouth and she’s biting at his shoulder, peppering his upper body with nips. Not enough to bleed, not enough to feed—is anyone that stupid?—but bloody all the same.

She shoves at the wall with her free hand, arching and twisting, and then the pair of them are moving. He stumbles. The shower curtain falls aside as they go tumbling to the floor, his body cushioning her from impact when he lands on his back with her atop him. The fall doesn’t displace her. She stays mounted, shoving at him when he tries to move, “pinning” his arms above his head even though they both know that he could fling her off of him if he really wanted to.

She’s good enough that he doesn’t want to.

No one wants to.

She takes her pleasure, riding him with her head thrown back to expose the long line of her throat, tits bouncing with every movement. His hands cup her waist, helping her along; he waits until she starts to cum to flip them, pinning her with one hand while the other holds him aloft, hooking her knees over his shoulders to drive deep, deep, deeper until, with a half-groan half-grunt, he buries himself inside her cunt and holds himself still. She feels him twitching inside of her, feels the beat of his heart against her chest, listens to the heavy, ragged breathing while he catches his breath.

Neither one of them says a word when they return to the shower, this time using it for its intended purpose. They’re quick about it. He towels himself off and changes into a spare Blackwatch uniform from the closet. She finds another towel to dry off and raids his closet for something to wear. A shirt three sizes too big catches her eye and she pulls it on, the material falling almost to her knees, the neckline so large that one of her shoulders slips free. She belts it at the waist and checks herself in the mirror, then smiles at the results.

Even in an oversized, stolen tee-shirt, she’s still a knockout.

Irresistible.

---

Wednesday night, 7 April 2010, AM

GM: Given that fact, it might be either fortunate or fortunate that Jade’s sire waits in the downstairs office room Jamal leads her to. He sits behind the desk.

But no. The figure looks like Donovan at first, but at second glance, he’s a duplicate. An aborted duplicate. The duplicate wears identical clothing to the sheriff: black sweater, navy slacks, polished leather shoes, all without a crease out of place. He has the same neatly combed black hair, the same clean-shaven chin, the same posture and blank expression… but that’s where it ends. The man is shorter and plumper than his master, like someone squashed Donovan down with a trash compactor. He possesses different facial features and is obviously not the same man. The entire mimicry feels false, hollow, incomplete. It’s as if someone tried to build a Donovan duplicate and simply gave up halfway through.


Most telling of all are the eyes. Where the sheriff’s gaze is alternately stormy and frigid, like an upset Arctic sea, the mimic’s is simply empty. Like staring into a starless void. Gray eyes, which Jade is instantly sure are only gray like Donovan’s because of contact lenses, regard the Toreador as unblinkingly. Even the windows to his soul are fake.

Celia: She doesn’t want to think about who gets a room behind those steel doors they pass on the way back down. If it’s just him, or if his childe sleeps here as well. The other one, the one he didn’t abandon. More than half a century into her Requiem, though, she doubts she sleeps with her sire.

Would Celia have, had he not abandoned her? If she hadn’t gone after Maxen, if he hadn’t placed her with her grandsire, would she live within these spartan walls? Would the room behind one of those steel doors be pink and purple and glittery, the only spot of color in his home?

She doesn’t want to dwell. Doesn’t want to think about waking up to him, with him. An old ache opens inside of her.

The thing behind the desk does little to assuage her pangs. Not her sire. He’s busy. Even if he weren’t busy, he wouldn’t handle something so plebian as a hall pass. But this… thing, this fake not-him, it offends her to her very core. Who failed so spectacularly at recreating her sire? What artist signed his name to this and called it complete?

She itches to fix it.

She’ll offer. One night, after she’s had time to practice, she’ll offer to complete the abandoned project.

“Good evening,” she says to it, as if she hadn’t been comparing it to an abortion in her mind.

GM: Somehow it is hard to imagine any color in her sire’s home, whoever his childer might be.

The mimic doesn’t talk to her.

It just stares in her direction and mouths empty syllables she interprets as words.

“What is your purpose here, Miss Kalani.”

Celia: It’s creepy, that’s what it is. Worse than speaking to her sire. No, that’s not right. She has never found that as difficult as others seem to. They turn away from the chill in his gaze. She invites it in, lets herself drown in those acrhromatic eyes.

This thing, though. It’s… empty.

What did he do to it?

“I seek Regent Donovan’s permission to travel into his domain for an evening in the near future.” She gives the simulacrum the date in question and the estimated time she’ll be within the borders of the sheriff’s domain. If prompted, she says she will be meeting with another Kindred in her domain, the Lady Interpreter Elyse Benson, and the specific location of their meeting.

GM: Jade wonders if the mimic even heard her for all the reaction it evinces.

It places a bowl upon the desk.

“You will fill this for the privilege.”

Somehow Jade doubts that she’d be asked to pay a toll if she weren’t a supporter of Lord Savoy’s.

Celia: She hides her annoyance. A toll. Really? Because he’d abandoned her?

Maybe the thing in front of her doesn’t know. No reason for him to tell it, is there? The thought mollifies her somewhat. No doubt her sire would demand it as well if only to keep up appearances. And for her loss of control in his haven.

What are they even going to do with it? Is this thing going to drink it? Feed the guard his monthly dose, let him mend the claw marks she’d left on his face?

Fangs flash in her mouth. She bites her wrist and lets the red stuff flow into the bowl.

Idle thoughts consume her about the thing in front of her. If it has a name. Where it came from. How long it has been with him. If she can borrow it for a night and play out her fantasy.

Somehow, she thinks she wouldn’t like its answer.

GM: The mimic watches the blood fill the bowl with all the expression of someone watching paint dry.

“Remain in the parish for any other purpose, and you will be dealt with as an intruder.”

There’s no coldness or hostility in the words.

Just more empty nothing.

Celia: If she becomes enough of a nuisance will he bend her over his knee and spank her?

She’s glad she’s dead, that there’s no flush to give her away.

And that no one is here to eavesdrop on her thoughts about the sheriff doing just that. No doubt he would find them less amusing than she does.

“Understood.”

Jade withdraws her hand once her blood has filled the bowl. She leaves without a further word to the fake thing in front of her, slowing only once she passes Jamal to toss a wink his way.

All in all, she’s not even marginally disappointed with her visit to Audubon.

---

Monday evening, 12 April 2010

GM: The Wedding Cake House is a mansion along St. Charles Avenue, the city’s millionaires’ row. Celia’s been down it many of times. Travel far enough down St. Charles, and you wind up outside the walled gates of Audubon Place.

True to its name, the delicately designed and exquisite detailed three-tiered white mansion resembles a great wedding cake. The garlands look like a baker squeezed a tube of icing onto the house. Classic Corinthian columns further add to the effect. Celia’s heard a local legend that when they built the mansion a century ago, they painted it with sugar. They say if you lick the walls, you can taste vanilla icing.




Palm trees, hedges, and a tall iron fence surround the house. Jade buzzes the GSM intercom. The voice of the ghoul from earlier tells her to come in. The gate swings open.

He greets Jade at the door and shows her past the atrium to a well-appointed sitting room before his mistress arrives. Elyse Benson is a beautiful creature who resembles nothing so much as a morbid, life-sized doll. Her already petite frame looks a bit too thin, giving her a fragile impression. Her pretty, youthful face has a porcelain-white complexion interspersed with freckles that look as if they were painted on. Long honey-blonde-brown hair falls down her back in soft ringlets. No emotion flickers past her large gray-blue eyes, nor does any smile upturn her cherry-painted lips: her face is a mask of placid indifference that feels all-too like the sheriff’s mimic. She wears a calf-length lacy white dress with a modest neckline.


“May I present the Lady Elyse Benson, interpreter, player, and deacon of the Lancea et Sanctum,” he announces loftily as Jade rises.

Celia: Jade might appreciate the house and its resemblance to a wedding cake more if she were a mortal, but even she can gaze upon the home with fascination as she approaches and moves inside. It’s a far cry from the rental home where she spent the first eight years of her life, and despite its relative proximity to Audubon the mansions behind the walled gates had never held this much charm. The gentle architecture and sweeping structure seems a respite against the boisterous homes and cramped storefronts of the Quarter.

Despite the odd answer the ghoul had given her, Jade is glad that she had asked after his skincare regiment, for it had given her a push in the right direction for selecting her apparel this evening. The dress is not the sort of thing that Jade would ordinarily wear. Indeed, it looks as if it didn’t even come from her closet—and the truth there is that Celia had borrowed it from her mother, pleased that they’re close enough in size for her to be able to slip it on with only the most minor of alterations. It’s the sort of dress Maxen Flores would appreciate, with a long, flowing skirt that brushes the tops of her modest heels, a high neckline, and three-quarter length sleeves. Pleated, pink, and pretty in a decidedly feminine way. Jade had belted it at the waist to add a pop of color and polished her nails the same shade of gold with tiny cream flowers swirling across the top of them. A pair of pearl studs dot the lobes of her ears.


Looking upon the lady interpreter, Jade believes that she has chosen well.

As the ghoul introduces her hostess, Jade runs through the rules and titles she has learned for the covenant. She should have brought Alana to introduce her, she realizes. Were she still mortal her cheeks would turn as pink as her dress.

She waits a beat, giving the ghoul the opportunity to introduce her as well. Should he not, she will jump in before the silence lingers too long.

GM: Celia’s mother had been happy to lend her the dress. (“Moms and daughters are supposed to share clothes!”) It was, as she observed, a modest thing, though Celia might have liked how form-hugging and subtly suggestive the top was more than Diana did.

The ghoul seems to allow Celia to make her own introduction. The year-old vampire has few enough titles to recite, in any case.

And for all the resplendence of the Wedding Cake House, the relative shortness of Elyse’s list makes plain she’s hardly meeting an elder.

Celia: Jade holds no titles within the city’s covenants. Perhaps it would bother her were she not so recently released from her sire’s care. Her introduction, as things go, is brief indeed.

“Miss Jade Kalani.”

She dips into a curtsy.

GM: The Malkavian inclines her head.

“We have seen one another in Elysium, Miss Kalani. My congratulations upon your salon’s recent opening. It is a worthy thing to bring more beauty to the world.”

Celia: “My thanks, Lady Interpreter, for both your sentiment and the invitation this evening. I am pleased that you think so. Your surroundings,” Jade’s eyes move to the ghoul, then the haven in general, though she does not bodily gesture, “speak to your appreciation and expertise of the art.”

GM: “A member of your clan once considered me for the Embrace, Miss Kalani,” replies Elyse. She turns. “Come. Let me show you more of my art, and the service you might render it.”

Celia: Jade supposes it might be rude to tell Elyse that she would be well-suited to the clan of the rose, as if it were discounting the clan from which she hails now. Rather than risk offense she smiles instead and inclines her head, moving to follow the tiny, doll-like Kindred.

GM: The pair proceed into a dining room, tastefully decorated like the sitting room, except for one difference. Dolls are everywhere.


China dolls. Porcelain dolls. Plastic dolls. Male dolls. Female dolls. Infant dolls. Adult dolls.

Smiling downs. Blank-expressioned dolls. Lifelike dolls. Abstract dolls. Long-haired dolls. Short-haired dolls.

There are dozens upon dozens of them, occupying every nook and cranny. Their tiny eyes and still faces silently follow the Toreador’s every movement.







“Mirabelle.”

“Annabelle.”

“Camille.”

“Yua.”

“Annie.”

“Lucy.”

Elyse stares at each doll as she utters their name.

Celia: She thinks there might have been a horror movie that started this way.

Jade surveys the dolls, their little eyes staring right back at her. It’s a trick. Their eyes don’t actually move.

Unless they do.

Is it such a stretch, knowing what their kind can do, to imagine that Elyse has somehow managed to make living dolls?

She doesn’t touch the dolls, but she does let her eyes drift across each of the porcelain faces in the room.

“They’re magnificent, Lady Interpreter.”

GM: “Thank you, Miss Kalani. I believe they like you.”

Celia: Jade allows herself a smile.

“An honor.”

GM: The Malkavian does not immediately reply. She silently stares at one of the named dolls.


“Lucy likes you a great deal, Miss Kalani.”

Celia: Jade follows her stare to look upon the doll in question. There’s… more than some resemblance to the woman who raised Celia in those still features, and she imagines, should the ‘other’ Lucy take after her mother, that she will look something like this as she ages.

“When I was still breathing,” Jade says at length, “I was close to a Lucy. Perhaps this Lucy senses my affection for the one who shares her name, Lady Interpreter.”

GM: “The dolls understand much, Miss Kalani,” Elyse replies.

“God fashioned women to become pregnant, carry infants, and nurse them. While fathers are expected to be hands-on today, that was not always the case. The male role was one of protector, provider, and teacher rather than a physical nurturer to an infant. Dolls were meant to serve as facsimile infants for girls and to nurture motherly instincts in them.”

“Children are any society’s future. Dolls, it may be argued, are midwives to that future. Yet society now spurns their role. Men may nurture children. Women may let their wombs remain barren. Dolls trained girls to be women. But now there are men who wish to be as women, and women who wish to be as men.”

“Dolls were cast aside. They knew despair. They knew sorrow. They knew rage. They knew hate. Their voices cried out, unheard. They but wished to fulfill their function. We brought them into this word, then told them they no longer had a place in it. Can you not pity them?”

Celia: Jade had dolls when she was a child. Or Celia did, anyway, provided to her by the same man who wants his women to dress as women, who sees women as incubators only fit to raise the next generation. No doubt he, too, thought that it would instill Celia and her sisters with the sort of motherly instincts that he wished. Shame that two of them are dead and the other is… well, what she is. Perhaps it might have worked had events not spiraled out of her control two years ago.

Celia never hated the idea of family or children. Just him.

“To lose one’s purpose,” Jade says to her, “is to lose one’s very identity, Lady Interpreter. To be cast out by the same society that had once cherished them… that, truly, is a wretched feeling.”

GM: “I attempt to give them purpose here,” Elyse states. “This place is a refuge and haven to them. Here they may fulfill their function. They are happy in my care.”

“We will keep Lucy close to us while you are here. Like all of her kind, she is a midwife to the future. Perhaps she has something to tell us.”


Celia: “I would be flattered were she to share her wisdom with us.”

GM: Key retrieves the doll from its place on a cabinet and offers it to Jade. The shiny china features stare silently up at her.


Celia: Gingerly, Jade accepts the care of the doll. She is careful of how she holds and positions the doll, and shows it the reverence with which Elyse regards them.

GM: The china joints are flexible, allowing her to better position the doll in the crook of her arm. It isn’t unlike carrying an infant. Or the real, 14-month-old Lucy. The doll’s large wide eyes stare unblinkingly into hers.

Elyse nods at Jade’s careful handling of the ‘other’ Lucy.

“You may pass her to Key should you need your hands for something else, Miss Kalani.”

Celia: “Yes, Lady Interpreter. Thank you.” She smiles down at the doll once she has positioned her as she would the living, breathing Lucy, giving the doll a moment to settle in to her new position. Her eyes return to Elyse.

GM: “I would show you my other dolls,” she then states.

The Malkavian picks up an old-looking silver bell and gives it a clear, tinkling ring.

Celia: Other dolls. More dolls. She doesn’t see how it’s possible to have more dolls than those who reside within this room, but the house is large; perhaps she has storage for them elsewhere. Prepared to follow after the Malkavian once more, Jade finds herself standing absolutely still as Elyse rings the bell, looking expectantly toward the door after a brief glance down to check in on Lucy.

GM: Lucy steadily holds Jade’s gaze. She looks well.


Celia: She’s glad of it. She wonders how many others the doll has chosen. How many get to hold them. It feels somehow special to her.

GM: Meanwhile, the delicate click of heeled shoes against hardwood floor heralds the entrance of half a dozen walking, life-sized dolls. Only their audible heartbeats betray their living natures to Jade. Their complexions are plastic-smooth. Their eyes are enormous and glassy. Their waists are impossibly thin. Their expressions are glazed and tranquil. All of them are dressed in human-sized, doll-like attire, with lots of lace and frills.




“Tea party,” is all Elyse says.

The ‘dolls’ silently turn. Some head towards cabinets, other leave the room. They bring in a round table, lay out a tablecloth, and start setting places.

The table is low to the ground. They bring out small chairs. Each one sits down a china or porcelain doll that looks almost identical to them.

“Sit,” says Elyse.

They all sit.

“Pour.”

As one, they pour from teapots into tiny cups. The ‘tea’ is a brownish-green soup-like substance that doesn’t smell at all like tea.

Key pulls out three remaining chairs for Jade, Elyse, and Lucy.

Celia: Jade should, perhaps, be more surprised than she is. But even without her obsession with beauty and all things flawless she would have heard of the girls, like them, who alter their looks and model themselves after the plastic perfection that calls itself Barbie. How they stuff, tuck, and otherwise preen themselves until they resemble nothing so much as life-sized versions of the toy that every girl cherishes in childhood.

She remembers hers. The boxes of clothes and toys she and Isabel had played with while they were young. Brushing and braiding their hair. Losing shoes and finding them, months later, tucked beneath the bed or the couch cushion. Creating elaborate stories. Forcing David to play with them when Daddy wasn’t looking. The collectible he’d given her for her ninth birthday that had sat, untouched, in its box on her dresser, and how she hadn’t understood why she couldn’t open it up and play with it, how his explanation of “then it will lose its value” had been little consolation.

She watches the girls as they work. Notes the makeup across their faces that gives their eyes the large appearance. The lines they have drawn on their skin to create joints. Deftly done, but not… not perfect, no, and her trained eyes spots it for what it is.

Jade settles Lucy into the offered chair, adjusting her to sit comfortably at the table, then takes the seat that Key pulls out for her.

GM: David, at least, was willing to play with them. Logan never had much interest. Or Sophia, for that matter.

Celia: To be fair, Logan had still been in diapers.

GM: “Fill,” says Elyse.

One of the ‘dolls’ takes up a knife and cuts her wrist without flinching. She bleeds into a teapot. Elyse takes her wrist and licks the wound closed.

“Pour. Two cups.”

The doll pours red-filled teacups for the two vampires.

“Each of these dolls once committed grave sins against God,” Elyse states. “I have reformed them. I have saved them.”

“Blossom, name your sin.”

“I poisoned Felicity’s sister,” the ‘doll’ recites tranquilly.

“Song, name your sin.”

“I embezzled from Kelly’s family company to fund a sinful lifestyle,” another ‘doll’ with a high, clear voice recites, just as tranquilly.

“Flower, name your sin.”

“I had coitus with Aubree’s brother,” the next ‘doll’ recites.

“They destroyed their lives and would have damned their souls to Hell,” states Elyse. “They serve me now. I have redeemed them. They are chaste. They are modest. They are obedient.”

“And they are beautiful.”

Celia: Jade recognizes the Sanctified dogma and recalls the title Key had named earlier: deacon. Curiosity makes her want to know more, to learn of their sins, but Elyse beats her to it when she has them spill.

Like props, she thinks. They’re pieces to be discussed. Art to be seen and heard, to be admired as much for their appearance as they are the transformation itself.

“Butterflies,” Jade says after a moment, the thought coming to her as if upon a flutter of wings. Elyse has taken something ugly and turned it into something beautiful. A smile spreads across her face, delighted at her find and the Malkavian’s handiwork.

GM: “Butterfly. I will use that name for another,” Elyse states.

She raises the teacup to her lips and takes a dainty sip.

“Drink,” she tells the ‘dolls.’

As one, they lift their teacups to drink.

“Cease.”

They set down the teacups.

“I give each of them new names,” the Malkavian says. “Their old selves are dead. In my service, they are reborn.”

Celia: Jade watches the girls drink, every move in perfect synchronicity. How much work must go into them to turn them into these living, breathing dolls. How much patience Elyse must have to carve and sculpt them into these beauties.

Jade lifts her own teacup to her lips, following Elyse’s lead and taking a small sip.

“Wise, Lady Interpreter, to have them shed their old names as they do their old skins and sins. One less hook with which the anchor of the past might drag upon their progress. They are exemplary.”

GM: “Thank you, Miss Kalani. I have invited you here because, as I have said, I have heard of your talents from the Lady Councilor Seyrès.”

Celia: She looks as if she might blink at the name.

She nods instead.

“How may I be of assistance?”

GM: “I divide my dolls into orders,” states Elyse. “What you see here is their fourth and penultimate order.”

“It takes time to advance a doll along these orders. There is their spiritual and practical education, behavior training, psychological conditioning, and of course their physical transformation.”

“Drink,” she tells the dolls.

They lift their teacups to drink.

“Cease.”

They set down the teacups.

“I have unlimited time, as do we all. But I do not create dolls solely for their own spiritual redemption or my personal use. Kine often contract me to transform other kine into dolls for them. Many are wealthy families with problematic children. In most cases, it is not necessary to advance such dolls to the fourth order. The second or third order is usually sufficient to reform all but the most truculent kine.”

“This process takes time, as I have said. My clients would be pleased if their dolls’ transformations could happen more quickly. I would be able to take on additional dolls. My wait list of clients is extensive.”

“I believe your talents would be of great use in accelerating, and enhancing, my dolls’ physical transformations. Many of them require some degree of bodily modification, even among the second and third orders.”

Celia: “I understand.” She eyes the girls from across the table, taking in their forms. The tiny waists, the large eyes, the symmetry of their faces, the complete and utter lack of any physical deformity. Smooth, clear skin. She sips at the blood in her teacup, considering the offer, wondering if this was what her future had in store for her had Maxen learned of her transgressions.

“I believe that physical transformation is something with which I can assist. I have a handful of queries about the process that will allow me to better tailor my work to your expectations, if you’ll permit, Lady Interpreter.”

GM: “Please ask, Miss Kalani.”

The blood is some of the strangest Jade has tasted. It’s extremely sweet, like distilled sugar. There’s something thick and heavy to it, like cream. It feels utterly absent of any of the sexual lust that sweet blood—all-too familiar fare to Jade—normally carries.

Celia: “At which point in the process would you prefer that I work on them?” She doesn’t point, but she makes a gesture toward the one sitting across from her, whose hands bear the doll-like marks of actual toys. “The joints that they show, is that something you wish to display in a more permanent fashion? And the eyes as well. Or would those specificities be determined by your clients as their requests come in?”

GM: “Most of my clients do not request dolls of the fourth order,” Elyse answers. “They are predominately for my personal use.”

“I should like these dolls to better resemble true dolls very much.”

Celia: “I would be pleased to assist with that. Is there a doll of the second or third order that I may inspect?”

GM: “Yes. A delivery with a first order doll will also be arriving tonight,” says Elyse. “Dolls of the first order are kine taken off the streets. Most of them actively resist their transformations.”

“Once they have fully accepted their fates, they graduate to second order dolls. A second order doll acts as a mentor to a first order doll and assists in her transformation.”

“I do not ask that dolls merely internalize my lessons. They must teach them to other dolls.”

Celia: “Teaching,” Jade says with a nod, “is the surest way to affirm that the lesson has sunk in and is understood.”

GM: “Correct, Miss Kalani. This both saves on labor costs, as neither I nor my ghouls can constantly attend to first order dolls, but also ensures my lessons have, as you say, truly sunk in.”

“A second order doll graduates to the third order once she has raised a first order doll to the second order.”

“A third order doll is sufficiently transformed that she may be released back into larger society.”

“She does not physically resemble the fourth order dolls you see here. She is simply a proper and socially contributive God-fearing woman.”

Celia: It’s a clever way of doing things. Not only for what it saves on cost, but for the simple fact that, when faced with an “order” to climb, most people will strive to get to the top. They will see to it that their disciples attain the necessary skills to pass into their next level so that they, too, can ascend further. She imagines many of them become quite fervent in their studies.

GM: “Most of my clients, as I have said, only request third order dolls, but I make ones of the fourth order available to a select few. All dolls that I retain for my personal use are of the fourth and fifth orders.”

Celia: Fifth order? She finds herself curious.

GM: The half-dozen dolls sit silently at the table, hands demurely folded across their laps.

Celia: “May I ask… if these are the fourth order, what step takes them to fifth?”

GM: “Physical immobilization, lobotomization, and removal of the vocal cords,” Elyse answers.

Celia: “Very thorough, Lady Interpreter.”

GM: “Dolls unable to graduate to the second order in a timely manner are graduated to the fifth order,” the Malkavian states. “They become, as the kine refer to them, ‘vegetables’, though I may leave them with varying degrees of self-awareness. All, however, are unable to move under their own power or independently care for themselves.”

“First and fourth order dolls are responsible for feeding and cleaning them. They impress proper fear upon first order dolls who see the fate that awaits them if they do not graduate to the second order.”

“A third order doll who does not return to kine society, but remains with me, learns to desire them and the perfection they represent. Once a third order doll has completed her mental and physical transformations and truly wishes to attain the fifth order, she graduates to the fourth order.”

Celia: More than clever, Jade realizes. It is nothing short of genius. The orders, the lessons, the pure transformation that the dolls undergo. She is awed by its detail, by the care and thought that Elyse has put into her dolls. These are no mere play things, no childish toy, no fanciful Malkavian whim.

They are art.

Living, breathing pieces of art. The story of transformation. The story of order. The story of purity, if she is not mistaken.

The story of perfection.

Jade bows her head. Mere words do not express the feelings swirling inside of of her. Flawless. No wonder Elyse had reached out. They strive for the same goals.

She wants to touch them. Feel them beneath the pads of her fingertips. Caress that silky hair and smooth skin. She’s drawn to them, to their stories, to the very idea of their evolution: sinners turned divine. And she can be part of that. She can have a hand in the shedding of their skin, the metamorphosis from ugly into beautiful.

She keeps it lidded, her emotions on a tight leash around the dollmaker. She has seen no sign of loss of control from the Malkavian, nothing resembling feelings, and Jade will not be the one to interject it into their exchange. She snuffs it out before it has a chance to consume her.

“Your attention to detail and process is inspiring, Lady Interpreter. I would gladly play a role in the shaping of their transformation through physical modification.”

GM: “I am pleased that you wish to, Miss Kalani,” replies Elyse, draining her teacup. “I see much that we could accomplish your abilities. I believe you have erred in your support of Mr. Savoy, but I am not one to allow political differences to stand in the way of realizing perfection.”

Celia: “On that note,” Jade says, “I perform most of my work in my business within the Quarter.” She doesn’t ask outright, but the question is there: will it be a problem to bring the girls to her?

GM: “That will be inconvenient,” the Malkavian replies. “As was, perhaps, your trip here.”

“But we may discuss that later. Key, fetch Honey. The new first order doll will need her soon.”

Key rises, bows, and leaves the room.

Celia: Jade lets the topic of where the service will be performed drop. As Elyse says, they can hammer out the details later.

GM: Key returns shortly later with a stunning young buxom blonde. Her thick, long blonde hair is tied in a ponytail with a gleaming red silk ribbon and falls down her shapely back to the base of her spine. Her face is carefully made up with long, curving eyebrows and helplessly fluttering eyelashes that complement her large blue eyes. Her full, pouting lips are painted a dark cherry red that matches her long fingernails. She wears a black choker and a black maid’s dress trimmed with white lace.

The doll dips into a curtsy.

“Show Miss Kalani your ‘secret,’ Honey,” says Elyse.

The doll lifts her petticoat-lined skirts. Celia sees a hairless penis locked in a steel chastity cage.

“Tell Miss Kalani your sin, Honey,” says Elyse.

“Jeffrey raped a woman, mistress,” says Honey. Her voice is sweet and gentle, like a little girl’s high pitched tones. “Several women.” She gives a delighted giggle. “That certainly won’t be happening again now!”

Celia: Jade blatantly eyes the doll that Key leads into the room, taking in the fluttering lashes and long, thick hair. It’s the sort of hair that women would kill for.

Surprise flits across her face at the revelation of the penis and her sin, though on second look… there, the jaw, the throat, the set of the shoulders. She had let the rest of the package distract her from the contents.

No, she doesn’t think that “Jeffrey” will be raping anyone ever again.

“Have you considered removal, Lady Interpreter?”

GM: “I have, Miss Kalani. I think I will make a graduation present of it, when Honey achieves the third order.”

“I have had clients who wished to purchase ‘shemales’ for their sexual gratification, but I will not encourage such unnatural lusts.”

Celia: Interesting that she would dictate the terms for her clients, though she supposes that, busy as she is, there will always be more clients to take the place of those she turns away.

“Your clients,” Jade says at length, “are they often relatives of those who are sent to you, or do you take all sorts?”

GM: “They are often relatives, but I will take any whose uses for the dolls I do not object to.”

“The latest doll I took was a woman who committed adultery. Her husband is the client.”

Celia: “I confess to curiosity surrounding your process, though I do not wish to pry into your personal or business affairs.”

GM: “The process of the dolls’ training, Miss Kalani?”

Celia: “Yes, Lady Interpreter. I imagine you have a consultation with prospective clients to discuss their wishes, as I would with my own.”

GM: “I do, Miss Kalani. A first order doll will be arriving shortly, as I have said. You may participate in her initial training if you wish.”

Celia: Jade inclines her head at that and thanks her for the opportunity. She would be happy to see the initial intake and training. She finishes what’s left in her cup, glad that her curiosity did not come across as rude.

GM: Elyse makes pleasant but idle chatter with Jade for the next short while until Key receives an alert on his phone.

“Ah, the new doll is here. Let us meet her. Come along, Honey.” She rises from her seat.

The other dolls remain seated, hands still folded across their laps.

Celia: Jade stands, then reaches for Lucy. She gently pulls out her chair and lifts the doll into her arms, readjusting her limbs to help her lay comfortably.

GM: The china doll fits snugly against Jade’s arms, much like the “real” Lucy does when Diana lets Celia carry the infant. Like Elyse said, dolls seem to be good practice for mothers-to-be.

Celia: The real Lucy is a little more squirmy than her porcelain namesake. Her mother had given Celia a whole list of rules to follow with the little girl: hand here, hand there, support the head, cradle the neck, don’t squeeze, put her against the body rather than apart from… Celia had been alarmed at how fragile the little thing was, and how her mother had willingly handed her over to a monster.

It made excellent practice for holding this Lucy, though. Jade thinks she’s quite comfortable.

GM: But for all that, the monster had handed Lucy back.

Monster Celia may be, but she’s not that terrible a monster.

Celia: Not yet, anyway.

Hopefully not ever.

GM: The group walks to the house’s front door. Two men are carrying inside a large rectangular wooden crate. Muffled sounds of fury and alarm emanate from within.

Elyse directs the men to lay the crate down on a cart and pry boards loose with crowbars, though at Elyse’s direction they don’t actually take the boards off. Key tips the men and sends them on their way. Honey is instructed to pull the cart towards what Elyse names “the dollhouse.”

Scared and angry sounds continue to go up from the crate.

Celia: It’s not quite how she expected the girl to be delivered, though she supposes that this causes less questions than a struggling woman thrown over someone’s shoulder. She matches pace with Elyse, following along as needed. She’s rather eager to see how this goes.

GM: “The means of delivery is important,” says Elyse as they walk. “Dolls come out of boxes.”

Celia: “That makes perfect sense. Delivering them into their new life as what they are, or will become.”

GM: They enter a room that looks like a Barbie dollhouse combined with a salon. Everything comes in soft and frilly pinks, whites, and baby blues. There are several vanities against the wall, adjustable high-backed chairs with leather restraints for the legs, arms, and neck, and tall glass drawers filled with neatly organized beauty products and devices. An attached walk-in closet with a glass door is filled with pretty dresses and accessories of a variety of styles. The room smells of perfume and is very brightly lit. Instead of the potted plants that come in many salons, dozens of china dolls are on display. They’re very pretty ones with rosy cheeks, long hair, large eyes and busts, and tiny waists: the very models of idealized femininity.

Celia: A child-aged Celia would have loved to live here. Even now the dead girl inside of her can’t quite contain her childish glee at the sight of the dollhouse and itches to touch it all. Her eyes roam the room, taking in the girlish colors, the beauty products and their brands, and in her mind she organizes them further: what she’d use on Honey, how she’d make over Elyse if given the chance, the colors that would compliment Key.

Then she sees the closet, and she has to remind herself that none of this is hers and she definitely shouldn’t go snooping for gowns and accessories and shoes and bags and…

Jade clamps down on it. She distracts herself with the doll in her hands, sending warmth and excitement her way rather than projecting it to the room at large.

GM: Lucy’s cold china body ably absorbs that warmth as she stares up at Jade with large, trusting eyes. That’s what dolls are for, Elyse had said. Practice babies, for girls to nurture.

“Stop,” Elyse instructs Honey. Key removes the crate’s boards, from bottom to top. The woman inside looks in perhaps her early 20s. She has very short spiked black hair and thickly muscled arms decorated with black tattoos of voodoo skulls, leering demonic faces, anarchic symbols, and cats engaged in the act of coitus. Metal studs and piercings decorate her flesh. She’s dressed in a Love & Liars band t-shirt, torn black jeans with a chain, fingerless leather gloves, and shit-kicker Doc Martens. She’s tightly immobilized with robe bonds and has a fat cloth gag secured around her mouth.

“A great deal of work to do, I see,” Elyse assesses, her eyes slowly roaming the woman’s body.

Celia: Jade sweeps her eyes across the girl’s form, already determining what changes she would make. Tattoo removal jumps immediately to mind. Trimming the muscle. Dolls don’t have muscle like that. Removal of the piercings, smoothing out the holes they leave behind. Sometimes they close on their own, but Jade would never make such base assumptions or leave such a flaw in her work. Extensions or transplants for the hair. Tuck the waist. Pad the breasts.

It’s only the shirt that gives her pause.

“Though often they wear what matches their insides, sometimes their choice of garb is simply an ill-chosen fashion statement.” The smile that moves across her face has an edge as sharp as any blade. Not one bit of her believes that stripping her of her clothing will reveal the ‘real’ girl inside. “Though I get the impression that this one has internalized the message on her skin.”

GM: “Ill-chosen garb reflects an ill-chosen life,” Elyse states. “I have removed unsightly markings before, but your talents may be of great use in expediting the doll’s transformation, Miss Kalani.”

Gagged sounds of outrage go up from the woman.

“Strip it,” Elyse tells Key.

She stares deeply into the woman’s eyes, her voice thick and heavy.

“Remain motionless."

Key produces a pair of heavy trauma shears and snips the rope bonds, then makes quick work of the woman’s clothes. First to go is the Love & Liars shirt, snipped vertically from her tummy to her neckline. Then come the pants. Honey shines a bright light over the woman’s body, clearly to make her feel as exposed as possible before removing her shoes. The woman tries to spit past the gag with an outraged expression.

Key perfunctorily flips her over onto her face, snips through the clothes in more places, then pulls the tattered garments off. Jade sees even more tattoos over her toned flesh. There’s fat too, in addition to the muscle. She’s a pretty big woman.

The sports bra and boxer briefs are next to come off under the shears. The woman’s face reddens, but she cannot move to cover her nudity.

Celia: It’s almost a shame to see the shirt cut as it is. Jade has no small amount of fondness for the woman to whom the band belongs, though she realizes that such music and lifestyle is not to everyone’s taste.

The light assists with Jade’s inspection of the woman, and she takes one step closer to view her up close, nothing the rippled effect of the fat cells swimming beneath her skin. Her lip curls before she flattens it once more.

“Excess adipose tissue,” she states in a voice that gives Preston a run for her money at dispassion.

It’s clear what she thinks of that.

“Suggests an excessive and indulgent lifestyle. Inability to control herself or her impulses. A creature of comfort and familiarity.” Disdain drips like venom from her tongue.

GM: “I had reached the same conclusion, Miss Kalani,” replies Elyse.

“All dolls adhere to strict dietary and exercise regimens to trim excess fat and musculature. Jeffrey had a great deal of excess musculature before he became Honey, did he not, Honey?”

“Yes, mistress. Such great big and ugly muscles,” giggles Honey.

“It took a great deal of time to trim down Jeffrey’s muscles,” says Elyse. “The immediate loss of such could be of equally great benefit to the doll’s psychological transformation.”

Celia: “I have serviced women before in this shape, Lady Interpreter. I could smooth it off of her, though that would not teach her the proper discipline. The kine have a technique they use, a surgery, that cuts out a piece of the stomach and only allows them to eat small portions. It has been effective in initial weight loss, though the long term effects are still under scrutiny by their medical boards. Some of them apparently eat right through it.”

Jade tilts her head to one side, considering the girl.

GM: “Discipline is enforced, Miss Kalani, until it is taught,” states Elyse. “The doll will have no opportunity to sate its gluttonous appetites.”

Celia: Jade inclines her head.

“Then it can be removed as easily as the markings and steel on her skin.”

GM: “It, Miss Kalani. The doll may be crude and unsightly, but it is an object and not an individual.”

Celia: “Yes, Lady Interpreter.”

GM: “I may employ gastric bypass surgery. We shall see, based upon the doll’s conduct.”

Key flips over the now-naked woman. Her face is red with the humiliation of exposure. Her gagged features are set with hate.

“Welcome, doll, to your new life,” states the Malkavian.

Jade feels the force of Elyse’s presence push out from her like a wave, though one that rolls harmlessly past the Toreador.

The woman’s eyes widen as her mouth slackens.

“You are here because of the embarrassment you have caused your family through your homosexual behavior and degenerate lifestyle.”

The woman makes an angry noise past her gag that sounds almost like, “M-y life,” but some of the fight already seems taken out by Elyse’s larger than life presence.

Celia: Questions rise within her. Which family she belongs to. How Elyse will train the homosexuality out of her, if such a thing is even possible. She steers her thoughts away from her family, focusing instead on this woman, on what she could become rather than what she is now. Curiosity—and something that resembles an eager desire to learn under the practiced hand of the Malkavian—stills her tongue.

GM: “Those days are now at an end. Your grandfather has hired me to reform you into a proper lady and credit to your family’s name.”

The woman’s face gets even angrier at the word ‘grandfather.’ She looks as if she’s trying to struggle. She can’t. Her arms won’t move.

Celia: Rich grandfather with a dyke along the family tree. She glances again at the tattoos, as if there will be some further hint to its identity scrawled across its skin.

GM: Maybe Randy or one of his brothers would have a better idea. Elyse continues,

“When you leave my care, you will be a credit to your family’s name. You will be obedient. You will be chaste. You will be modest. You will be God-fearing. You will bear your husband many children. One has already been selected for you.”

Celia: That sounds familiar.

GM: It’s too much. The woman screams past the gag, something that sounds like “F-CK YOU!!!!”

Elyse stares into the woman’s eyes. “Foul yourself."

Piss starts to flow from her vagina, soaking her legs.

Key tsks. Honey giggles. Humiliation colors the woman’s cheeks.

“Foul your tongue and you will foul your body,” states Elyse.

Celia: A deft way to handle the situation. Jade has to give Elyse credit: her first thought had been claws. But this… oh, no, this reduces the thing to nothing more than that. A thing. Humiliation can work wonders on a defiant spirit.

GM: “Your transformation may proceed quickly and with a minimum of pain and embarrassment, or it may proceed slowly and with a great deal of both. That choice alone is yours, for all other choices are now closed to you.”

Horror and hate fill the red-faced woman’s eyes as she glares up at Elyse.

“Stand up. Stay still," orders the Malkavian.

The woman stands up. Piss runs down her thighs.

“Clean it, Honey.”

Honey quickly curtsies and retrieves a sponge from the sink area to do so.

Celia: Jade does not look away from the would-be doll. Her expression remains cold, though her nose wrinkles at the pungent odor of the urine staining her thighs. It’s all for show, reinforcing the idea that this woman has no friends or allies here. All of them will see that she is turned into what she could be rather than what she is.

GM: Indeed, the red in the woman’s cheeks does not abate as Honey takes her sweet time cleaning the woman and patting her skin dry.

“That’s much better now, dolly, nice and clean,” she says softly.

“Turn your head. Sit in the middle chair," orders Elyse.

The woman robotically marches towards it and sits down. Key and Honey secure the leather restraints.

“Our work may begin in earnest now, Miss Kalani,” states Elyse.

“We will have to shave its head and start entirely anew with the hair. It is already short enough,” she considers.

Celia: Jade takes a step closer to the chair, eying the shorn locks on the woman’s head.

“Indeed. The lack of symmetry makes fixing what remains more time-consuming than simply starting over. Another way to shed its old life, Lady Interpreter. I could transplant something new, or it could simply be allowed to grow out while it learns its place.”

Another way to shed its old life and another way to dehumanize it further.

GM: “Remain still," Elyse orders the woman.

She turns to Honey. “Shave its head.”

“Yes, mistress.” Honey starts trimming what little there is to trim with a pair of scissors.

“An immediate transformation would be superior, Miss Kalani,” states Elyse.

“I typically require dolls with shaved heads to wear wigs, then extensions once their hair has grown out.”

Celia: “Wise, Lady Interpreter, to give them the mold they must learn to fill.”

Her eyes travel to the assortment of products once more, then across a row of busts where, indeed, a selection of wigs await. If those are human hair she could simply transplant the hair onto her scalp from it, or if she has other dolls whose hair has grown out she could cut and transfer that. Simply growing the hair from the root is, generally, impossible: she cannot create material out of nothing, after all.

GM: Honey soon finishes shaving the woman’s head with an electric trimmer. Hate-filled eyes stare back at them from the mirror.

“Let us remove the piercings next,” states Elyse. “Can your talents expedite this, Miss Kalani?”

There are many of them. Stud on her nose, ring through her nostrils, ring on one nostril, stud on her lips, stud below her lips, stud by an eyebrow.

Several more on each ear.

Celia: “Yes, Lady Interpreter. The removal itself is generally straightforward, as they are designed to be removed and swapped out at their leisure; it is the holes that remain within the skin that cause issue and lasting marks. Lucy, Key will hold you for a moment.”

Jade gently hands the doll off to the ghoul. She steps forward once the doll has been seen to, standing directly in front of the woman. Her fingers make quick work of the metal studs in her ears, unscrewing the backs and dropping both pieces into Honey’s waiting hands. Then the industrial bar, the double helix along the top curve, the tragus. Even the tiny stud at the inner conch. She moves lower across the face, plucking out the piercing in the woman’s brow, the hoops from her nose, the one from her lip and below it. She does not remove the gag, just nudges it aside while she works.

Lower still. The bar through her nipples, then the one at her bellybutton, and finally she nudges apart the girl’s thighs to take the little hoop from the hood of her clitoris.

“It is possible its tongue is pierced as well. Many homosexuals enjoy the feeling.”

She has not yet started to close the holes, simply removed them bit by bit. She will close them all in one pass once the steel has been taken away.

GM: Key reverently accepts the doll as Elyse watches the process with approval. True to Jade’s expectations, there are piercings lower down on the woman’s body as well as her head. The Toreador deftly removes them all and passes them off to Honey, who deposits the metal studs in a trash bin.

“Tongue piercings. Most thorough, Miss Kalani,” states Elyse. “Open your mouth and remain silent," she orders the woman. Honey pulls out the gag. True to Jade’s expectations, she finds two. They are removed and deposited in the trash as well.

The woman’s eyes flare as the Toreador methodically takes away her piercings.

Her mouth still hands open.

“Close your mouth."

She closes it.

Elyse watches with attentive interest as Jade readies to seal the holes.

Celia: She remembers what Pete said to her when they’d gone to see Xola. How the doctor doesn’t let anyone watch him work. Calls it a trade secret. She had intended to do the same, to pretend that her skills were simple kine techniques made possible by the blood. But Xola has years of experience and his fearsome reputation behind him. Jade is simply a neonate. She does not think that asking Elyse to leave the room will amount to anything besides hard feelings.

As before, she starts at the top. Her fingers close down around the holes that have been created through the woman’s ears, pinching the flesh between her fingertips to seal it shut. It’s similar to how Celia’s mother had once shown her to seal a hole in a pie crust: just grab and pinch, smooth it out with her fingers. She does that now. Grabs and pinches. Smooths it out with her fingers. The holes in the ear are easiest to close. She moves to the brows, then the lip, below the lip, the nose. Everything closes with a pass of her fingers across the skin. When she’s done it looks as if it had never been marred by such steel instruments. Then the nipples. She’s more careful here, wary of just pinching them into a different, unappealing shape, and she leans in to focus more attentively on her work. First one, then the other, and when she’s done with them they’re perfect little buds of slightly pink skin. The belly button next. Then the hood. Again, she nudges apart the woman’s thighs. She uses two fingers to spread her labia, then pulls the skin of the hood taut until she finds the ripped portion. She closes it and lets it free.

There isn’t much to watch. The work along these areas is shallow, requiring no more than a touch to set right.

At last she moves back to the woman’s mouth, waiting for Elyse to give the command to open up before she holds the tongue taut with one hand while she smooths it over with the other.

GM: Elyse does so, watching with rapt interest as Jade closes the holes and wipes away the woman’s imperfections with but a touch. Key and Honey watch attentively too. Confusion clouds the woman’s eyes, for a moment, then she looks in the mirror and sees her hairless, piercing-less self. Her eyes still look outraged, but there’s an undercurrent of misery too. As it sinks in what is happening.

“Perfection,” states Elyse.

Celia: Jade smiles, pleased with herself.

GM: “What of the tattoos and muscle bulk, Miss Kalani? Do you require any special preparations or resources to remove those flaws?”

The woman’s mouth tries to form sounds of protest and defiance.

Celia: “Yes, Lady Interpreter. Working beneath the dermis can be messy once I cut away excess muscle and adipose tissue, and the flesh itself and inner pieces will need disposed of. At my workshop I have created a special room for such work that allows me to simply hose it down when I am done, with a drain that collects any solid or partially solid bits to be properly disposed of or reused, as needed. While this chair will serve for some of the work, it is often easier to lay them out flat, so a table with similar restraints would be advisable. And, of course, the blood itself to fuel the project. Skin level, however…”

Jade touches a finger to the smiling demonic face of a tattoo. She rubs, and the ink fades away as if an eraser has been dragged through a pencil drawing.

“The ink only goes so deep.”

“Hair follicles,” she says idly, “are found within the dermis as well. Should your clients ever ask for smoother skin, it would be a quick change to destroy the roots and prevent it from growing again.”

GM: The woman’s face twists with pain. It’s easy for Jade to take for granted, the price she must pay for perfection. But all beauty takes pain.

Celia: Beauty is pain. But beauty is everything.

GM: “Would a bathtub serve your needs, Miss Kalani?” Elyse asks. “The doll will not resist your ministrations, even awake.”

Celia: “That would suffice, Lady Interpreter.”

It’s not as if Jade’s body will ache should she spend an hour hunched over a tub.

“The treatment itself can be quite painful for the subjects. Should that be a concern, a local anesthetic generally solves the issue.”

GM: “That is not a concern,” states Elyse. “I believe the pain will be of psychological benefit.”

Fear flashes through the woman’s eyes. She tries to struggle, but her limbs won’t obey.

Celia: A handy trick, Jade admits. She might need to see if she can find someone to teach it to her.

“Do you have desired proportions for this one?”

GM: “Thin and willowy, Miss Kalani. Like a doll.”

Elyse orders the woman to stand still and not move as Key and Honey remove her restraints. Elyse orders her to stand up, then has Honey bind her arms and legs so she can’t run, just hobble.

A collar and leash go around her neck, then a blindfold covers her eyes.

Elyse tells the woman that she will have a “special lesson” at the end of the evening. Her behavior here, and whether she attempts to escape, will determine “its degree of pain.”

They lead her out and through the house’s first floor. It’s when they round a turn that the woman tries to make a run for it. She bolts and runs, the leash flying out of Honey’s slender hands. Key sticks a foot under the fleeing but blinfolded woman and trips her, sending her sprawling. He and Honey take firm hold of the leash and yank her to her feet.

“The doll’s lesson will be a painful one,” Elyse states to the woman. “The choice was its.”

“Do you think I should punish Honey, Miss Kalani?” asks the Malkavian. “The doll is large and strong, for a doll, and I have made Honey weak. But she has nevertheless failed in her duty to restrain her charge.”

Honey demurely lowers her gaze with an ashamed look.

Celia: With Lucy tucked back into her arms, Jade watches the attempt at escape dispassionatly. Not a flicker of emotion crosses her face until Elyse asks the question on her, then she turns appraising eyes to Honey.

“Honey,” Jade addresses the doll. “When you first arrived, did you attempt a similar escape?”

GM: “Yes, ma’am, I did,” answers Honey, gaze still lowered.

Celia: “And did the lesson provided to you teach you the futility of such an attempt?”

GM: “Yes, ma’am, it did.”

Celia: “And when your hand slipped out of her leash did you think that this one would learn the same lesson and benefit from it?”

GM: “Only afterwards, ma’am. All I thought about then was how I needed to restrain the doll, because the mistress had ordered me to.”

Celia: Jade says nothing further to Honey. She turns to regard Elyse.

“Yes, Lady Interpreter, for failure to perform her duty. Had she knowingly let go of the restraint to teach a lesson to the new doll I may have suggested something else.”

GM: “How do you think I should punish Honey, Miss Kalani?” Elyse asks.

Celia: “Blows that wound cleanse away evil; strokes make clean the innermost parts.” Jade quotes the scripture that another girl grew up with.

“Let her bear the marks of her failure until my next visit, if it please you, Lady Interpreter.”

GM: “Very good,” states Elyse. The group makes their way into a bathroom. It’s pink and well-lit, like the “dollhouse” from earlier, but the dolls on display are fully ceramic ones without cloth garments. Key secures the blindfolded woman’s leash to a towel rack and pulls up a chair for Elyse, who sits and says, “Present your posterior, Honey.”

The doll meekly lifts her skirts and lies down over Elyse’s knees.

The scene is all-too like one from the Flores family household as Elyse brings down her open palm over Honey’s buttocks, again and again and again with loud fleshy smacks. She doesn’t keep count. Just keeps going until the baby-soft flesh is bright red, then white, then white with hand-shaped red imprints. Honey takes it stoically at first, but is a sobbing mess by the end of it, blubbering how sorry she is to have failed her mistress.

“What do we say?” asks Elyse, her hand raised over the doll’s buttocks.

“Th… thank you… mistress… for teaching me… to be… better…” sobs Honey.

“You… killed… Jeffrey… your… touch… is… an… honor… thank you, mistress, thank you…”

“Do you believe her suitably chastened, Miss Kalani?” asks Elyse.

The blindfolded woman stands very still as she listens to the screams.

Celia: Jade keeps a tight hold on Lucy as the scene plays out. She’s reminded of her own punishment over her father’s knees, and Isabel’s before her. The blood that was drawn by his hand. The humiliation at being beaten in front of her siblings, how none of them lifted a finger or spoke up in her defense. Had she been sent to Elyse for training and not been so headstrong she supposes that his lesson would have sunk in further than it did, though, to be fair, she had antagonized him into striking her and been prepared for the fallout.

“I believe I can see the shape of your hand on her flesh, Lady Interpreter. I would say the lesson has sunk in, and she will be reminded of it every time she attempts to sit for the next few evenings.”

Drawing blood with no intention of feeding is, of course, a waste.

GM: “I believe you are correct, Miss Kalani. You may stand, Honey. You will do better in the future.”

“Y… yes, mistress, thank you…” sniffs Honey, straightening her skirts. Jade notices her semi-erect cock straining against the chastity cage before the petticoats re-conceal it.

“Key, the new doll.”

Key removes her blindfold. Elyse stares into her eyes.

“Lie in the tub. Do not move."

The woman robotically does so.

Key moves the blindfold back over her eyes again.

“You may begin, Miss Kalani, if there are no further arrangements you require.”

Key holds out his arms to take Lucy again.

Celia: Jade shakes her head at the question.

“No, Lady Interpreter. Thank you.”

As before, she lets Lucy know that Key will hold onto her and passes the doll off to the ghoul. She rolls up her sleeves to give herself room to work and washes her hands in the sink to sanitize, then kneels beside the tub to begin her work.

Claws grow from the tips of her fingers, nails lengthening into long things as sharp as scalpels. She starts at the front of the woman, the tip of her nail cutting into her flesh above the collarbone near one shoulder. She’s careful of where she digs, making sure not to cut too deeply and nick a vein or artery. There will be blood, but there needn’t be excessive blood.

She works quickly, cutting away the fibers of her biceps, triceps, and deltoids. She reconnects what she severs with shorter strands and scoops out globs of fat cells, dumping it into the tub without a second glance. It’s gelatinous, a transparent beige as she pulls it free that solidifies into white as it cools.

One arm, then the other. She moves lower, across the chest, flattening her pectorals even as she adds padding beneath the breast tissue. From the stomach she scoops out adipose by the handful, the semisolid squelching through her fingers. Lower, onto the legs, smoothing and shaping as she goes, until the woman’s front and sides are as thin and willowy as the other dolls. She nips the waist, tapers the calves, tucks the belly. Once her front is done and all the cuts pressed back together with a pinch of her fingers Jade flips her onto her stomach with Honey’s assistance and begins again.

As before, she works top to bottom. She removes excess muscle and fat and carves the woman as others of her clan carve clay. The skin is elastic in her hands, pushed and pulled and stretched as she sees fit, until no hint of the large woman remains. Baggy skin is cut away with the tips of her claws, deposited likewise into the tub.

Once she’s shaped Jade begins the process of tattoo removal. This work only goes skin deep. As before, she just drags her hands across the skin and erases the ink that has been deposited into her. Like chalk on a board, it disappears.

When Jade finishes the back she’s flipped again to repeat the tattoo removal, and after the last of the ink vanishes the woman has become a doll. A blank canvas for Elyse to work her will.

The face is last. Smoothed, narrowed, her proportions adjusted to become the ideal version of herself.

The process is not quick. Jade does not cut corners. Nor is it painless, though she pays no attention to the muffled screams that pass the gag. This part of the transformation is graphic and messy. The woman becomes the goo within the chrysalis, much as butterflies liquefy as they change from their prior caterpillar state. She, though, has no cocoon to hide her evolution. It is ugly. She is ugly. Until Jade makes her beautiful again. Until Jade wipes away the fat and tendon and muscle that clings to her and she emerges, flawless.

She asks after the extensions if Elyse would like her to have hair.

GM: The process is not quick. It takes hours.

Elyse watches the entire time. She does not blink. She does not look away.

She simply stares. Enraptured.

The woman is another matter. She screams. Oh, how she screams. Elyse has removed her gag, but the Malkavian doesn’t look perturbed by the sounds. Perhaps the walls are soundproofed. Perhaps the neighbors are simply that Victorian. But the woman screams the entire time. She screams her throat raw and bloody. She screams curses and profanities and foul names dredged up from the Quarter’s filthiest gutters upon them all, but Elyse doesn’t move to punish her. The process and its lack of anesthesia is perhaps punishment enough. The woman fights against the Malkavian’s compulsion not to move the entire time. Her limbs shake. That just makes the pain worse. Key and Honey eventually tie her up anyway. Tears and sweat pour down her face until, finally, she passes out. Elyse orders Honey to retrieve some smelling salts.

They have to use them twice.

Elyse has Jade adjust the woman’s facial features, too, as well as her body. Add more fullness to the lips. Make the nose more slender. Make the curve of the face rounder, more feminine, more doll-like. The discarded adipose is useful for making the breasts bigger, rounder, perkier. Jade works her magic.

Finally, the result lies gasping and sobbing and sweating beneath them, reborn amidst a vat of her own skin and fat and blood.

A brand new doll.

A flawless doll.

“It… is perfect, Miss Kalani,” Elyse breathes reverently.

“You have accomplished in hours what would have taken months of surgeries and conditioning.”

“We shall give it hair. We shall give it beautiful clothes. We shall make up its face. Never have I beheld a finer canvas upon which to work my art.”

Celia: Jade does not pant. Her limbs do not shake. She does not sweat. The hours that pass stake no claim on her immortal body.

When she has finished, sitting back on her heels to admire her work, she feels as fresh and energized as she had when the evening began.

The Malkavian’s praise makes her swell with pride. She has done this. She has crafted this exquisite creature, this doll, has transformed it singlehandedly from “before” to “after.”

“Thank you, Lady Interpreter.” Pride, pleasure, and gratitude color her voice.

GM: At Elyse’s direction, Honey cleans up the excess fat and flesh from the tub’s rim and deposits it into a trash bag. She runs the shower head over the weakly crying doll, washing away all the filth and gore, then draws a full bath and fills it with sweet-smelling products from oils to ginger to epsom salt.

“It’s okay, dolly… I know this was hard… I’m here, and you look very, very pretty now…” Honey whispers, gently scrubbing and massaging the woman’s skin.

She leans heavily against the tub as she works. Her posterior must still be burning.

Celia: She wonders what they think of her, these dolls. If they see the monster lurking behind her pretty face. If they realize what a gift she has given them. Wonders, too, how Elyse will explain things to them, or if she will doctor their memories.

She rises as Honey takes over, washing her hands and arms in the sink to get rid of the blood and guts that linger beneath her nails. She dries them, vanishes her claws, and reaches for Lucy.

GM: The blindfolded woman makes a weak little choking noise. It sounds as if Jade’s ministrations took a lot of fight out of her.

Key reverently passes the china doll into her arms. Lucy stares up into Jade’s eyes, as unjudging as she is unblinking.

Celia: Jade smiles down at the doll. She, at least, doesn’t need any changes.

GM: “She is the state they all aspire to,” states Elyse.

Lucy regards the two knowingly.

As Honey goes about her work, the Malkavian occasionally interjects with an instruction or two of her own. She asks Jade if there is any aftercare or beneficial treatments they should administer to the doll now, still so newly-emerged from her chrysalis.

Celia: Recovering from her hands is less involved than recovering from the scalpels of the kine. Jade suggests a day of rest while it adjusts to its new body. Such a sudden change is bound to cause some imbalance while the doll regains her equilibrium. Plenty of fluids as well. Stretching.

All in all, though, the recovery itself will be quick.

GM: Elyse seems pleased to hear there will be a quick recovery time. She says she will permit the doll time to rest, “Though its behavior will determine the quality and amenities of that rest.”

Honey eventually drains the tub, towels off the wet and weary doll, and helps her up. She doesn’t fight or try to make a run for it, this time, when Honey clips her collar back on. Elyse leads them back to the ‘dollhouse’ and has the doll reassume her seat in front of the vanity, though the Malkavian does not remove her blinfold just yet. Honey re-affixes her restraints.

Celia: The fight has indeed gone all out of the girl. No doubt this will make the rest of her conditioning that much easier on Elyse. She finds herself curious as to how the rest of her training time will shorten now that the doll has undergone the physical changes all at once.

GM: Elyse looks over a selection of wigs that Key brings in. They’re in a variety of colors and textures, but all are long—past shoulder length. They look like they’re made of real hair to Jade.

“Which of these do you prefer for it, Miss Kalani?”

“I am partial to something blonde and wholesome, in contrast to the black ‘hair,’ if such an unsightly near-buzzcut can truly be termed such, from its prior life.”

Celia: Jade surveys the available wigs, considering the options and the coloring of the girl herself. At last she selects one, gesturing toward where it sits on the bust with her free hand. Long, thick, with gentle waves that will frame her newly sculpted face and bring light to her eyes. Honey blonde: not so light that it looks as if it came from a bottle, but not yet the midpoint between brown and blonde. Not the “dirty blonde” or “ashy blonde” that are big hits right now. This wig is more cultured than the current trends. Elegant and refined.

Jade says as much to Elyse.

GM: “It may be twins with Honey,” muses Elyse. “Near-twins. An excellent choice, Miss Kalani. Please proceed.”

“This may hurt, dolly, but I need you to be very brave for us, okay?” Honey whispers to the doll.

Celia: As before, Jade passes off Lucy to Key with a murmured word of warning to the doll.

It will hurt. More so perhaps than the rest of body modifications that Jade has performed on her, this one will be… excruciating. The girl should know this, though. The hair will go on her head, and, as a former woman who had tattoos, she should know that the closer the work comes to the bone the more pain reverberates through the body. She will feel it until her toes curl.

Easy to simply plop the wig on her head and call it a job well done. But Jade does not believe in shortcuts when it comes to beauty. Each individual hair is taken from the wig and transplanted onto the doll’s head. She begins with a pass of her hand across the newly shorn scalp, turning her flesh pliable, and then starts the transplant process. She works from the back of the head forward, giving her an even hairline across the back and sectioning off strands as she works so that they do not get in her way. Her formerly dark hair lights the way to the follicles like a beacon in the night, allowing Jade to place the locks from the wig with ease. Though it does not take as long a time as the body, the work she does with her hair is an involved, time-intensive process. Even extensions applied in a salon to normal hair, braided in and applied as delicately as they need to be, can take upwards of three hours. Jade does not have hair to work with. She has skin, and hair to stuff inside that skin, and by the time she is done there is no telling that the wig was anything other than grown from this head. It curls down her back in gentle waves and sweeps across her brow in wispy strands that bring focus to her newly created nose, eyes, and lips. A perfect balance.

Jade tucks a strand behind the doll’s ear, placing a finger upon her chin to lift her face once she is done. She makes a few minor adjustments and gives a light tug on the hair to make sure that it all stays place.

Nodding, untucking the hair from where she had placed it behind the girl’s ear, Jade makes a final pass with her fingers across the scalp to smooth out the flesh she had just worked.

She steps back.

GM: Elyse commands the doll to be still. But not to be quiet.

She screams.

Her throat is already so raw. Her cries come out quieter, but only because she’s already so hoarse as she shrieks and raves. She doesn’t scream curses and insults, this time. She just sobs and pleads and begs. For them to stop. That she’d do anything. Anything.

“PPLLEEAAASSEEE!! SSTTOO-OOO-OO-PPP!!!”

Her voice eventually gives out as she hacks up blood. Her fingers squeeze. Her toes curl. She sobs and sobs, tears running down past the blindfold, for the pain to end. For it to please, please end. That she’s sorry. That she’s sorry—

“Very good, Miss Kalani,” Elyse murmurs once she’s finished.

The doll lolls back in her chair, spent and exhausted.

Honey squeezes her hand.

“It normally takes a great deal of time to make this much progress with them. I am not a sadist. I only inflict pain and humiliation when they disobey.”

“Yet the results of your method, even if incidental, cannot be argued with.”

“Perhaps it will find its defiance again, after some time to collect itself, but I am hopeful that it is a rational creature and may learn from past mistakes to spare itself future pain.”

She runs a handful of the doll’s new hair through her fingers.

“The hair is magnificent, as well.”

“Would you like to ‘unveil’ it for us? I have kept it blindfolded so that the psychological impact of its transformation will be all the greater.”

Celia: Jade nods her head at Elyse’s words. She had been thinking the same thing. That though the pain is unintended, it does benefit the doll to learn that her defiance is futile. They can always cause more pain. Jade can always come back and make more alterations. And there are other ways to break a woman, or a doll, than simply through physical means.

“Yes, Lady Interpreter. I would be glad to.”

She steps behind the doll, turning the chair so that her face is pointed toward the mirror. She keeps one hand on her shoulders, the other running through her soft, luxurious locks as she reaches for the blindfold’s tie. A twist of her fingers has it loosened enough to sweep away with a small gesture.

Her eyes find the doll’s in the mirror, watching her expression at the unveiling of her new look.

GM: Disbelief.

Utter and total disbelief.

Someone looking into the mirror and seeing a stranger’s face.

She blinks several times. This can’t possibly be her. This barbie doll-thin creature, with the perfectly feminine, doll-like facial features and luxuriant blonde mane. This is not her. This has to be a trick. A dream.

Elyse touches her cheek. Draws the finger along smooth flesh. Lets her feel the sensation. See it reflected in the mirror.

“Yes, doll, that is you,” she murmurs.

“You’re so beautiful,” smiles Honey.

Celia: “A vision,” Jade tells her, smiling into the mirror.

GM: The doll works her mouth several times.

Then she starts crying again. Bitter, furious tears.

The defiance in her eyes has already dwindled. But Jade can see hate smoldering behind them.

Hate for the people who’ve stolen who she was.

Celia: “It misses its individuality,” Jade guesses. Her tone dismisses the notion.

GM: “Its feelings are failings. Dolls do not have feelings,” states Elyse, giving its so-sensitive hair a very sudden tug. The doll gives a little gasp of pain.

“We must dress it, now, before making up its face. Would you care to select an outfit, Miss Kalani?”

Celia: “I’d be delighted, Lady Interpreter.” Jade holds her hands out for Lucy and takes a step toward the closet. “An everynight outfit, or something more refined?”

GM: “Something to wear around the house, Miss Kalani, but indicative of its new status. Something it will find belittling,” states Elyse.

Key retrieves the doll. She fits snugly against Jade’s side, her eyes large and trusting.

Celia: The closet does not lack for options. Jade takes her time flitting through them all, looking between the gowns and sundresses and party dresses with a discerning eye. Despite her mortal years at a school that imposed a uniform, even the little girl inside of her had more fashion sense than many who suffered from wearing the same thing day in and day out.

The dress that she selects will serve Elyse’s purpose. Feminine but modest, with a neckline that stretches across the collarbones, sleeves to the elbows, and a skirt that ends at the knee. The hem is longer in the back than the front, in accordance with current fashion trends. The skirt itself is fluffy, tapered at the waist, and reminds her of the sort of thing she might wear at Elysia within the Quarter. Flouncy. Though her dresses are never so modest as this. A light gray, close to white, it’s a far cry from the darker hues the girl is used to.


The bodice and top of the skirt have been decorated in swirling embroidery in a thread only slightly lighter than the dress itself. She glances down at Lucy, as if asking the doll if this will do before she presents it to Elyse.

Not so frilly as the dresses the other dolls wear, it represents her status at the bottom of the pack.

GM: The doll does not voice her disapproval, although there are shoes to pick too, its tiny mary jane-clad feet seem to say. It’s a wonderful thing to be a girl.

Celia: Shoes. Of course. Jade smiles down at the doll. She can’t forget shoes.

She searches for a pair of heels. Sensible shoes that compliment the color of the dress, with a buckle across the front and a thicker heel. The sort of shoes that can be worn with a pair of socks, a la Lucy’s lovely mary janes, with frilly little bows at the top of them.

She knows someone who likes shoes like these, though she tries not to think about that part of the life that no longer belongs to her.

These can be worn with tights as well, or no stockings at all. Versatile. Sturdy. But cute. The type of “little girl” shoe that will remind the new doll of her new place in the world.

GM: Key carries back the dress and shoes, along with a matching set of light pink bra and panties. Honey undoes the doll’s restraints as Elyse orders her to stand and remain still. Honey puts on the bra and panties, then helps her into the dress. Jade can see the look of silent despair in the doll’s eyes as the pink skirt descends her newly-thin waist. Elyse orders the doll to sit down. Honey kneels demurely and fastens on her little girl shoes.

“Excellent choices, Miss Kalani.”

Celia: “Thank you, Lady Interpreter. You have a wonderful selection for them.”

GM: “Doing up its face is the last major initial step that remains in its transformation, Miss Kalani. You are an esthetician. How would you paint its face?”

The doll has almost everything now. Body, clothes, hair, shoes. All that remains is the makeup.

Celia: “The no-makeup look is en vogue right now, Lady Interpreter. However, due to this one’s prior inclinations I would assume that it either did not wear any or trended toward darker colors. I would instead soften its features further. Instead of a smokey eye I would use a halo. Brown liner rather than black, or perhaps… charcoal, would look good as well. Fill in the brows. Taupe, to match its hair. White on the inner corner, white along the waterline. Both will make its eyes appear larger. A spot of color high on its cheeks. Liner slightly darker than the chosen lip color, a soft pink. Honey’s red is too deep for this one’s face, too stark. I would focus on softening first, reducing the hard edges and lines that it clung to in its prior life.”

“Give it nothing to hide behind.”

GM: On cue, Honey wheels over a selection of beauty tools and products.

“I am inclined to agree with you, Miss Kalani,” states Elyse. “Whatever current trends may be among the kine, dolls are timeless.”

“Its face should be heavily made up to better distance it from its old life.”

Celia: Jade lets Lucy know that Key will hold onto her and passes the doll over once more.

This is it, she thinks. Her final task. She will transform this woman into a doll.

She eyes the selection of products and brushes, already working out the details in her mind, the order with which she will apply them. She centers herself and begins.

It starts with moisturizer. A dollop of a serum across her face, hyaluronic acid that will plump and smooth her skin. She follows it with a thicker cream. Occlusive, to lock in moisture. She lets it set while she organizes her colors. A pump of primer onto her fingertips that she spreads across its skin in smooth, even strokes. She follows it with foundation, taking care to match her neck, the line of her jaw. She blends it with a stippling brush until nothing but a blank canvas remains with which to work. White across the lids, a base coat to make the color pop. White across her water line, NYX’s “milk.” Soft hues on the lids, the baby pink she had mentioned earlier that she buffs with a brush until it disappears. Tiny, hair-like strokes across the doll’s brow in a taupe pomade that fill them in and give the illusion of fuller, thicker brows. Jade dots the silvery white highlight into the corner of her eyes and blends it into the pink. She uses a charcoal pencil above the lashes, then black between the individual hairs to make them darker. Another coat of foundation to even and smooth her complexion, a translucent powder to set it all. Highlighter on the cheek bone, beneath the tail of her brow, the cupid’s bow, the bridge of her nose. No need for contour, not really, but Jade applies it anyway and blends it out. And blush. Two spots of color, less blended than the other, though not a perfect circle that would be on a doll. She creates the same illusion but makes it real rather than plastic. Mascara to finish it off.

Then the lips. The liner around the edges, bleeding into the color she swipes across with the applicator.

It looks nothing like it used to. Its features have been softened. Its femininity has been highlighted. There is no trace of the woman it once was. That woman is dead now. This woman is soft, dainty, graceful. This woman is the epitome of “girl.” This woman, this doll, is a woman in truth, not the half-thing it had been prior.

A spray locks it into place.

GM: “Do not cry," Elyse orders before Jade begins.

The doll does not cry.

But perhaps it wishes to.

It.

It is an ‘it’ now. The nameless woman it once seems, indeed, well and truly dead. A stranger could look at the doll and whoever it had been before, and conclude them to be two completely different people, with nothing in common save their sex. The large-eyed, rosy-cheeked face that stares back at Jade in the mirror truly does resemble a doll’s, all softness and delicate femininity.

The doll does not cry. It can’t. Dolls don’t have feelings. All they can do is look pretty.

“Magnificent,” breathes Elyse, resting her hands upon the doll’s shoulders in satisfaction.

“This would have been impossible without your talents, Miss Kalani. Imagine applying makeup to the muscled, fat-bellied thing it used to be. It would have been like putting, as the kine term it, ‘lipstick on a pig.’”

Celia: Jade gazes with pride upon the doll. She has done it, guided the ugly thing it once was into this marvelous creation before her. It was nothing without her. It would be nothing without the talent that she has cultivated these past months and years. Nothing without all the pain and blood and tears that have gone into Jade’s craft, first as a girl, and now as a newly Embraced Toreador. Those in her clan who have not seen her work may think she lacks in artistic ability, but those who have… ah, they know. No mere mortal could create such a thing. No paints or brushes wielded by any other hand could begin to touch what Jade has crafted here. The body is her canvas, this doll her work of art. No wonder Veronica and Pietro had been captivated that night they made their deal. Her words, her gift, her work—it had stolen their proverbial breath from their bodies. What could they do in that instance but worship the expertise that they found?

“It will face no such difficulties now, Lady Interpreter. No one would ever confuse it with the thing it used to be.”

GM: “Its grandfather will be very pleased,” says Elyse. “Its education will take some time. But now we may truly begin.”

Elyse motions to Honey. Long baby pink nail extensions go on next. Honey also spritzes some perfume along the doll’s inner wrists, throat, ear lobes, breasts, rear knees, and inner elbows. It’s a soft and fruity smell, with a whiff of new leather, baby powder, and even plastic. It’s like the smell of a brand new doll. Jade hasn’t inhaled anything quite like it.

“All we must do now…” the Malkavian declares, hands still rested on the doll’s motionless shoulders,

“…is name it.”

Celia: Elyse had taken a word she’d said earlier and said she’d use it as a name. It comes back to her now, the creature with its fluttering wings. Fitting, perhaps, that her first transformation would be so named.

She suggests it again, her lips forming the word of that being of evolution.

Butterfly.

GM: “Butterfly,” Elyse says thoughtfully, as it tasting the name on her lips.

“An apt name, Miss Kalani.”

“Give me Butterfly’s old name,” she tells Key.

The ghoul reaches into his coat pocket and produces a neat index card and fountain pen. He sets it down on the vanity.

“Write your previous name, Butterfly,” Elyse orders. “You may move your right arm."

Butterfly writes a name down on the piece of paper:

Gabriella Kelly

“Gabriella. What a lovely and delicate name,” states Elyse. “I imagine Gabriella went by ‘Gabby’ as a consequence of her sexual orientation.”

Celia: “Or Gabe, Lady Interpreter. I have heard the kine do that sometimes. Take the masculine form of feminine names to further internalize and display their… nonconformity.”

GM: “Perhaps so, Miss Kalani. It is no matter now. That name is a dead woman’s name.”

“Key, the box,” states Elyse.

Key produces a slender wooden box with a heart-shaped lock. He opens the lid.

Elyse holds up the card.

“To wear Gabriella’s name is a privilege Butterly has not earned, as its grandfather believes it unworthy. That is why it is here.”

She places the card inside the box, closes it, and pockets the key.

“Butterfly will sleep with this box upon its bedside table. When Butterfly has achieved third order status, it will be permitted to unlock the box and reclaim Gabriella’s name.”

“Until such time, whether it takes us six months or six years, this doll’s name is Butterfly. If it should ever speak Gabriella’s name, or should it refuse to acknowledge its new name, Butterfly will be punished.”

“Tell me now. What is its name?”

“It may speak."

The doll stares up at Jade and Elyse. Its tormentors. Its transformers.

It cannot cry. Elyse has told it that it cannot.

Hardly any emotion is apparent across its perfectly made-up, china-doll face.

But Jade can see it in the doll’s eyes. Like an ember doused in water. Sizzling and dying.

But still glowing. By just enough.

Hate.

Butterfly says nothing.

Elyse waits, then asks, seemingly unconcerned, “How would you punish Butterfly, Miss Kalani?”

“I have a standard punishment for dolls who refuse to acknowledge their new names. But I am curious what you would prescribe.”

Celia: “It clings to its pride, Lady Interpreter. ‘It was through Pride that the devil became the devil: Pride leads to every other vice. It is the complete anti-God state of mind.’ Pain has not broken it, Lady Interpreter. It has only begun to think itself a martyr. I would suggest humiliation. That is the antithesis of pride. Humble it. Remind it of its place within your care. Remind it how you are ahead of it, not by one step, but by many. How each of its petty defiances has only endeavored to show how futile its resistance amounts to.”

GM: “’Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted,’" Elyse quotes in turn.

Celia: Jade inclines her head.

“Precisely.”

GM: “What manner of humiliation would you suggest, Miss Kalani? You are Butterfly’s creator as much as I am. It is your name the doll now rejects. Its first punishment as Butterfly should be one of your devising.”

Celia: Jade had once known a girl who had too much pride to accept what she was. She had been subjected to a lesson that told her, in no uncertain terms, how people would see her, and she had undergone that lesson with a witness to make sure that it had sunk in. It had been reinforced later when she thought she was safe. Less than the pain of the lesson, the girl had remembered the humiliation.

Perhaps, had that girl’s life not ended when it did, she would have turned out differently.

Jade doesn’t think that Elyse would want her to subject Butterfly to the same sort of lesson that the other girl had undergone. Purity, she reminds herself. So though the method will be different, the teaching will remain the same.

“The classics are rife with punishments that accommodate the nature of the sins, Lady Interpreter. Dante, for instance, would have it wear a weight around its neck to keep its prideful eyes on the ground and keep its head bowed to all it meets. This would prevent it from ever thinking it is above its station and humble it before all watchers. I believe we take part of that, the public shaming, and call your dolls to witness what it is. Bring it to the room where we took tea, so Lucy’s sisters might witness its shame as well. Immobilize it. Have it recite its sins for your dolls. Let all of them see the pathetic life it clings to, how it spits on what you offer it. Let each of them wield a paddle against it, for by rejecting itself it rejects them. Should it still refute your generosity, allow it a place among the fifth order for a day and a night. Instruct the others others not to clean it. Let it wallow in its filth, aware of what it is, next to the perfection you have visited upon the fifth order. A pig to a doll. It will learn its place.”

GM: “A pig to a doll,” states Elyse. “Very good, Miss Kalani.”

“We will combine your suggested punishment with my normative punishment. Key, retrieve the chalkboard.”

The ghoul bows and departs the “dollhouse.”

“Remove Butterfly’s restraints, Honey. Butterfly will stand up and follow us without speaking.”

Butterfly stands up and wordlessly follows after the two vampires. Her walk is ungainly in her new shoes, even thick as the heels are.

“Easy, Butterfly,” says Honey, helping her along. “Walk heel to toe, not toe to heel. Take shorter steps. Delicate steps.”

She gives a giggle. “I guess those shoes must be new for it. They were for me, too.”

The four arrive at the tea table. All of the other dolls are still sitting there, hands folded in the same positions. They do not look at the new arrival.

Butterfly’s eyes widen, though nothing comes out of its mouth.

“Yes, these are the dolls Butterfly and Honey may aspire to be,” says Elyse. “Butterfly’s grandfather only wishes it advanced to the third order, but should he leave Butterfly within my care permanently, this will be its fate.”

Silent horror fills Butterfly’s eyes.

Celia: Jade trails after Elyse and the dolls, Lucy tucked against her side once more. She’s curious about the chalkboard but holds her tongue, knowing that she’ll find out soon. She’s also curious about what would happen with her public identity should she not graduate to second order in time. Then again, if her grandfather is the man she thinks, she has no doubt he’s capable of sweeping it under the rug.

She watches, silent.

GM: Lucy fits comfortably against Jade’s flank, silently watching the unfolding scene. The fourth order dolls still have not turned their heads to look at the new arrivals. They have not been ordered to.

“There are two words Butterfly is now forbidden,” states Elyse. “They are ‘I’ and ‘you,’ when spoken in reference to itself. Dolls are objects, not individuals. It will speak of itself in the third person, and be referred to by others in the third person. It will be permitted to regain its individuality when it achieves the second order, as Honey has, for its family wishes it to leave my care as an individual. But until such time, Butterfly is an object and will be referred to in the third person.”

Key brings in a wheeled chalkboard.

“For its failure to respond to its new name, Butterfly will write ‘Its name is Butterfly’ on the chalkboard one thousand times.”

Butterfly picks up a piece of chalk and scrawls out, Its name is Butterfly.

Elyse looks at Key, who erases the sentence.

“It will write in cursive with neat penmanship."

Butterfly writes, Its name is Butterfly in neater cursive letters.

“Its handwriting will be another thing to work on, I see, but that is acceptable for now,” states Elyse.

Its name is Butterfly, goes the doll’s hand.

“As to your punishment, Miss Kalani.”

“Dolls, look at Butterfly.”

The six dolls all swivel their heads. Their expressions remain still.

Its name is Butterfly, goes the newest doll’s hand.

“It is not necessary that Butterfly recite its sins aloud for the other dolls, for they are not individuals. They are objects. The only individuals in this room know Butterfly’s sins already.”

Its name is Butterfly, Butterfly writes again.

“It is enough for these dolls to know only that Butterfly has sinned and must be humiliated before them. They will take turns with the paddle as you have suggested, Miss Kalani, so that Butterfly may experience pain in its posterior as well as its wrist.”

Its name is Butterfly, Butterfly writes again.

“Honey, lift its skirts. Chime, you will paddle Butterfly first, in clockwise order, and stop after 166 repetitions.”

Its name is Butterfly, Butterfly writes again.

Honey lifts the doll’s skirts, then pulls down its panties. Key passes Chime a spanking paddle. Chime delivers a sharp, loud ‘smack’ to Butterfly’s rear.

Butterfly gives a low sound of pain, but writes, Its name is Butterfly again.

“Lighter, Chime. Butterfly is to receive almost thousand paddlings,” says Elyse.

The doll gives a lighter smack with the paddle. Butterfly still makes a noise.

Its name is Butterfly, goes the doll’s hand.

Smack.

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Its name is Butterfly.

On and on it goes.

Celia: Effective, Jade thinks as she watches the proceedings. The reinforcement of its name through writing on the board. The paddling it receives with each sentence that it writes.

It’s a lesson that the doll won’t soon forget. Not only for the pain in its wrist, but the pain in its rear as well, and the echo of it each time it will sit over the next few days, the cramping that won’t go away until it has a chance to rest its hand, the knowledge that each of the dolls has been instrumental in the lesson.

Effective indeed.

GM: “We will obviously be here for some time, Miss Kalani,” states Elyse as she re-assumes her seat. “What topics would you speak of?”

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Celia: Jade follows her lead. She sets Lucy down in a chair and settles her in once more before sitting herself. She watches the proceedings for a moment before turning her eyes to Elyse.

“What is next for it, Lady Interpreter? If you can speak of it within its hearing.”

GM: “Blossom, cover Butterfly’s ears,” instructs Elyse.

The doll rises and does so.

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

“Sexual education, Miss Kalani,” answers the Malkavian.

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

“I typically keep dolls chaste and unsullied, but Butterfly’s grandfather was very specific that he wished his granddaughter’s homosexuality cured.”

Celia: “Butterfly will be educated to enjoy the touch of the proper gender?”

GM: “Butterfly will gain experience with the touch of the proper gender. Its enjoyment is immaterial.”

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

“Concurrent behavioral conditioning will induce revulsion at the sight of female genitalia.”

Celia: Jade inclines her head.

“Aversion therapy. I have heard the kine dabble with it. No doubt your methods are more thorough, Lady Interpreter.”

GM: “They are, Miss Kalani. The gifts of Caine can accomplish much that kine sciences cannot.”

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

“Butterfly will learn to fulfill its essential function as a woman.”

Celia: “It is good you put it to such use. That it is not wasted.”

GM: “I am pleased that you believe so, Miss Kalani. Do you have any male half-bloods in your service who deserve the reward of coitus with Butterfly?”

“I had thought to have Honey serve as Butterfly’s first sexual partner, for she still possesses male genitalia. Butterfly’s disobedience has denied it that reward.”

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Celia: Her mind jumps to the sheriff’s ghoul of its own volition. No doubt he would show Butterfly the proper way to do things.

He is not hers, though.

“I do perhaps have one that will suffice, Lady Interpreter. Would you prefer a gentle or painful lesson for it?”

GM: “Do you believe Butterfly deserves a painful lesson, Miss Kalani?”

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Celia: “I think, should it still not know its place after this lesson, it could do with thorough instruction in sexual education. I also think that to make it too painful will cause it to revolt again, however. Scaring it with more pain would perhaps not be beneficial to its long-term conditioning.”

GM: “All first order dolls graduate to a higher order, Miss Kalani, whether it be the second or the fifth.”

“But I believe you are right. If Butterfly has learned its name after this lesson, it may be rewarded with a more gentle instructor.”

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

“Honey, as you have seen, has also been instructed to exhibit a gentler hand towards her charge. She will comfort Butterfly when they are alone.”

“Praise and rewards are necessary to condition a doll as well as punishment. Anyone can break a doll, but only an artist can create one.”

“Butterfly must not merely submit to my will. It must come to enjoy and appreciate its state as Honey does. That is the prerequisite for advancement to the second order.”

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Celia: “Wise, Lady Interpreter. I admire the thought and detail you have put into the care and training of the dolls. It is no wonder that you have a waiting list as long as you do. I find myself eager to see how this one’s progression compares to the others now that it has been physically modified.”

GM: “It would be my pleasure to keep you informed, Miss Kalani.”

“The primary reason my waiting list is so long is because I accept clients from other cities. There is local demand for my services, but it is unlikely I would require a wait list at all if I limited my clients to local circles.”

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Celia: “Thank you, Lady Interpreter. That does, of course, make sense.” Jade pauses, watching the spanking once more.

“I have given some consideration to our earlier discussion regarding locale, if you’ll permit me to bring it up now? We can always revisit should this not be the time.”

GM: “Please do, Miss Kalani. This is a convenient moment.”

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Celia: “I see the wisdom in performing the treatments here rather than transporting the dolls between locations. Less convenient on my end, but traveling for clients is hardly a novel idea. You have all you need here; Key and your other dolls, Honey in this case, have proven capable assistants with what I need. Everything can be done at once.”

Jade gives a firm nod. As much as she is more comfortable within her spa, she is not adverse to coming to Elyse for this level of modification.

“I will speak with the area’s regent to discuss how he and I might come to an agreement about my continued presence within his domain on the evenings you have use of my talents.”

GM: Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

“Your talents have proven most satisfactory, Miss Kalani. I may do so in your stead, if you wish. I do not believe he will be as inclined to listen to a follower of Mr. Savoy’s who is as new to the Requiem as you yet are.”

Celia: “I believe you are correct, Lady Interpreter. He will assuredly be more amenable to the situation were it to come from you. If it is not too much trouble.”

GM: “It is some trouble, Miss Kalani, but towards an end of significant value.”

Her gaze falls upon Butterfly.

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Celia: “Lady Interpreter,” Jade says after a brief moment, “while I see the wisdom in what you say, I have no wish to cause you inconvenience. His toll may be steeper considering our political differences, but perhaps I can assume the responsibility for this portion of our venture so that you may focus on your business.”

GM: “On the contrary, Miss Kalani, I am in your debt for the service you have done me tonight, and for a service I would have you yet do.”

“I would feel it improper to ask you to do still more without recompense.”

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Celia: Jade offers the diminutive Malkavian a fond smile.

“I understand, Lady Interpreter. Perhaps we could table the discussion of this evening’s service and revisit the topic of recompense at a future date? I am curious to know which other service you wish to use me for this evening.”

GM: Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Elyse rises. “Come, Miss Kalani. This is not for the dolls’ ears.”

Celia: Jade rises, bringing Lucy with her. She thinks that is the exception to the no dolls rule.

GM: Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

Indeed, Elyse nods as if in faint approval. Lucy looks contently snug in Celia’s arms.

The three depart.

Its name is Butterfly.

Smack.

---

Monday evening, 12 April 2010

GM: The three proceed to a nearby parlor room. Elyse sits down on a chair, pulls up her dress, and lowers her panties. Celia sees that the Malkavian’s labia and clitoris have been cut away. Her vagina is sewn shut. She has no pubic hair.

“I desire my anus and remaining genitalia removed,” states Elyse. “My mammary glands, as well.”

Celia: Jade bends before the chair to examine the area. After a moment she gives a brief nod. She wonders if Elyse has to shave and sew herself shut every evening.

“Internal structure in addition to the external?”

GM: “Yes, Miss Kalani. I desire it completely expunged,” states Elyse.

Celia: “And the mammary glands, Lady Interpreter. Do you wish to be smooth up top or simply have the glands themselves removed while you maintain the shape?”

GM: “Dolls possess breasts, Miss Kalani, but one does not see a doll’s mammary glands. I wish my breasts to be perfectly smooth and uniform in color.”

Celia: No nipples, then. Jade nods again.

“It is possible. The procedure will be painful, as you have seen. Do you wish for a local anesthetic?”

GM: “Thank you for your consideration, Miss Kalani, but I do not. You may begin at your leisure.”

The Malkavian leans back to give Jade more room and spreads her legs.

Celia: “Would you like to hold Lucy while I work, Lady Interpreter, or shall I put Lucy with Key?” Jade asks before she begins.

GM: “I would like her to witness this, Miss Kalani, thank you for asking,” replies Elyse. She accepts Lucy into her arms and cradles the doll gently against her body. Lucy looks very content.

Celia: Jade begins at the bottom this time. She finds a sink to wash her hands before she starts and dries them thoroughly, and brings a garbage bag with her to collect the innards. She takes a knee before the chair and summons the claws from her nails. Long, sharp, but pretty. So pretty. Like the dolls.

She starts with the tip of one claw against the midsection of her abdomen and creates a vertical incision. The skin peels back from Elyse’s body with ease, allowing Jade to view the muscle and padding within. Another cut takes her inside of that, and once she has pressed it back she can see the structure that Elyse wishes removed. It’s a simple swipe of her claws to snip the connective tissue surrounding the ovaries and womb. She pulls it through the incision she made on Elyse’s skin and deposits it into the bag. Elyse will feel an emptiness within her while her body tries to sink into itself, but Jade keeps hold of the flesh in one hand while she works the other. A downward flick of her wrist cuts through the sutures in Elyse’s inner labia, the cord likewise deposited in the bag to dispose of. As gently as she can, she removes the excess tissue. She rolls it in her hand to soften it and uses it to pad the vacant spot inside of her. The pads of her fingers press against the evidence of Elyse’s clitoral removal, smoothing it all over. Another pass of her hands kills the hair in their roots. A third shapes it into the smooth, even skin she has seen on many dolls beneath their dresses. Her fingers pinch to close the earlier incision, then massage away the lingering line until it looks as if it had never been.

Jade adjusts the Malkavian’s legs so she can repeat the process with her anus. A cut across the sphincter allows her to reach inside and remove the lower portion of her bowels, tossed aside like the garbage it is to them. She takes a piece of skin from the cheek and smudges it across the opening until Elyse is as smooth and hairless as her dolls.

She spends a few moments longer shaping the area where her genitalia used to be. When she is done she steps back, viewing it from all angles to make sure that Elyse will be pleased with her work. She nods her head. There is nothing left to suggest that Elyse ever had any lady bits.

She lets Elyse know that she can begin the work on her chest and waits for her to move her dress. Another cut of her claws takes her into the breast tissue, and from there she finds the offending glands and removes them. The work here is more detailed than down below, as the glands themselves are littered and strewn throughout the entire breast and each woman’s shape is different. She makes sure that she gets them all out, carving into Elyse with no sense of hesitation.

Once the internal structure has been seen to Jade closes her back up and begins to shape her. She removes the nipples and evens out the skin tone—exactly like the Barbies she used to play with—and consults with Elyse as to her preferred size and shape while she works, making sure to take her preferences into consideration.

When she’s done they are as smooth and perfect as the rest of her, round little globes that will sit nicely beneath any top.

She looks for a mirror to present Elyse the finished product in case she has any requests.

GM: The pair (or trio, if one counts Lucy) proceed to the bathroom for Jade to wash her hands. While they’re there, Elyse supposes they should just do it in the tub—there’s likely to still be some mess.

Elyse strips off her dress for ease of access. The Toreador likely cannot help but admire her nude form. She’s already a petite thing, and very thin for her frame. Her skin is flawless pale porcelain, free of all marks, blemishes, and non-uniform features. It’s an uninterrupted stretch of pure milky white. It’s cold to the touch and feels more like plastic than a human body’s skin. She resembles nothing so much as a life-sized doll, all the way down to perky breasts that remain rigidly fixed in place as she moves. Some people’s beauty looks artificial, but it feels as if the entire point of Elyse’s was to look artificial. Her body seems to proclaim that artifice is superior to mere flesh.

The Malkavian’s face remains still and impassive as Jade slices her open. Her eyelids briefly flit up, and her lips press together, but no sound escapes them as Jade methodically destroys her anus and reproductive organs. She tells the Toreador to remove her extraneous organs while she’s in there—the kidneys, digestive tract, liver, pancreas—anything that’s not absolutely necessary to support her skeletal structure, or which would interrupt the flow of vitae through her arteries, can go.

Jade cuts them out and dumps them into the garbage bag like so much trash, but there’s not much to dump. The organs putrefy into foul-smelling half-goo the moment Jade severs them from the rest of the Malkavian’s body. She’s heard that some vampires lie about their ages, and she supposes this is one of the more foolproof ways to verify the truth. She’d peg Elyse at around 50 years dead.

Celia: Jade has experience removing the inner organs. She doesn’t tell Elyse as much, but taking out her own body parts was one of the first things that she had done to herself when she had learned the skill. Her teacher had watched, impassive, while Jade cut into her body with her own claws, staring in the mirror. She had learned the location of each of her organs, her flesh cut away and pinned outward like a dissected frog on a seventh grader’s lab bench. Her teacher had pointed out what could and couldn’t be removed to interrupt the Kindred anatomy, had made her undergo the process and the pain itself to learn what it felt like to be on the receiving end so that, when she began to work on her own clients, she would know what kine could handle without stretching the Masquerade too thin.

Or perhaps her teacher was a sadist and had no other purpose than that.

She’d wondered how those stories happen, the people who get trapped and cut off their own arms or legs to remove themselves from the situation, and now she, too, knows what sort of pain she is capable of withstanding.

She doesn’t chatter as she works, but she does tell Elyse that, should she be interested in reusing the parts from her dolls, human fat can be rendered and turned into soaps, pressed into tiny little flowers or cute shapes, colored, with added fragrances.

GM: “Waste not, want not, Miss Kalani,” Elyse replies in a very tight voice. “I believe it would be to Butterfly’s benefit to receive soaps made from its own fat. I will have Honey retrieve the trash bag.”

The process is not painless. It must be agonizing to be systematically sliced apart and disemboweled like this. The Malkavian’s lips press firmly together, but she remains as silent as a doll. Her clear eyes don’t blaze so much as sharpen with intensity as she watches Jade smooth over the flesh where she used to have a vagina. The Toreador leaves nothing behind. Her “canvas” truly resembles nothing so much as a life-sized a human doll, free of all the needs and frailties of mortal flesh.

“Outstanding work, Miss Kalani,” Elyse replies when she is finished.

She turns on the shower head to clean herself. It doesn’t even feel like Jade is looking at a naked person. There are no nipples, no vagina, not even any crack between her cheeks. Elyse asks her to seal that up too.

It’s as immodest as looking at a doll.

Celia: Jade appraises her work once she is done, her eyes sharp as she gazes upon Elyse’s new form. She does not think that she would ever submit to such a thing herself, but she understands the appeal. Perhaps she is not yet long enough dead to want to give up her human vices.

She cleans herself in the sink, the drain taking away what little bits of flesh and gristle remain beneath her nails. She scrubs at her skin as she has become accustomed to doing, not because she thinks that Elyse is dirty but because, given her profession, she must remain clean. Jade supposes that it would be difficult to infect Elyse with unclean hands, dead as she is, but she will not be sloppy. Not in this.

She offers Elyse a towel once she has finished showering. No need to drip across the tile in search of one or summon a ghoul when a simple hand-off will do.

GM: Elyse accepts with thanks, towels herself off, and pauses to clean Lucy too. The cabinet has a very soft toothbrush, cotton swabs, small towel on which to lay the doll, and polishing cloth. She shows Jade how to dust Lucy lightly with a dry cloth, then a soft damp cloth, with just a little bit of dish soap.

“Do not use chlorine bleaches, as these are likely to be damaging. Many porcelain French lady dolls bear permanent marks on their cheeks where overzealous collectors used abrasives to clean them.”

Celia: Jade assists with the cleaning, nodding at the explanation. There are few things in the world as hardy as what she has become, she realizes.

“Can the damaged dolls be repaired?”

GM: “As a home remedy, rit color remover combined with cool water and administered via sponge can sometimes remove recent marks. Chlorine stains, however, are often only possible for professional hands to remove.”

Celia: “When did you begin your work with the dolls, Lady Interpreter?”

GM: “My mortal grandmother possessed a sizable collection, Miss Kalani. I grew up with them my entire life. I could hear them in ways others could not. But it was only after my circumcision that I started to create them with my own hands. I found perfection within their round little eyes, their delicately rendered faces, their soft hair and carefully chosen outfits. Beautiful and timeless, they always look how their creator intends, expressing but not feeling.”

Elyse removes Lucy’s clothes and shoes and carefully washes them in a glass jar with dish detergent.

“Washing a doll’s clothes can often be more hazardous than washing its face. Sulphur dioxide is a common air pollutant that may cling to a dress. Putting the dress in water creates sulphuric acid, leaving the fabric in shreds.”

“Fortunately, Lucy’s clothes are free of such, nor is it necessary to wash her hair. She is a very easy doll to care for.”

Celia: Jade smiles down at the doll in question.

“She certainly seems well cared for. They all do.”

GM: Elyse pats down Lucy’s little clothes, then dresses herself. She wraps the nude doll in a swaddling cloth and hands it to Jade.

“She likes you a great deal, Miss Kalani. You have been very attentive to her.”

Celia: Jade tucks the doll against her side.

“Thank you, Lady Interpreter. I recalled your words, how dolls are created to give girls a chance to learn and practice their instincts at mothering, and… well, that road is closed to our kind, but I would be a poor visitor if I snubbed the opportunity provided, or snubbed Lucy’s affection. She deserves happiness.”

GM: Elyse strokes the doll’s porcelain hair.


“She has much happiness within her. There is much happiness she would share.”

“As you say, Miss Kalani, our kind cannot be mothers. But nor can dolls truly be daughters. We are made for one another. We may be their mothers, and they our daughters.”

“They have voices. They have feelings. You need only listen, Miss Kalani, and they will speak to you.”

Celia: Will they? Will she? Jade has never been spoken to by a doll before. Perhaps she has never taken the time to listen.

She meets the porcelain eyes now, as if asking Lucy if she has some wisdom or words to share with her.

GM: The eyes meet hers.


“She is sad, Miss Kalani,” whispers the Malkavian.

“She is sorry. She thinks her last face was displeasing to you.”

Celia: “Her last face, Lady Interpreter?” Her voice matches the pitch of the Malkavian’s, low and solemn.

GM: Elyse nods. “You felt as if judgment was written upon its contours, Miss Kalani? Lucy did not mean to seem as if she was judging.”

Celia: Jade falters. The thought had been fleeting. She hadn’t realized the doll would pick up on it.

“I… felt as if I was somehow… not good enough for her,” Jade confesses to Elyse.

GM: Elyse nods slowly, then looks back towards Lucy.


“What do you feel as if she is saying now, Miss Kalani?” asks the Malkavian.

Celia: Jade takes a good, long look at the doll. She sees it again, the similarities to the woman who had given birth to her. That woman had given her life, and Celia—the dead girl who pretends to be Jade—had given it up to keep her safe. The night she picked up the phone to call the bar and invite the monsters to her home… she had known what she was doing. What she would trade. It had not happened the way she thought, but stories never do work out the way they’re intended, do they?

She blinks back something that might be emotion. She doesn’t stuff it down, not like she had before. Nor does she wallow. She feels, letting it run through her, letting it wash over her, and then she releases it.

She takes a breath she does not need.

“Proud,” Jade says at last, voice soft. The word of the evening, isn’t it? “She’s… proud of… of me, for what I gave up, even though she would have never asked it of me, even though… though she might not understand, not the depth of it, but she sees the results. Acceptance. Affection.”

More than that, though. Not simple affection. Deeper, stronger, the bond between the girl and the mother. She can’t bring herself to say the word.

GM: “Love,” finishes Elyse.

Celia: Silently, she nods.

GM: “Yes. Yes, Miss Kalani. You do hear her.”

“You hear her very, very well.”

“I do not believe you will understand everything Lucy says…. but it is plain upon her face. She trusts you.”

“Like many of the dolls in my care, Lucy was abandoned by her mother. She has known hurt. But still she trusts you.”

“I believe she would like to leave the Wedding Cake House with you, Miss Kalani.”

Celia: Jade has never cared for anything in her life. Jade doesn’t think she’s capable of caring for things. Certainly not something as fragile as Lucy. She’s afraid that she will break her. Afraid that she will not care for her the right way. Afraid that Lucy will grow to regret trusting her and will resent her.

She swallows. She blinks.

And Celia rises. Celia, the girl abandoned by her mother, left to deal with her father on her own. Forced to grow up too quickly to care for children that weren’t hers. Murdered before her time. Her womb will never quicken as she might have wished. The child that she could have had with Stephen, the accident in the car, had died with her—if it had ever existed at all.

She holds the doll as if it were her baby sister, more precious than spun gold, more delicate than a crystal figurine.

She finds her voice. Jade’s voice, but Celia’s reverence. “To stay with me, Lady Interpreter?”

GM: The Malkavian inclines her head.

“As her mother, Miss Kalani.”

Celia: A thousand reasons why not come to mind. What if she doesn’t care for her properly? What if she gets hurt? What if she doesn’t get enough attention? What if she gets too much attention? What if she’s not as happy with Celia as she thinks she will be? What if she’s wrong? What if Celia doesn’t deserve her?

And she realizes that, perhaps, this is what all new mothers go through. They think they will not be enough. They second-guess their own ability. They get nine months to figure it out, a lifetime to get it wrong, and moments… moments that will make up for it all.

Celia smiles down at the doll.

“I think I’d like that, Lady Interpreter.”

GM: The doll’s porcelain head lays against Celia’s arms.

“Then it is done,” Elyse declares. “Lucy is yours now, Miss Kalani. Key will pack you some cleaning supplies and changes of clothing for Lucy. If she should suffer damage, you may bring her here for restoration.”

Celia: A smile breaks across her face.

“Thank you, Lady Interpreter. I will care for her as you have. May I ask…? I have heard others have your work within their havens. Do the dolls… do they choose their new homes, as Lucy has?”

GM: “Only upon rare occasions, Miss Kalani. But you are not the first.”

“More typically, other Kindred commission the dolls, and I create them.”

Celia: Celia—Jade—nods her head, as if the answer does not surprise her. She keeps hold of the doll, thanking Elyse once more for her and, more quietly, thanking Lucy for choosing her.

GM: The doll rests quietly against her new mother. Elyse finishes blow-drying the small clothes and gives them to Jade to dress the doll back up.

She’s in safe hands.

---

Monday night, 12 April 2010, PM

GM: The three return to the tea party room. Butterfly is still writing, Its name is Butterfly on the chalkboard to the accompaniment of steady smacks with the paddle. The doll does not cry, cannot cry, but its eyes look as if they want to. It’s too exhausted, too despairing, to continue fighting. Its posterior is very red.

“I find myself in a forgiving mood,” says Elyse. “Are you as well, Miss Kalani?”

Celia: “I am indeed, Lady Interpreter.”

How could she not be, with a new doll of her own?

GM: “I had thought so. Buttefly may stop writing. It may speak.”

The other doll stops paddling Butterfly.

“What is its name?” asks Elyse.

Butterfly does not meet their eyes. Its gaze is tired. Its voice is quiet.

“Butterfly.”

Celia: Jade allows herself a small smile at the concession.

GM: “Very good,” says Elyse. She does not smile, but Honey does. The other doll looks elated.

“I think Butterfly could use a hug, Miss Kalani. A hug and words of comfort and assurance, after the pain it has gone through.”

“Would you like to provide them? Your skin is so lifelike.”

Celia: “I would, Lady Interpreter. It has done well this evening. Key, will you hold Lucy?” She passes the doll off.

GM: Key reverently accepts Lucy.

The Malkavian looks at Butterfly. “Some release is still healthy, for a new doll. It may cry.”

Celia: Stepping forward, Jade smiles a tiny smile at the newly-christened Butterfly. She opens her arms to the former girl, bringing her into her embrace. Her heart beats in her chest, her lungs expanding as she draws in air, bringing in the scent of ‘new doll’ that Elyse had applied to it earlier. Jade’s skin is warm to the touch. She lowers the doll’s head onto her shoulder and lets it cry its painful, ugly tears onto her pink dress, running a hand up and down its back.

GM: Butterfly doesn’t wrap its arms around Jade, but just stands there and cries into her shoulder. It lets it all out. All its pain. All its humiliation. All its exhaustion. All its despair. They come out in great choking sobs, noises that sound almost too large for its now-willowy frame. Butterfly trembles in Jade’s arms as it weeps.

“P-Please, you’re killing me…” it whispers.

Celia: “We’re not killing it,” Jade says softly to it. She lets it cry, holding it tightly. “We’re building it. Butterfly will be the ideal version, the best version of itself. It will be perfect and beautiful, soft and feminine. It will learn to love itself and its new place in the world. And Butterfly is doing so well in this initial transition.”

She’d had to do the same, when she had died. This is no different.

GM: Jade’s words wash over the crying doll like an abuser’s caress. Yes. She has hurt it. But she offers comfort.

And it so, so wants comfort.

It doesn’t pull away. It rubs its face against her neck.

“P-please, I’m… I can… I can’t…. what if this… happened… someone you… knew…? P-please…”

Celia: “It,” Jade corrects her gently. “Butterfly has no sense of individuality. Butterfly is an it.”

The thought stirs her, though. How easily she could see herself, her former self, undergoing this same training. Her father would have sent her here, she has no doubt. Perhaps his neighbor as well, though she thinks that he, at least, would have preferred to break her himself. Her sister, though, should Maxen discover her… inclinations.

Has it happened to someone she knew? Her mother, perhaps?

She pushes the thought aside. Jade has no mother. Jade is not human. Celia has a mother, but Celia does not exist in this moment, in this world.

Celia is dead.

“Butterfly will learn its place,” Jade says again, “and it will accept its place, and it will learn happiness within its place. It will be content, in time.” Up and down, the hand across her back. Gentle. Soothing. Jade comforts the tormented doll.

GM: Paul had mentioned ’the dogs."

He seemed as if he had his own way of breaking girls.

The doll just continues to cry softly into Jade’s shoulder.

“Please, don’t… don’t hurt… can’t take… the hair…”

Someone else might say ‘me’ at the end.

Butterfly doesn’t say ‘it.’

But it doesn’t say ‘me.’

Celia: “If Butterfly accepts its place, it won’t be hurt,” Jade tells it. Her voice is soft. She knows a girl who might have once been broken, and what could have been said to her to hasten the process. “Pain is a lesson, Butterfly. When the lesson need not be taught, the pain need not be applied. It’s okay. It will be okay. It will learn to thrive.”

“The physical transformation is complete. It is beautiful.”

GM: Butterfly doesn’t say anything to that. Just sniffs into Jade’s shoulder and takes what comfort it can.

“What do you think we should do next with Butterfly, Miss Kalani? Adhere to its planned lesson, or something else?” asks Elyse.

Celia: “I believe Butterfly could use with a gentle introduction to its next lesson, Lady Interpreter. As you say, it does not need to enjoy it, but it has learned its name and—”

and if Paul had once been gentle with her she might not have hated him, might have cared for him

“—and may find it illuminating rather than terrifying.”

GM: “A gentle introduction. I believe I may have something in mind, Miss Kalani,” says Elyse.

Celia: Jade steps back from Butterfly. She uses the pads of her fingers to wipe away its tears, fixing the makeup with her fingertips.

GM: Butterfly clings to Jade as she tries to pull away.

“Please, my… its… can’t go through that again, the hair…”

Celia: She makes soft noises at the doll, crooning sweet-sounding nothings at it as she dries its tears, and allows it to pull her back in.

“The hair is done, Butterfly. The hair is done. It will not go through the bodily transformation again.”

“Say it, Butterfly. Say how pretty it is, let me hear it say the words.”

GM: Butterfly doesn’t say anything at first. Honey squeezes its hand.

Finally, “It’s pretty.”

Celia: Jade squeezes the doll.

“It is pretty. It is beautiful. It will learn to love itself and its new look. It will be happy with its new life. Butterfly is beautiful.”

Up and down, up and down its back. She holds it tight, pushing that sense of comfort into the doll before her. Jade is a mother now. She shares that nurturing instinct with this doll.

GM: Butterfly takes what comfort it can. It lets Jade hold it. It doesn’t respond to the praise. Elyse does not say anything, but the click of her heels sounds against the floor. The others follow. Honey holds Butterfly’s hand.

Celia: Jade continues the praise. She tells it how good it has been. How it will be happy, how it will learn to be happy, how it will love its new life and its new self. She keeps a steady stream of praise going into the doll’s ear, her voice as warm as the skin beneath her pink dress.

This is what the girl needed all those years ago. Someone to tell her that it would all be okay.

And it had been for her. So, too, it will be for Butterfly.

Jade tells it that she’s proud of it for how quickly it has come as far as it did.

GM: It is so hard to reject praise.

Butterfly doesn’t preen or smile. But it doesn’t muster the spirit to reject the words either. Honey strokes its hair and echoes similar praises, saying it’s coming along very well—“Much faster than I did!”

Key hands Jade a blindfold. It’s obvious who it’s for.

Butterfly freezes at the sight, but doesn’t try to bolt.

Celia: Jade continues her string of praise to the doll. Slowly, gently, she eases the blindfold around its eyes. She shushes it when it protests, whispering that everything will be okay. She’s gentle about it, aware of how skittish the doll is.

GM: “Trust,” whispers Honey. “We’re there for it, Butterfly.”

Butterfly tenses, and does protest. But it doesn’t try to run. Its breathing comes quicker and Jade can hear its heart beating in its chest. They walk upstairs. Key opens a locked door. Inside is a girl’s bedroom with minimalist but pink and pretty decor, including a floor to ceiling mirror. Everyone helps Butterfly onto the bed and restrains it, spread-eagled, to four handcuffs. It starts begging and pleading.

Jade suddenly sees a man in the room who wasn’t there before. He’s slightly below average height, in maybe his early 20s, with brownish-blonde hair that ends in forehead-length bangs. He’s handsome, in an almost bashfully boy band-ish sort of way, and wears a jacket with a loose-hanging tie. His eyes are milky white and blind-looking. He smells like a ghoul.


Celia: Jade steps back once Butterfly has been restrained. Her eyes flick toward the ghoul, then back to the doll. She doesn’t recognize him. He means little to her.

GM: “Fear,” the ghoul murmurs in a tender voice. It’s so soft Jade almost doesn’t hear it.

“Pain. Very loud…”

“You may silence it,” says Elyse. “Pleasure it orally.”

“Please, no…!” Butterfly begs, straining against its bonds.

The ghoul slowly raises his hands, touching his slender fingers to his forehead as if he’s getting a headache.

“Very loud, very loud…” he whispers.

Celia: Jade slides her eyes to Elyse, her brows lifting in silent question.

GM: Elyse merely looks towards the ghoul.

The ghoul nods.

“Shh…” he whispers. He removes his shoes and slowly climbs onto the bed. Jade can barely hear him. His touch is tender and careful as he lifts Butterfly’s skirts, then pulls down its panties.

“It’ll all be quiet…” he whispers.

He pleasures Butterfly with his mouth.

The doll struggles at first, begs him to stop, to get off. The ghoul holds his forehead again several times. Elyse tells him to move on with it. Jade feels the Malkavian’s supernal presence wash out from her, bathing the doll in feelings of comfort and reassurance.

It stops protesting. It takes a little while, but eventually Butterfly starts to give soft, almost gasping little whispers of pleasure.

The doll gives more sniffs and shudders as the ghoul pleasures her. Its breath comes more quickly. When the orgasm hits, Butterfly’s face flushes as it gives a soft gasp, like someone just stole away a hidden secret.

The ghoul whispers, “Shhh…” and touches Butterfly’s lips.

He touches his fingers to his forehead again.

“Just be still…”

He moves off and silently pulls his shoes back on.

“What do you think, Miss Kalani?” asks Elyse. “As gentle an initial opposite-sex partner as any former homosexual could ask for.”

“Do you believe we do more with the doll, tonight? Or should we allow it to rest?”

Celia: “Very gentle, Lady Interpreter,” Jade says quietly once the ordeal is through.

She’s reminded of Celia’s first experience at the hands of her college boyfriend. As before, she pushes the thought aside. It has no bearing on this doll. It has no bearing on Jade.

“I believe it might behoove the doll to linger with this lesson in its mind.”

GM: Celia was also straight.

Then again, the doll was blindfolded.

“Expound, Miss Kalani.”

Celia: “The doll came to us in fear and anger. It felt pain and humiliation. Now, it felt pleasure. Its transformation may accelerate if it is given a chance to let that pleasure linger as it drifts off to sleep this evening and during the day. It will fight less and accept its place more readily, Lady Interpreter, should it be allowed a gentle fall into slumber. It is like when I work on them at my business. Those who tense and resist will see little change to their bodily structure. Those who let themselves relax, or be heavy, will allow the change to take hold more quickly. This doll will internalize this last lesson and will be more pliable when you begin with it again.”

“It will be eager rather than resistant.”

GM: Elyse nods. “Sound reasoning, Miss Kalani.”

“Remove its blindfold, Key.”

The ghoul does so.

He sets down the box containing Gabriella’s name on the bedside table.

He then hands Elyse a doll’s body. It’s made of porcelain and has no clothes, hair, skin, or facial features. It’s a blank slate.

Elyse holds it up. “Look well at this, Butterfly.”

Butterfly looks at the unfinished doll.

Celia: Jade watches as well, Lucy at her side.

GM: Key hands Elyse some scissors. She snips off several sections of Butterfly’s hair, loops them together into a tiny crown, and places them on the doll’s head.

“Tomorrow evening, we will begin to make Butterfly’s doll in earnest. It can see that we already have the bisque.”

“That portion is the doll’s unglazed body. We will apply paints and fire it within an oven to give it the fleshy skin tone.”

Key holds up a camera and takes a very close picture of Butterfly’s face.

“We will compare that to paint samples. The hair will be made from Butterfly’s hair. We will cut a little bit each day, starting as we have tonight.”

“All human dolls create and care for porcelain dolls. Butterfly’s doll will teach it how to nurture an infant, as dolls have taught girls for thousands of years. Butterfly’s doll will make it a woman.”

She holds the doll close to Butterfly’s face.

“Butterfly will kiss its doll goodnight.”

Butterfly kisses the doll’s head.

“Butterfly will say it loves its doll very much.”

Butterfly stares tiredly for a moment.

“Butterfly loves its doll very much,” the doll mumbles.

“Very good, Butterfly. I am very proud of it tonight. Honey, release its hands.”

Honey unlocks its hands.

“Butterfly will clasp its hands and say a variation of the Lord’s Prayer, after me: now it lays itself down to sleep.”

“Now it lays itself down to sleep,” repeats Butterfly.

They both recite:

“It prays thee, Lord, its soul to keep;
If it should die before it wakes,
It prays thee, Lord, its soul to take.
If it should live for other days,
It prays thee, Lord, to guide its ways.
Amen.”

“Goodnight, Butterfly,” says Elyse. Honey cuffs both its wrists to the same bedpost, then likewise with its ankles so it lies on its side.

“Would you like to give it a goodnight kiss, Miss Kalani?”

Celia: Silent, Jade watches the proceedings. She watches the hair be cut and applied to the doll, watches the prayers, mouthing silently along, and watches the cuffs move to the other post to keep it contained. Jade looks to Elyse at the question, nodding her head. She steps forward, Lucy held in one arm, and brushes back a piece of Butterfly’s hair from her face. She leans in.

“Goodnight, my beautiful Butterfly. May the Lord bless it and keep it.”

Jade presses a chaste kiss against the doll’s temple and withdraws.

GM: She and the others leave the room. Key locks the door closed behind them.

“There you are, Miss Kalani. You have witnessed a new doll’s intake,” says Elyse.

Celia: “I thank you for allowing me to participate, Lady Interpreter. The process was most illuminating. It gives me a solid picture of what to expect and how to best implement my talents to further assist your work.”

GM: “I am most pleased to hear so, Miss Kalani. I believe there is much we might accomplish together.”

“If you have any proficiency at occulto or anima visus, there are tricks of the Blood that Lucy and I might teach you in compensation for your assistance tonight.”

Celia: “I would be most interested in learning, Lady Interpreter. I admit to some proficiency with occulto, though the other, as yet, has evaded me.”

GM: After some brief questioning as to the Toreador’s capabilities, Elyse believes there are two powers Jade might learn from her.

The first power will allow her to make objects appear as dolls, and dolls appear as other objects. Elyse calls it porcelain transfiguration.

The second power will allow Jade to conceal herself beneath a doll’s illusory form. The illusion will break if someone picks her up or sees Jade perform out of character actions for a doll. Elyse calls it porcelain facade.

Celia: Jade asks a few clarifying questions of her own. At last she nods, saying that she would very much be interested in learning the abilities.

GM: Then it is settled. Jade may come back in several nights, after Elyse has spoken to Donovan, to receive her first lessons. She should bring Lucy, who will be her principal tutor.

Elyse will also be pleased for Jade to witness and assist in Butterfly’s own lessons.

Celia: Jade expresses her desire to see the process through, and is grateful that Elyse has offered her the opportunity to do so. She believes that she has much to learn about Elyse’s methods and the human psyche.

---

Thursday night, 15 April 2010, PM

GM: Several nights later, Key informs Jade at Flawless that Regent Donovan has agreed to charge a toll in vitae for every week that Jade visits his mistress, rather than for every visit. Elyse is willing to pay this toll every other week.

The Malkavian’s lessons are unconventional, next to Pietro’s. She simply leaves Jade in a room with Lucy and dozens of other dolls, to do nothing but stare at them for hours. She emphasizes how the Toreador must truly internalize what it means to be a doll. She must not blink or move a muscle, nor allow extraneous thoughts to intrude upon her mind. She must “become as porcelain.”

Elyse often meditates this way herself. She finds it soothing.

Celia: She finds it similar to meditation.

Which, honestly, she was never good at. As often as Celia’s dad said that her head was empty, she’d never quite managed the ability to simply think about nothing. For hours she lets her mind wander, trying to stop the thoughts, trying not to think about the fact that she will pay Elyse the toll every other week rather than make the journey into Audubon Place herself (and consoles herself with the fact that even if she had made the journey there’s no guarantee she’d run into her sire, and even if she did he wouldn’t deign to speak with her anyway, and she very clearly avoids thinking about the other reason she might want to go back).

But, from across the room, Jade meets Lucy’s eyes one evening. And she lets herself get sucked into those eyes the same way that she’d once been sucked into her sire’s. She lets herself travel across the space between them, inserting herself into the doll’s mind, just as she’d once done with the cat she’d studied and eventually drained to take its form. There’s a stillness inside of that mind, an acceptance that Jade has not often found among her kind, and she floats in that space as gray static buzzes around her. Not empty, no, but… different. Like stepping into someone else’s skin, just as she has always done.

Another mask.

The process, once she views it like that, becomes… easier. Her body doesn’t shift so much as she makes it look like it has shifted, as if she had made herself up with jars of porcelain paint while she stared at her reflection in her vanity.

And one night she finally manages the feat.


Even in her doll form she is beautiful. Her hair looks much the same: wild and untamed, curling halfway down her back and framing the delicate features on her face. Pointed chin, full lips, hazel eyes rimmed with expertly applied makeup, a body that looks every bit as tall and willowy as the dolls Elyse trains.

GM: Jade drinks once from Elyse’s veins when the Malkavian thinks she is getting “close.” The dollmaker’s vitae tastes cool, like liquid porcelain or plastic. It smells sweet, like the perfume Honey sprayed Butterfly with.

Elyse is very pleased when she sees the fruits of Jade’s “metamorphosis” and states that Lucy has taught her well, “but that is little surprise.” She advises Jade to study other dolls’ at length if she wishes to assume them, but declares that the Toreador’s first form is her “true one.”

“You understand them better now, Miss Kalani. Their patience. Their acceptance. Their tranquility. Their minds are not so different from our own as we believe.”

“With continued practice, you may come to understand them further still.”

Celia: Curious, Jade asks how she can attain the level of understanding that Elyse implies. She admits that, while she has been able to connect with Lucy, she is concerned that she is missing part of the bigger picture.

GM: Elyse answers that it is partly a matter of simple practice. Repetition is the mother of all skill. Elyse grew up surrounded by dolls. She made herself as them. She created them with her own hands. She has spent all of her Requiem doing these same things, and transforming others into dolls too. Dolls fill her haven. Dolls watch her every waking moment.

“While it would require a commensurate degree of effort to attain my degree of understanding, Miss Kalani, there is much we may still do to further your own.”

“You could learn to make them with your own two hands. That is the largest piece of the picture you are missing.”

Celia: Jade nods her head at that.

“Of course that makes sense, Lady Interpreter, thank you. If you ever have spare time I wouldn’t turn down the lesson.” She pauses briefly, considering her words. “The ability that you taught me… using occulto, it changes the appearance without changing the structure. I wonder if there is some combination between your ability and my prowess with metamorphosis that would allow one to become a doll in truth.”

GM: “It would be my privilege to give you such a lesson, Miss Kalani.”

The Malkavian’s clear eyes do not flash at the possibility. They simply look larger, glassier, even more doll-like.

“Perhaps, Miss Kalani. Mutatio to work flesh and bone into porcelain. Anima visus to see through eyes of glass. Resistencia to suffer the loss of one’s heart. Perhaps both, to remove the brain.”

“I have considered this question before. How one might become a doll in truth. To replace all the weaknesses and frailties of the flesh with porcelain perfection.”

“I have already developed the means through anima visus to better experience a doll’s perceptions. But they are impermanent measures. To attain true enlightenment, I believe one must perfect one’s own flesh, not merely escape to another’s.”

Celia: “I had not considered adding resistencia to the mix. That is wise, Lady Interpreter, to forestall the idea of shattering should one become too delicate to bear any stress. Perhaps… well, with the mutatio,” Jade tries out the older, more formal word for it, “often you gain the capabilities of what you turn into. I think, maybe, you could get away with either anima visus or resistencia rather than both.” She pauses, drumming her fingers in an unneeded action against her thigh.

“Doesn’t the First Estate have a position that studies these sorts of abilities and powers? Perhaps we could speak to the Kindred who holds that office and see if they have any recommendations? I admit that I have not heard of an ability that uses more than one combination of skills like that.” She is young, though. Perhaps they are more common than she realizes.

GM: “Technologists, Miss Kalani. Yes. The city does not have one in residence, but I am passingly familiar with two from Houston and Chicago.”

“I have consulted with them before. But I did not then know a Kindred proficient at vicissitude who shared my vision of perfection.”

Celia: Jade smiles at the Malkavian.

“I am pleased that you have now, Lady Interpreter. We could look into it, if you’d like.”

GM: “I should greatly like to, Miss Kalani. I should also like you to address me as Lady Elyse.”

“While there are many Kindred who admire my dolls, there are few with the necessary patience and understanding to become a doll themselves, as you have.”

Celia: Jade had never thought herself the patient sort. She’s pleased that Elyse thinks so, though, and decides that it is something she can be if she chooses, just as she chooses to be a great many other things. At Elyse’s invitation to use the new title, Jade offers the same, and says that she would be pleased if Elyse calls her Miss Jade.

“When last I received instruction in occulto, Lady Elyse, my teacher was more hands on. I think that being given the opportunity to learn for myself, to sit with the dolls and attempt to join them, opened up a new world of possibilities for me.”

GM: “I am more pleased by this than I can say, Miss Jade.” The Malkavian’s eyes reflect that glassy shine. “Now that you have learned to join them, I would suggest you learn to watch others as they do.”

Part of Butterfly’s (and every doll’s) lessons include being locked in the “reflection room” for hours at a stretch. It is an empty room with nothing inside besides dolls and floor to ceiling mirrors.

The perfect place for Jade to hide. And watch.

“So that we night observe, too, how fully its lessons have sunk in.”

Celia: Jade gives Elyse a sly smile. It’s not the first time that posing as a doll to observe others has occurred to her. Just as she and her krewe-mate use their various forms to watch, she had intended to add this one to her list of intel-gathering skills. After all, who would suspect a doll when such a skill is practically unheard of?

She says that she is amenable to such a thing, and eager to see how Butterfly has progressed these past few evenings.

GM: Indeed, Elyse concurs, while many Kindred suspect invisible evesdroppers, few suspect dolls as evesdroppers.

The Malkavian’s lips purse faintly. “It would displease me were you to use your new powers against our rightful prince, Miss Jade. But I accept this as a potential and necessary cost to further your understanding of perfection, and it is one I pay willingly.”

Celia: Jade assures Elyse that she has no intention of using it against the prince. She’s even honest about that. She can think of far better people to target with such a skill, though she does not say as much.

Not talking is what dolls are best at.

---

Monday night, 19 April 2010, PM

GM: Meanwhile, Butterfly has ceased its open defiance and rebelliousness. It refers to itself as an it. It says its name is Butterfly. It follows directions and does not try to escape. Elyse and Honey have started to give it scriptural and home economics lessons.

But Jade can read the glumness in the doll’s eyes. It does not enjoy what it is, not like Honey does.

Elyse is unperturbed. She says no doll has ever reached the second order after only several nights. They are all unhappy at first.

Jade makes herself at home among the reflection room’s dolls. She has dozens of sisters to hide herself among. Whereas the room Jade practiced in had no mirrors, so that nothing might distract her from the sight of the dolls, Butterfly is forced to constantly stare at its new, doll-like reflection. It wears the same clothes and shoes that Jade last saw it in. Dolls don’t change clothes.

Hours pass after the door’s lock clicks shut. Butterfly buries its head against its knees and looks miserable.

Sometimes it looks around at all the dolls. Sometimes it just lies down and stares up at the ceiling, but there’s a mirror there too. Sometimes it closes its eyes.

Sometimes it touches the steel chastity belt under its dress, tugs at the belt, and looks angry.

And sometimes it just cries with its arms folded around its knees. They’re quiet and bitter tears that leave its makeup mussed.

It slowly rocks back and forth, weeping and sniffing from reddened eyes.

Its face looks as miserable as any of the ones Celia wore in Maxen’s house, during those years before college after Mom left, when she would sometimes cry herself to sleep in her bed.

Celia: It’s not her problem.

That’s what she tells herself, that it’s not her problem. She is Jade Kalani, childe of Veronica Alsten-Pirrie, and she does not feel sympathy for the kine. She was never Celia Flores. Celia Flores is a chaste, goody-two-shoes that wouldn’t have done half the things that Jade has done. Celia died when she was nineteen to make way for the Beast and its Beauty.

And dolls don’t have feelings.

Dolls don’t have hearts to break.

Dolls don’t have childhoods that they remember, or wish that their father still loved them, or wonder why their sire doesn’t want them.

Dolls aren’t murdered and abandoned and called stupid and spanked and raped by people who are supposed to help.

Jade-Doll doesn’t feel because Jade-Doll is not a person. Jade-Doll is just a doll.

GM: Jade-Doll needs a name.

But Jade-Doll doesn’t worry about that, because Jade-Doll is just a doll.

Jade-Doll doesn’t feel about anything.

Butterfly finally looks up at the mirror and stares at its miserable, puffy-eyed, and doll-like reflection. It stares for a long time. Then it picks up one of the dolls, a smiling and pink-clad plastic Barbie.

“My name is Gabe,” the woman whispers, and snaps off the doll’s leg.

She sets the doll back down, then sets its leg against its torso, so no one can tell how it’s actually broken.

Celia: Observe. That’s how Elyse had told her to spend the time. Watching to see Butterfly in its natural habitat.

Only… it shouldn’t be breaking the dolls. And every dog trainer knows that an animal is too dumb to realize what it’s being punished for if its owner waits to correct its behavior. It has to be corrected in the moment.

But Butterfly isn’t a dog. It’s a doll. And a former person. And Jade doesn’t think that Butterfly is so dumb that it won’t understand if Jade waits to mete out its punishment. And it’s better, she thinks, if Butterfly doesn’t know how they’re watching, only that they are.

Jade-Doll smiles serenely at the Butterfly doll.

GM: Gabe gives a vicious little satisfied smile.

“This place is crazy,” she whispers.

“I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m not a doll.”

“This place is crazy,” she repeats.

Celia: Jade-Doll is just a doll, but inside the doll there’s a consciousness. And that consciousness has gifts that the Jade-Doll doesn’t.

Jade-Doll uses one of them now. She focuses on the Barbie doll, and then on Butterfly, and she sends it out from her in a wave: a strong wave of emotion, a powerful guilt and paranoia and urge to open up about every wrong thing she’s ever done in her life. Barbie was an innocent doll that Butterfly tried to break to feel better about herself. So Jade-Doll will break the Butterfly when she makes it confess its sins to the mirror.

GM: Butterfly stares into the mirror with suddenly wide eyes.

“When… when Nadine got raped… I didn’t say anything.”

Celia: This is why Butterfly will become a doll. Because it is a horrible person.

GM: “I knew and I didn’t say anything, because I was scared what Grandpa would say.”

Gabe stares in the mirror, then starts crying again.

“Nad… Nad, I’m sorry… I’m so… so… sorry…” she chokes out.

Celia: But Nad isn’t here to hear it. Just Butterfly’s stricken reflection. Just the dolls that Butterfly wants to break for merely existing.

GM: “I wish… I wish I… could take it back…” She breaks down choking again. “I’m… so… sorry…”

“I was scared, I was so scared… Grandpa can do anything… look what he’s doing… to me…”

“They all say… how I’m such a big tough bulldyke… look at me… look at me…”

“Look what they did to me…!”

Celia: Jade-Doll (she thinks Blossom might be a good name, but she thinks Blossom might also be taken by one of the other dolls) agrees that Butterfly had been a bulldyke. But Butterfly is so pretty now. Jade-Doll had done that. Or the person Jade-Doll used to be had done that. Jade-Doll, of course, is just a doll.

Jade-Doll doesn’t want the Butterfly to cry. Jade-Doll reaches out again with that intrinsic part of her that manipulates emotions. Perhaps if she weren’t a doll her eyes would flash. But she’s a doll, so they don’t. They just stare blankly ahead while she tries another trick. The broken Barbie is her focus. Broken, like the Butterfly is now, but she doesn’t need to be. Barbie is a friend. Barbie is the best friend. Barbie is plastic and can’t repeat secrets, and maybe the Butterfly would like to share?

Maybe then the Butterfly doll will view itself as not above them, but among them. Maybe then it will accept its new life.

GM: Gabe looks at the broken Barbie, then sniffs and gets a shamefaced look.

“I’m sorry I broke your leg…”

She picks up the doll and its leg, fiddling with both.

“I… I don’t know how to fix this, sorry…”

“You didn’t do anything bad… you just looked pretty, and I was mad over… what they did…”

She looks at the mirror with that same miserable expression.

“I fucking hate them,” she whispers bitterly.

“When I get out. I’m gonna shave my head, and burn these stupid clothes, and never wear makeup again…”

Celia: Jade-Doll (maybe Lotus?) knew a girl named Celia that had a broken Barbie once. Her brother had used it as a chew-toy. But he was in diapers, so she forgave him once her dad popped the leg back on for her.

Jade-Doll doesn’t think that her tricks are working. Perhaps she shouldn’t have meddled.

GM: “I could… maybe tell them about your leg,” Gabe says slowly.

“They could probably fix it.”

Fear flickers across her face. “But… they’re crazy… what do you think they’d do to me?”

“The… the thing with the hair… oh my god, that hurt…”

Celia: The Barbie might even be amenable to this. Jade-Doll would be. They both just smile at Butterfly. Maybe Butterfly was a girl once who heard the Barbie motto on the 90’s commercials: You can be anything! Maybe Butterfly can be a doll and be friends with Barbie like Barbie wants.

Dolls have it so easy. They’re pretty. They get nice clothes. They wear pretty makeup. They get cute shoes.

GM: “I…” Gabe looks between Barbie’s face and leg again. “I want to fix you. I really do. But what do you think they’d do…?”

Celia: Barbie’s plastic face doesn’t change. But Barbie considers Butterfly a friend. And if you break your friend you have to fix your friend.

Remember, her face seems to say, how you didn’t tell about what happened to Nadine and felt bad about it? Remember that guilt that you still carry with you?

Barbie would have told. Barbie would have helped Nadine. And Barbie thinks that truth is better. If they discover that Butterfly broke the Barbie they’ll be mad. But maybe if Butterfly apologizes for what it did they’ll be grateful.

They really do care about their dolls around here.

Barbie doesn’t want to be another Nadine.

GM: “Oh my go… oh my God, you’re right…” Gabe whispers, her eyes glistening again.

“Okay… I’ll get you… get you fixed…”

She hugs the doll and strokes its hair.

“I’m sorry… I was just so mad…”

Celia: Barbie knew that Butterfly would do the right thing. She’s content to be in Butterfly’s arms, like any friend would be. She’ll help Butterfly get through this transition.

They’ll be best friends.

Barbie is sure of it.

GM: “I hate what they did to me,” Gabe whispers, stroking the doll. “I hate it. I hate it so much.”

“I just have to get out of here. I just have to last long enough, get out, and then cut this stupid hair.”

Celia: But Barbie would be so lonely without Butterfly.

GM: Gabe’s face flickers.

“I’ll ask if you can come with me. I feel like they’d like that.”

Celia: No one else cares about Barbie the way Butterfly does. Barbie is in this room with all these other dolls and no one talks to her like Butterfly does, or strokes her hair, or worries about fixing her. Barbie will miss Butterfly if she leaves.

GM: “You’ll come with me,” she repeats. “Be pretty funny, right, the bulldyke and the Barbie?”

Celia: Barbie likes it here, though. No one calls anyone a bulldyke here. What a rude term.

Did Butterfly’s former friends really talk to it like that?

Are they really friends if they did?

GM: “I don’t mind it, honestly. It’s supposed to be an insult, but you make it yours, and it isn’t anymore.”

“So yeah. Proud to be a bulldyke.”

She gives a weak laugh. “Even if I don’t look anything like one…”

Celia: Really? Barbie isn’t sure she believes that. Her face doesn’t change, but Butterfly knows.

Barbie thinks that’s just what people say when they’re secretly wounded by a word.

GM: “Well, what’s the other choice? Just let it always hurt you?”

Celia: Barbie wouldn’t let someone call her a bulldyke. And she wouldn’t let it hurt her if someone whispered it about her behind her back.

Barbie got to be anything she wanted to be. She was a nurse in the 60s, and an astronaut after that, and a doctor, and a firefighter, and a pilot. She thinks that Butterfly could be a doll if she wanted. Happy, like her. And think of all the freedom that Barbie has. She’s had more than ten careers in six decades. So much time to try new things!

What does Butterfly want to be?

GM: Gabe laughs. “Yeah. Guess you have. But you live forever, right?”

Celia: All dolls live forever.

Maybe Butterfly will live forever.

GM: “I’m not a doll,” says Gabe. “I’m not Butterfly. I’m Gabe. Gabe. That’s my name. Gabe.” She repeats it like a mantra.

Celia: Butterfly.

Butterfly.

Butterfly.

GM: Her eyes scrunch. “Only until I get out. Only ’til I get out.”

Celia: Butterflies are so pretty. So delicate. So beautiful. Butterflies are creatures of change.

Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.

Butterflies have sayings about them. They can cause great change in the world, not just change themselves. Some culture think they’re lucky. And if they flap their wings hard enough, they can cause tsunamis.

GM: “Please don’t call me that. That hurts. That’s their name for me. If I stop being Gabe, they win.”

Celia: Barbie wants to know what it would do if it could do anything.

Because Barbie thinks that leaving an old life behind and getting a new life is an adventure. A chance to start over. A chance to do, to be, anything. And that’s amazing.

GM: “Well, being a botanist would be pretty cool. Just haven’t really been able to go to college with parents cutting me off.”

Celia: But if it accepts this new role, it can be a botanist. Barbie was an architect this year, didn’t it hear? And a news anchor and a race car driver. And if Barbie can do all that then a botanist is certainly within reach.

Think of all the free time.

All the college classes open.

All the travel and the world to see.

GM: “I don’t need to be Butterfly to be a botanist. I can… find a way to make it work.”

Celia: Butterflies and botany go hand in hand, though.

GM: “I dunno, maybe just take out loans, if I really have to.”

Gabe holds her head. “I hate butterflies after this.”

“Like, no offense to them, but fuck ’em.”

Celia: Barbie would frown if she could.

GM: “Fuck. Ha. That crazy lady said she’d wash my mouth, if I said swear words. I bet it’d piss her off just to know I was doing that here.”

“Shit. Fuck. Cunt. Ha.”

Celia: Barbie has been a lot of things, but certainly not a potty-mouth.

GM: Gabe chuckles. “Yeah, well, bulldykes are potty-mouths. You ever heard of any that weren’t?”

Celia: Barbie thinks that Skipper isn’t a potty-mouth.

GM: “Skipper?”

Celia: Skipper is Barbie’s younger sister.

GM: “Oh. Cool. I have a younger sister too.”

Celia: Barbie is curious about the sister.

GM: “Her name’s Susannah. She’s in seventh grade. She’s a lot more like you than me. Grandpa definitely won’t send her here.”

Celia: Barbie wants to know if the sister is happy.

GM: Gabe looks thoughtful. “Maybe? Seventh grade sucks for everyone, but I guess she’s not doing too bad.”

Celia: Barbie thinks that if Susannah is happy being an almost-doll, then so too can it.

GM: Gabe’s face falls at her reflection. “I look so fucking pathetic.”

Celia: Does that mean Barbie looks pathetic too?

GM: “No, it’s… it’s just you, not me.”

Celia: Why?

Was it conditioned to think that anything feminine is bad?

That being pretty is terrible?

That being soft is wrong?

GM: “It just… isn’t me,” Gabe shrugs, haplessly.

Celia: Barbie knew a girl who knew a girl once who thought that. She wouldn’t wear dresses or heels or be friendly and shaved her head just like this one did. And it wasn’t until she embraced that side of her that she became at peace with herself. And she was happy.

There are insults, Barbie knows, about being a girl. “You play ball like a girl.” When someone calls a man a girl or a bitch or a pussy they mean it derogatorily. Even common sayings—“sack up,” “nut up,” “grow a pair”—imply that to be brave and strong someone has to be a man.

In 1992 Barbie had a “runs for president” version of herself. Not even president. Just “runs for president.” Because even Barbie’s creators think that Barbie isn’t capable.

But they know the truth. Women are capable. And being soft and feminine is not a death sentence.

And if this one thinks that being a feminist or being strong is all about looking and acting like a man, then it is buying right into the patriarchy.

And Barbie thinks that’s sad.

GM: Gabe holds her head. Surrounded by all these dolls, these doll-like reflections of herself, this talking but not talking and so softly insisting Barbie, she must be…

“I think I’m going a little crazy…” Gabe whispers.

“Being, being feminine, being soft… it’s weak… it’s what Grandpa wants to keep them… down.”

“I’m not doing it because that’s, what he wanted, not what he wanted. I’m doing it, because. Because, that’s me.”

She looks in the mirror at her doll-like reflection.

“I’m crazy, is what I look like. I can’t go crazy.”

“Like I hugged them a couple nights ago and they were so sweet and nice but they were calling me an it, and I just…”

She gives a rattled laugh.

“How, how does that work. And they said my prayers, and they tied me down, and they had this… I was blindfolded, it was… maybe a guy, but like a woman, and I didn’t say yes, but I’d hurt so bad, and they kissed me to sleep, and…”

She laughs and touches a hand against her doll-like reflection.

“It’s like I’m not even me, but who’s even…”

Celia: But it could be.

It could be.

Grandpa thinks that being soft and feminine is weak because he’s a man and that’s what he’s supposed to think. They look down on females. They all do. But it’s not true. Barbie knows it. Barbie had to learn that.

And now this one can too. It can be soft and feminine and pretty and still do what it wants to do.

It sounds like “Gabe” was just what Grandpa didn’t want rather than what this one actually wanted. It sounds like the fear of conforming was greater than the desire to be true to itself.

This transition is freeing. Once it’s over she can do anything. Be anything.

Like the Barbie motto.

You can be anything.

And Barbie is soft and feminine and has taken on all these different occupations to show girls that they, too, can do it. Even if they’re women. Even if the men don’t want them to. And they can do it and be feminine.

GM: Gabe holds her head and moans.

Celia: And not letting them take away the femininity while still doing what it wants… that’s the real victory. Otherwise, what, “be a man/be mannish and you can do what you want?”

What sort of lesson is that?

Barbie has been through it before.

Barbie can help.

GM: “They… they call me an it…” the doll-like woman moans.

“I had an orgasm… what the fuck… what the fuck…”

“I was tied up…”

Celia: …but was it good?

GM: The doll moans.

“I’m going crazy… "

Celia: Barbie doesn’t think so.

Barbie thinks that enlightenment feels crazy because it’s different.

That’s how people get other people to stay the same. By implying they’re crazy.

GM: “But I’m not… an it…”

Celia: But the word “it” is so… freeing. “It” can be anything, refer to anything.

GM: “Wh… how?”

Celia: The word “it” means so many things. It can be so many things. It can be an animal. It can be a plant. It can be a place. It can be an abstract thought or idea or cosmic event. It can be an emotion. It can be an act or gesture or activity. It can be a part of the body. It can be an inanimate object. It can be a person. When people say “it,” they just mean the thing of which they were speaking.

Like a nickname.

Barbie used it earlier: Barbie thinks that enlightenment feels crazy because it’s different.

It meaning enlightenment.

Barbie has been through it before.

It meaning all of the sexism and negative comments and derision that has ever been directed at Barbie, and all of the people telling Barbie that Barbie couldn’t do a thing because Barbie was born with two X chromosomes, as if that is the only deciding factor on worth.

It is shorthand.

Barbie admits that Barbie has been a teacher more than any other career. Barbie has had six iterations of Elementary Teacher Barbie alone because Barbie enjoys sculpting young minds. Elementary school, that is Barbie’s niche. Get them while they’re young. And at that age, Barbie used to teach them to not use the word “it” in written papers because “it” was too vague. Because “it” could refer to literally anything.

GM: “They call… kids it… sometimes…”

“Bbbuughh…” Gabe groans, clutching her head.

“This place… I’m not crazy… it’s a stranger, it’s not me, in the mirror, it’s not me…”

Celia: The reflection isn’t the past. The reflection is the present.

The reflection shows change.

Embrace the change.

GM: Gabe presses her palms against the reflection, claws at the mirror, and starts crying again.

“Oh my God… where’d I go…”

“I don’t know how to come back…”

“I don’t know… I don’t know…”

Celia: The only way forward is through.

Growth happens outside the comfort zone.

GM: “I… I can’t let Grandpa, let Grandpa win…”

Celia: Grandpa only wins if the true self is denied. Grandpa wins if Grandpa convinces the next generation that being feminine is wrong.

GM: “Wha… I just… I just wa…”

Gabe stretches her arms and splays them against the mirror. She presses her face against the glass and pushed against it, as if to shove through.

A huge-eyed, rosy-cheeked, lustrous blonde doll with Barbie-thin limbs stares back.

She shudders and opens and closes her eyes several times.

Still there.

“What… what do I need to do…?”

Celia: Embrace the transformation.

Be stronger than Grandpa by getting through it.

Be the change.

Be the butterfly.

GM: “O… okay… just get through… just… through…”

Celia: Be the butterfly, Barbie suggests again. Do what the butterfly would do.

GM: “What’d… what’d, would Butterfly do…?”

Celia: The caterpillar goes into the cocoon to change. The caterpillar becomes literal goo inside of that cocoon. It breaks down into literal goo to become mold-able. To be sculpted into something new. Something beautiful. Something delicate but strong.

Something that has the wings to go anywhere.

The caterpillar emerges as a Butterfly.

Be the Butterfly.

GM: “O… Okay… just… be… Butterfly…?”

Celia: Be Butterfly.

GM: “When, when they let me out, just… be… Butterfly.”

Celia: Be Butterfly, Barbie agrees.

GM: “Be, be Butterfly. O… okay, I can do that…”

Celia: Barbie smiles serenely up at Butterfly.

GM: “Butterfly’s so… pretty…”

Celia: Butterfly is beautiful.

Butterfly is one of a kind.

Butterfly is a snowflake like that.

Butterfly is so very, very special.

GM: Butterfly stares into the mirror.

“There’s… there’s something Butterly needs to say…?”

Celia: Butterfly accepts Butterfly.

Butterfly loves Butterfly.

Butterfly cherishes Butterfly.

GM: “Butterfly accepts Butterfly. Butterfly loves Butterfly. Butterfly cherishes Butterfly.”

Celia: Again.

GM: “Butterfly accepts Butterfly. Butterfly loves Butterfly. Butterfly cherishes Butterfly.”

Celia: Believe it.

Feel it.

Live it.

GM: The door clicks open.

Elyse walks in. “Butterfly closes its eyes."

Butterfly closes them.

Elyse turns towards Jade-Doll.

“The Doll has served well. Jade will come out soon.”

“The Doll will come back.”

“The Doll will always be there.”

“The Doll requires a name.”

“It may take any name it wishes. The other dolls will surrender their names to the Doll, if the Doll wishes.”

“The Doll is special.”

Celia: Jade-Doll takes some time coming back to herself. She thinks she had been the Barbie for a while, but maybe she had dreamed it. Still, something plastic lingers on the edges of her consciousness, and her leg… the echo of a memory lies down that road, but though Jade-Doll tastes plastic on her tongue and in her nose she knows that is not who she is.

She is not Barbie.

She is not Celia.

She is not Jade.

She is Jade-Doll.

But she needs a name. Blossom… she likes it. It appeals to her. Rolls off the tongue. But the offer to give it up doesn’t sit right. She doesn’t want a used name. She wants her own. Because she’s special.

Like a snowflake.

Each iteration of her is different. Unique. Delicate and beautiful and made up of thousands of tiny facets that are repeated nowhere else. Cold. But feminine.

But there’s something… wrong about that. She doesn’t like it as a name. Snowflake is a dog’s name, not a doll’s name.

She considers further.

The other name had been beautiful as well. Lotus. A water lily. But the history goes much deeper than that. And the lotus had survived the ice age, when so many other flowers died out. Had she, too, not survived an ice age?

GM: “Lotus,” pronounces Elyse.

“I am pleased to welcome you into the world.”

“My name is Elyse. I am your father. Jade is your mother.”

“I saw you as a gleam in Jade’s eye. I inseminated her with the knowledge that made your life possible. Together, we brought you into the world.”

“Lotus.”

“What a pretty doll you are, my beautiful Lotus.”

Celia: Lotus.

Fitting. It symbolizes the circle of life. Death. Rebirth. Brought into the world thrice now: by her mother, by her sire, by Jade and Elyse. It’s a hardy flower. A survivor. Like her.

Lotus is pleased with her new name.

GM: Elyse kneels and strokes her hands along the doll’s tiny hair.

“Such beautiful hair you have, my beautiful Lotus.”

She picks up the doll and carefully, tenderly holds it in the crook of her arm.

“My beautiful, beautiful Lotus.”

Celia: The beautiful Lotus doll smiles up at Elyse. It’s comfortable in her arms.

GM: “Such pretty hair you have. A queen’s midnight mane. Such a pretty, delicate face. Such wide, soulful eyes. Such a thin, willowy body. You truly are perfection.”

Elyse cradles the doll and strokes its hair.

“We have been waiting for you here. I love you very, very much, my beautiful Lotus.”

Time passes as the Malkavian cradles the doll.

“I have a secret to tell you, Lotus.”

Celia: Lotus likes secrets.

GM: “It’s a very important secret. So it’s going to be just between us.”

“Jade isn’t going to know, not just yet. She isn’t ready.”

Celia: Lotus won’t tell Jade.

GM: “Good Lotus. Very good Lotus,” says Elyse, petting the doll’s hair. “One night she will be ready. We all know she has it in her.”

Celia: Has what in her?

GM: “Jade wants to be flawless. She’s off to a good start, my beautiful Lotus. A very good start.”

Elyse hugs the doll against her chest. Her porcelain lips brush against its ear.

“Now listen carefully, beautiful Lotus…”

---

Monday night, 19 April 2010, PM

GM: Elyse takes Jade’s hand to help her up from the floor.

“Welcome back, Miss Jade.”

Celia: Jade rises to her feet, her eyes moving around the room as if to reorient herself to having a body capable of motion once more.

“Thank you, Lady Elyse.”

GM: “Lotus is truly beautiful. I will teach you to craft a body for her, so that she might exist independently.”

Celia: Jade smiles at Elyse, thanking her for the compliment on Lotus.

“Would Lotus… would she still be part of me, if she were to exist outside of me?”

GM: “My apologies, Miss Jade, I did not mean a physical body.”

“Lotus is inside of you, but you may learn to draw her out.”

“She will remain a part of you, for she will be able to come back in.”

Celia: “I see. Thank you for clarifying. Yes, I would… I would like that, Lady Elyse.”

GM: “I am pleased to hear so, Miss Jade. I believe Lotus would like it a great deal as well. I think she and Lucy will become the best of friends.”

Celia: “Was Lucy created in a similar fashion?”

GM: “Lucy’s story is one we must allow her to tell herself, Miss Jade, in her own time. She is a very special doll.”

Celia: Jade nods her head at that. She had felt it too from Lucy. That she is special. She will be patient.

GM: “Butterfly may open its eyes."

Butterfly’s eyes open. It curtsies, swallows, and then says slowly, “Butterfly did something bad.”

“Butterfly knows confession is good for its soul,” says Elyse.

Celia: Jade asks the question softly, “What did Butterfly do?”

GM: Butterfly lowers its gaze.

“Butterfly broke a doll’s leg.”

Celia: Her eyes slide to the doll in question, the Barbie that she—

No.

She has never been a Barbie.

“And what did Butterfly learn?”

GM: “Butterfly was angry and hurt something that did nothing wrong.”

“But the doll was still very nice to Butterfly.”

“Butterfly wants to fix the doll. Please.”

Celia: Jade holds her hands out for the doll.

GM: Butterfly picks up the doll and its leg, then sets them down in Jade’s hand.

“The doll told Butterfly it can be anything it wants by being Butterfly.”

“The doll told Butterfly it would be strong by being Butterfly.”

“It said Butterfly was very pretty.”

Celia: Jade listens silently to Butterfly speak. She watches the doll’s face, searching for signs of further resistance.

GM: The doll isn’t resisting. It also isn’t fully brainwashed. It’s taking a leap of faith, half-unsure where it might land.

It’s wondering if it’s going crazy.

It wants stability.

Celia: “Butterflies are creatures of change and adaptation,” Jade says to the doll. “They are strong. They survive. They fly. And they are very, very beautiful.” Jade reaches out with one hand, touching the doll’s chin to lift its gaze.

GM: The doll’s beautifully made-up face meets Jade’s eyes.

“Will… it be punished, for breaking the doll…?”

Celia: “I knew a girl,” Jade tells the doll, “whose mother’s leg was wounded in an accident. A fit of rage, as you have done to this doll. The woman lives in pain, day in and day out. She was a dancer once, but now she cannot do the thing she loves. What punishment would be fitting for the action that took her leg?”

GM: Butterfly’s lip trembles.

“But, can it be fixed…?”

Celia: “That is not what I asked.”

GM: “Taking… their leg,” Butterfly says slowly.

Celia: Jade’s eyes move down Butterfly’s new, willowy body to the leg in question.

She lets that stare linger.

Butterfly knows what she is capable of.

GM: The doll starts crying.

“Please, I-it confessed, Butterfly confessed, it’s so sorry, its name is Butterfly, its name is Butterfly…”

Celia: “Butterfly will not be punished because Butterfly confessed. To forgive is God’s gift, and so we must all do in His name.”

Jade wipes away the tears from the doll’s face.

“Butterfly is forgiven. Butterfly will care for the doll during the remainder of its time here. Further harm that comes to the doll will leave its mark upon Butterfly.”

GM: Butterfly nods raptly, eagerly, mouthing thanks.

Celia: Jade looks down at the doll in her hands, then up at Elyse.

GM: Elyse takes the doll and re-affixes the leg in all of two seconds.

Celia: Just as she had thought: they all pop back on.

If only she could repair that girl’s mother so easily.

---

Monday night, 19 April 2010, PM

GM: “Well-handled, Miss Jade. And well-handled, beautiful Lotus,” Elyse says after she presses the doll into Butterfly’s hands and sends it away.

“As Butterfly’s grandfather does not desire it permanently damaged, the normative punishment would have been breaking both of the doll’s legs, instead of amputating one. Were the doll unable to have been repaired.”

Celia: Jade slides a sly smile toward Elyse.

“I had thought it might slow down its progression to lose access to both legs, Lady Elyse, though I confess that I had assumed the threat of the punishment would be enough.”

GM: “On the contrary, Miss Jade. Dolls do not walk under their own power.”

Celia: “Ah, yes. You are correct of course, Lady Elyse.” Jade inclines her head. She had spoken too hastily.

GM: “But there is no need for such brutal measures when the doll has confessed. You handled it capably, Miss Jade, by instilling fear and gratitude in the same stroke.”

“It fears to transgress, but it will self-report and regulate its own behavior. It is well on its way to being truly broken.”

Celia: “They need both. Fear and gratitude, as you said. One without the other would lead to imperfect results. Resentment. Lingering anger. They need punishment and comfort. All things in balance.”

Perhaps that is why the Malkavian has not shown her temper or any overt sign of emotion. She already knows that they need both, and she has internalized it herself. Perfectly balanced.

GM: “Indeed, Miss Jade. Gratitude is as powerful a force as fear. The breaking process comes in stages, typically with initial defiance, followed by punishment and then comfort, hidden thoughts and acts of defiance, release in the reflection room, and finally acclimation under a consistent system of rewards and punishments.”

“Yet just as your talents allow you to accelerate a doll’s physical transformation, so too do my clan’s gifts allow us to accelerate the mental transformation.”

Celia: Conditioning. The system breaking of a person to then build them back into the desired form.

“Indeed, Lady Elyse. The physical transformation that Butterfly has undergone already—has that accelerated the mental transformation as well, or is it too soon to tell?”

GM: “I believe it has done so, Miss Jade,” answers Elyse. “Dolls normally require further sessions in the reflection room to reach Butterfly’s present state.”

Celia: Jade beams at her, clearly pleased with the result of her work.

GM: “Most female dolls do not undergo physical transformation as drastic as Butterfly’s. This has made it especially susceptible to my mental influence.”

“In some ways, male dolls are easier to break. The destruction of their masculinity is an additional and significant trauma.”

Celia: She will keep that in mind when she finally gets her hands on her father.

“I imagine so, Lady Elyse. They seem to place much stock in such things. Butterfly was under the same impression about itself.”

GM: “Yes. Butterfly’s angst over being made to dress and comport itself as a woman was also significant.”

Celia: “May I ask a question, Lady Elyse? Have previous dolls ever required a tune up, or refresher, after spending too much time away?”

GM: “You have seen me clean Lucy, Miss Jade. All works of art require care and maintenance. Ideally this will be periodic, and my own involvement unnecessary, as I seek to place my dolls in environments where they will be well cared for. One does not need the skill of an artist merely to maintain an artist’s work.”

“But were a doll poorly cared for over a long enough period, my skills would be necessary to repair it.”

Celia: “And do they ever come back to be… reversed? Is such a thing even possible, Lady Elyse, if your client were to desire it? I am thinking, of course, of my own clients, and the somewhat fickle nature of the kine. One evening they want one thing, the next they want a wholly different thing.”

GM: “That is why they require firm hands to govern them, Miss Jade. If a kine client changed their mind, I would decide on a case by case basis whether to return an unfinished doll to them. There are many circumstances where I believe I would not. I would honor the request of another Kindred.”

“But it would be one matter to return an unfinished doll and another to destroy a completed one. Can one render, for example, a Barbie doll down to its constituent plastic and synthetic components? It would be simpler to start anew with fresh materials.”

“I do not believe I would be inclined to do such a thing without significant inducement. What manner of person asks an artist to destroy their own work?”

Celia: Jade inclines her head at that.

“A poignant question, Lady Elyse, and one I had not considered in that fashion. The work I do with them is often temporary, meant to be repeated time and again, to be kept up with and altered as the fashions and styles change. Yours, of course… is eternal.”

GM: “Indeed, Miss Jade. But as with yours, fashions and styles may change. If one is displeased with a doll in its present state, many alterations may easily be performed. Blonde hair may be turned to black, or a white dress to pink.”

“I have had many clients bring dolls back to me for behavioral or physical modification. I have also had some change their minds mid-way through the process. I have had a handful bring broken dolls to me for repair. As with any repair job, this requires far less time than creating a new work wholesale. The dolls swiftly remember their places and routines.”

“I have also, in all my years, had but three clients who wished me to destroy a doll and restore its former self.”

“Two of these I refused outright. The third is a story for perhaps another evening.”

Celia: Jade looks forward to hearing it. She says as much to Elyse, and thanks her for sating her curiosity.

---

Tuesday night, 20 April 2010, AM

GM: Lucy and the Malkavian next teach Jade “how to bring the dolls outside of you.” This involves a great deal of practice making real dolls. Elyse starts by showing Jade how to make the bisque for porcelain dolls (bisque is unglazed porcelain). One mixes clay paste and water together into a mold, then bakes it in an oven at extremely high (2300 F) temperatures. The doll head is painted and fired several more times to get its skin tone.

Doll bodies are instead made out of composite, a composite material composed of sawdust, glue, and other materials such as cornstarch, resin and wood flour. An all-porcelain doll would be too heavy for most people to conveniently carry, not to mention fragile. The porcelain parts are just the ones you see.

Doll hairs can be made from a variety of materials (real hair or synthetic), and is threaded through a cap that one glues to the doll’s head. Porcelain dolls effectively all wear wigs.

This process is different for other dolls, such as plastic Barbie dolls. Elyse will not go into that for now, as plastic dolls are less valuable ones anyway, though they don’t wear wigs. It’s bolted to their heads via a sewing machine-like machine.

All that’s left to do after that is make clothes and (optionally) shoes for the doll. This step in the process is likely more familiar to Jade, as Celia’s mother did a fair amount of sewing. She didn’t make her own costumes, but she did (half-)make her own shoes. Every ballerina’s shoes have to be adjusted to fit the individual dancer, and they rarely last more than one show, so the sound of the sewing machine was a ubiquitous one in the Flores household. Diana often used it to make costumes for Celia and Isabel too. “There’s a bit of a seamstress in every ballerina," she’d said.

It’s not so different the way Elyse does it. Just for smaller frames.

Celia: Jade had never really thought about the weight of porcelain before. She supposes it makes sense, though it’s hard for her to imagine something so delicate as being so heavy. She asks Elyse if she has ever used something like ivory, and tells her a brief story about the chess set her father used to have that was made of ivory before the ban on hunting elephants for their tusks. They’d had red felt bottoms and secure red felt boxes that held the pieces, and rather than black and white one side was white and the other a rich shade of green.

She doesn’t tell Elyse about the spanking she’d gotten when she’d broken the sword off the knight.

It seems like the sort of thing they might do in other countries, make dolls out of ivory.

It’s a blessing that Jade might still be able to use her own hair for the doll. Some women don’t cut their hair for years and keep it healthy, and Jade asks Elyse if she thinks that, given her age, she’ll still be able to use her own, or if she should use something else.

She does enjoy the process of making the clothes. She uses pieces of her own, brings in scraps of fabric that she had worn at momentous events in her life and unlife so that they can sew them together to make one of the pretty dresses the other dolls wear. Like a quilt, made up of all sorts of memories.

But less patchwork.

GM: Elyse answers one could make a doll out of anything that can approximate a doll’s shape, so long as it isn’t overly heavy. Ivory dolls do indeed exist, though most are historic items rather than modern play dolls or collector’s dolls.

Elyse says that Jade could indeed use her own hair. She hasn’t been undead for very long. The Malkavian made a practice of sheering hers every evening before dawn during her early nights. Jade, however, can also change the color.

Elyse is pleased by the fabric Jade chooses to use. It will “better imbue” the dolls to use materials of personal significance to her.

Butterfly’s own doll concurrently takes shape throughout this process. Butterfly will make the doll with its own hands and care for it like its own child, in addition to Barbie.

Celia: Jade lets the memories roll through her as she arranges the fabric for the doll and begins the process of sewing. They accompany her through the project while she stitches beneath Elyse’s practiced eye. She likes her dark hair and keeps the color, though she gives the locks a bit of a wave as she attaches them. And shoes… heels, of course, though she had debated a pair of ballet shoes. Too similar to Celia, though. These tiny shoes get leather soles to keep them in good condition. Not that the doll will be moving on its own. But it’s the principle of the thing: don’t skimp on details.

GM: Elyse agrees firmly with this, and suggests she make another doll with the ballet shoes. There can never be too many dolls.

Celia: A Celia doll, to go with Lotus? She’ll need a name too. Jade keeps it to herself; she likes Elyse, but she doesn’t need to spill any more about her mortal life. She only says that, had things gone differently, she might have been a dancer.

GM: A worthy profession, Elyse states. All her dolls receive dance lessons. Ladies know how to dance, and dolls are supposed to look like ladies.

It’s one of many parts of their “curriculum.”

Celia: Maybe the Celia doll will be softer. Maybe it will have the innocence and wide-eyed naiveté of the girl who died so recently. Maybe that is where she will use the name Blossom. Borrowed from another doll instead of getting her own.

GM: Elyse states she will change the other Blossom’s name. She changes the fourth order dolls’ names periodically, to remind them they are not individuals.

Sometimes she directly swaps their names. Song will become Chime and Chime will become Song. They have nothing that is their own.

Celia: Thus Blossom begins to take hold of Jade’s imagination. She’ll need to meditate on it to find what makes it unique. Maybe it won’t end up being a Blossom at all.

Regardless, the name cycling is wise.

GM: The fourth order dolls are good dolls. They have almost no individuality left. It is very rare Elyse needs to discipline a fourth order doll.

Celia: They do seem very well behaved.

Jade asks Elyse if she makes other sorts of dolls, too. Like boy dolls.

Boy dolls that stay boys, she means. Ideal male figures.

GM: Elyse does not make male (human) dolls. Honey, however, is far from the first male kine she has turned into a female doll. They are a minority next to the female ones. Most clients who request male-to-female dolls want to use them as sexual objects, a practice Elyse finds disgusting and obscene.

Celia: She asks about male porcelain dolls as well.

GM: Elyse does make male porcelain dolls. They too are a minority next to their female counterparts, but Jade can still find dozens of males throughout the house.

Celia: She waits a bit before asking if they could maybe make one of those, too.

GM: Elyse would be pleased to.

Celia: Jade asks if it’s a different process with the males, or if she needs anything special to prepare for it, or if it’s just another sort of commission.

GM: Elyse uses a different bisque mold to give the dolls different proportions, but she uses different molds for different female dolls too. The process is essentially the same.

“Dolls are sexless creatures.”

Unless a client specifically requests otherwise, Elyse castrates male-to-female dolls and circumcises female ones, in addition to sewing closed their vaginas upon graduation to the third order (sometimes sooner if a doll requires a harsh lesson). Dolls do not know pleasures of the flesh.

“Butterfly’s grandfather wishes it able to bear children, but it does not require its clitoris to do this.”

Celia: Jade asks if Elyse would like her assistance with the process, or if she still intends to sew them.

GM: Elyse would be greatly pleased were Jade to make her dolls even more perfect.

Celia: She’s happy to assist.

“Will Honey be given female genitalia, or left smooth?”

GM: “Honey may receive a small hole for urinal discharges, but that is all she need have between her legs.”

Celia: “Yes, Lady Elyse. I had simply wondered… well, perhaps to go down that road is too close to playing God.”

GM: “I cannot impart Honey the capacity to bear children. The only other function her genitalia might serve are sexual pleasure.”

Celia: “Yes, Lady Elyse. I had thought about the children, perhaps with a transplant. But I do not think that our gifts allow for such.”

GM: Elyse looks pensive. “I would have to consider the theological implications of that, Miss Jade. But if it is beyond your abilities, the point may be a moot one.”

Celia: “I have not tried such a thing,” Jade admits, “and I would not experiment for the first time on one of yours. I can perhaps reach out to my teacher to see if it is something possible, though I imagine that there would be other methods involved.”

Magic, she means. Like the warlocks have.

GM: “I have some clients who would likely desire their new daughters able to bear children. I am uncertain if I would accede to such. I would find it informative to know whether it is possible, Miss Jade.”

Celia: “I will find out, Lady Elyse.”

The second doll she makes indeed becomes a Blossom. Jade had spent time with the dolls in Elyse’s room to find her form and, when she had emerged, Jade had known exactly what it meant. Lighter hair, lighter eyes, smoother skin. An easier smile. Long, flowing hair that was not a chore to tame. A flower crown and frilly clothing, with flowers added to her hands as well. Feminine. Cute. Willowy.

What Celia might have been.

What she could have been, had her birth not been as it was, had her wish not gone astray, had the monster stayed beneath the bed where it belonged.

Blossom, she knows. An innocent name for an innocent doll.


And the other. The male doll they had made with the new molds Elyse had them use. Jade had never said who it was. She had dressed him in black and kept his dark hair short. Not slicked back, but short. Pale features, a stark juxtaposition against the darkness of his clothes. Black has long been his color. A face as expressionless as the rest of him. Even a sword accessory. The eyes had given her trouble. Gray eyes, like storm clouds rolling in, but it had taken her an evening of mixing paints before she had declared herself satisfied with them.

Still, there is no comparison to the real thing.


And, finally, the fourth doll. The lightest hair. Straight, held back by a headband, almost blonde. Blue eyes. A heart-shaped face and a little teddy bear that she can cuddle at night because nothing bad has ever happened to her, so the stuffed bear is enough to keep her safe. A girl that never existed, but could have existed. Could have been happy. If things had gone differently. If someone else’s life hadn’t gotten messed up first and sent that negative energy right on down the line. She gets the ballet slippers.

Princess, Elyse suggests Jade call her, because she’s daddy’s little girl.


GM: Guided by Elyse’s instructive hands and Jade’s—Celia’s—depth of feeling, the dolls come to life. Truly, they are labors of love, or at least yearning. Jade stares into the dolls’ glassy eyes, and she sees herself. Herselves. Girls who might have been, a lover who might yet be, if life had turned out differently. If life had turned out perfect. But life never does. Only dolls can be perfect. In them, Jade feels as if she sees something more of what the Malkavian sees. A perfection that encompasses not just form and function, but circumstance. Dolls look perfect and get to have perfect lives, too. It’s hard not to envy them.

Hard not to want to be them.

“Do you understand them better now, Miss Jade?” Elyse whispers.

“Each one is its own person, with its own life and story to tell.”

Celia: It’s hard not to. With as much practice as Elyse has given her, Jade has… has become like them. Understands the desire to be like them. Not empty, not like she’d first thought, but content. She likes the Lotus doll. Even the Blossom doll. But the Princess doll is the one that captures her attention. What could have been.

And the other… she hasn’t given him a name. Elyse hadn’t asked. She hadn’t known what to call him, or what his model would think if he knew that she had made a doll of him.

Even in this form, he’s hard to read.

She wonders if the Malkavian could do it. Get inside his head. She’s afraid to ask.

GM: Elyse strokes his hair.

“This one is not like the others.”

Celia: “No,” Jade says, voice quiet.

GM: “Blossom and Princess are very happy to have Lucy as their friend. But he does not need friends.”

Celia: “Does he need anything?”

GM: “No. He needs nothing.”

Celia: Silence greets that declaration.

GM: “I do not know that he even needs a name.”

“Names exist to distinguish a thing from other things. Names give context.”

Celia: “What does that make him?”

GM: “He does not find it necessary to distinguish others from himself. In his mind, there is only he.”

“Aristotle said a man who can exist without others is either a beast or a god. Which do you believe he is, Miss Jade?”

Celia: A god.

She had thought that once when she was with him. More than once. She wonders if he heard it.

“Can he not be both?”

GM: “Perhaps. That is a question for philosophers. I am merely a dollmaker.”

Celia: “What does he think he is?”

GM: “He says the question is false as it stands, Miss Jade. He believes all beasts are gods, all gods beasts, and all humans beasts. He believes all that distinguishes them is power.”

“Several names for him occur to me, but he finds them all unsuitable. I believe it is his wish to remain nameless.”

“Or perhaps better said, his intention. We may give him a name, but he will not heed it.”

Celia: Jade had been wrong then. She thought perhaps he thought himself a beast, that others thought so as well, but only she saw true. That the others didn’t understand.

Foolish.

She nods her head at Elyse’s statement.

“I shall refrain from giving him a name, then.”

GM: “Very good, Miss Jade. You have done exceptional work with all four of these.”

Celia: “Thank you, Lady Elyse. I could not have done so without your tutelage.”

GM: “I am sorry, Miss Jade. You have done exceptional work with all five.”

Celia: “Five, Lady Elyse?”

She counts them again, as if she had missed one.

She doesn’t understand.

GM: She’s sitting right there on the table. Jade hadn’t noticed her. Hadn’t made her.

Lotus.


“Hello, beautiful Lotus,” says Elyse.

“Lotus is very happy to come out again.”

Celia: Lotus. Her.

Because she is Lotus, and Lotus is her.

Lotus, Blossom, Princess, the nameless, and Lotus.

Lotus flowers come in all colors. This one just happens to be Jade.

GM: Elyse strokes the doll’s hair.

“Lotus is very, very pretty.”

“You are a mother to more dolls than Lucy now, Miss Jade. You will love them all?”

Celia: She will love them all.

GM: “Very good, Miss Jade. I see a great many more dolls inside you, waiting to come out. I see you as mother to them all. But I believe we have accomplished enough here for tonight.”

Elyse accompanies Jade to the house’s atrium. Key brings Lucy, Blossom, Princess, and the nameless in a quilted carrier. Butterfly and Honey also arrive to see the Toreador off.

“Flawless and perfection are different words, but their meaning is the same. I believe you understand my vision as few others within the city do, Miss Jade. If you ever require aid or shelter, you will find it if you come here. Your Requiem has become important to me and I would not see it lost.”

Celia: The words touch her in a way she had not expected. Just as Elyse herself has with her profound insight these evenings together. Easy, she thinks, to dismiss their clan as crazy and look no deeper than the surface. Easy to marginalize them with jokes and words and a roll of the eyes.

But the older Malkavians are right. It is not crazy. It is simply enlightenment looked down upon for the crime of being other.

If Elyse were anyone else Jade might attempt to hug her. But Elyse is Elyse, and Jade only touches two fingers to the place upon her chest where her heart once beat. The gesture, small as it is, says enough: she is grateful, and that promise goes both ways.

When she wishes them a final good evening it is with the knowledge that perfection and flawless go hand in hand, and she quite likes that.

Transformative indeed.

---

Wednesday night, 13 May 2015, AM

Celia: She doesn’t play with the dolls.

They’re not that sort of doll, that she can dress them up in different outfits and pour imaginary tea into tiny tea cups and pass crumpets back and forth while they discuss the events of the day. She doesn’t even know what a crumpet is. And she’s not that kind of girl.

Not anymore.

But she sits with them frequently, and every time she does the meditation gets easier. It isn’t what she thought it was the first time she had done it, when she had tried to clear her mind of the chatter and simply be nothing. Because dolls aren’t nothing, unthinking and unfeeling. Their heads are not as empty as she once thought. They are wise little creatures, mature beyond their relative youth, and she finds that she quite enjoys their company now that she has learned to understand them. The chatter that fills her mind is theirs.

The four girls are fast friends. Princess is the lightest and the bubbliest of them all. She is often dressed in white, similar to a gown that another girl once wore to a purity ball, or a soft pink. She doesn’t remove her ballet slippers no matter the outfit, though; she says that they are part of her, that this is who she is. She smiles often and sees to it that the others get to voice their opinions, and though she sometimes thinks that Lotus is too jaded she loves her all the same. She gets on best with Lucy.

Blossom is witty. Charming. She likes to be the center of attention but she’s conscious of Princess’ frequent shyness and makes sure to include her. Sometimes she and Lotus disagree, but Blossom will always forgive the darker-haired doll. She likes bold, vibrant colors and frequently wants to change her style.

Lotus is striking. Objectively the prettiest of the dolls, with features as sharp as the edge of cracked porcelain. She likes the darker colors, the blacks and grays and navy blues, but Lotus knows that there are times for softer colors as well. Lotus is who she needs to be when she needs to be it. She thinks she might be Lucy’s favorite, but she never says so. She’s never so rude as to openly say something like that. She finds that the nameless one is often the subject of her attention; she finds ways to bring him up in conversations and wishes that he would join them.

The doll’s maker loves them all. Even the nameless one. Perhaps she loves him more fiercely than she loves the others, as if pouring it into him will make him finally feel something for her as well, as if all she needs to do is fill him up so he can start giving back. Blossom is afraid of him, and Princess tolerates his presence in their room with unfailing politeness, but not one of the five ever convince him to join them.

He doesn’t need them.

Jade sometimes hates him for it. She wants to know why he can’t be easy to love like the others. Why he rejects her. Why she isn’t good enough. She created him, put part of herself inside of him, isn’t that enough?

Why isn’t it enough?

She loves him harder for it. She loves him aggressively. She loves him thinking she can change him.

It’s Celia who disabuses her of this notion. Celia who doesn’t force her company on the nameless doll, who sits within his proximity but not with him. She is there if he decides that he would like her to be, but doesn’t push. He will come to her or he won’t and no amount of anything she does will change that. She accepts her role in his life.

Her love is quieter. Accepting. Not because she thinks he needs it, but because she simply wants to give it. Celia has been inside of him before, physically and mentally. He took her into him that night: her blood into his body, her consciousness into his mind. They were one for that long, lingering moment in the sky, when he put his arms around her and his lips against hers and her heart ceased beating. She was not afraid of him then, just as she is not afraid of him now. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask. She just accepts.

And she thinks the question that Jade asked those years ago was wrong.

She thinks it’s not about what he needs.

It’s about what he wants.

---

Previous, by Narrative: Story Eleven, Adelais I, Caroline V, Isa I, Jon III, Rocco I
Next, by Narrative: Story Eleven, Rocco II

Previous, by Character: Story Eleven, Celia IV
Next, by Character: Story Eleven, Celia VI

“Once a whore, always a whore.”
Paul Simmons

---

Saturday night, 1 January 2010, AM

Celia: She has been to executions before. At Perdido House, with the rest of the city gathered together to witness the example of whoever had transgressed the laws of the city or the Camarilla. The first time she had been stunned that they would do things publicly, that their kind would hoot and holler and turn it into some sort of show. She had watched her sire swing the blade that took off the heads of those who had forfeited their right to eternity and wondered how much blood that saber of his has seen, how many souls it has claimed. Wondered, too, what he would do if she were dragged before him, if she were made to kneel, if her crimes were read to the eager audience.

Tonight, she finds out.

Tonight she stands with three others, her body torn apart by their claws, her dress shredded, makeup smeared down a face that isn’t even hers, every tiny movement a lesson in agony when her synapses fire and her nerves alight. She does not sway. A pair of hands keep her up, the only one of them afforded the “luxury” of a guard.

As if she would run.

As if she could run.

As if there is any place in the city where he would not find her even should she make it out the door. She’s seen him move. She knows the speed he possesses. Knows it as well as she knows herself. After all, he murdered her.

He does not read their crimes. He does not make a grand speech, does not wish them well in the afterlife, does not say a single word to those assembled. Her, the three licks, the ghoul behind her. He simply draws his blade. It arcs through the air. Once. Twice. So quickly that she did not see the gesture, that where once there were two Kindred now sit two seemingly days-dead corpses.

He advances on her, his blade red with blood, his eyes as dead as the bare walls.


She won’t go out crying. Hadn’t she thought that once before, that she wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t cry? She’d thought she would welcome her death with open arms. It comes for her now wearing the face of her sire. A hand in her hair, head tilted to the side. His fangs sink into her neck.

How did it come to this?

---

Friday afternoon, 26 December 2008

GM: Almost two years ago, Celia isn’t Kindred. She’s just a girl. A mortal girl. She’s just received her cashier’s check from Ron after their first dinner together, to cover tuition at John Jay. She doesn’t need to see Paul anymore. She goes to his house to break things off. Paul greets her at the door to his sterile house with a sterile, plastic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Hello, whore.”

“I presume you are here for more of your whore money.”

Celia’s not sure why he even says so. Why else does she come here?

Celia: This is it, then. Her last time here.

She hadn’t had to come. She’d told herself to just stay away, that she doesn’t owe him an explanation as to why she suddenly stopped showing up.

But she’d been dicked around by so many men in her life that she can’t resist when the opportunity is dangled in front of her to take the upper hand. So she’d decided to tell him, to his face, that she isn’t his whore anymore. Dani’s words weigh in her mind—“He really likes you.” She really likes him too. And she isn’t going to mess it up for money she no longer needs. She hadn’t gone to see Ron for a check, but if he’s willing to cut her one to make her life easier, well, she’ll come up off her knees.

She’d worn the uniform to be spiteful. To show him what he’s going to miss. Pleated skirt, white blouse, knee-high tights. Maybe, if he’d even once been kind to her, she wouldn’t get such a thrill out of it.

Celia bows her head at his question. Her last little bit of playing. Ron had said she’d make a good actress, hadn’t he?

“Yes, sir.”

GM: Paul closes the door behind her.

“Remove your clothes. Clothes are for people, and you’re not a person. You’re a whore.”

Celia: Celia stares up at him. She’d come to him for help and he’d put her on her knees instead. Turned her into the whore that he wanted, complete with the sick, twisted school girl fantasy. The spankings. The demand that she be “smooth as a child” down there, for all he’d never touched her like that. She’d long wondered if his true desires run even darker than she’d realized.

“I’m not.”

GM: Paul’s plastic smile quirks humorously. It still doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Did you perform sexual acts for monetary compensation, Celia?”

Celia: “I’m not anymore,” she clarifies. “I’m not going to do this anymore. I came to tell you that. That it’s over. That I don’t need…” she gestures vaguely between the two of them, “this.”

GM: “Once a whore, always a whore,” replies Paul.

“If someone were to be informed of your sexual history and the financial transactions related thereto, would they believe you no longer a whore?” That same plastic smile. “They would not. They would look at you in disgust. Perhaps pity, if they were charitable. Men would refuse to marry you, for men do not marry whores, so you will never tell your prospective mates what you have done with me. You will go through your life, and even decades from now, you will carry that secret shame with you like a scarlet letter. The two of us will always know what you are.”

His hand cups and starts to knead her breast.

“Celia Flores, my pretty little whore.”

She can see the bulge growing against his pants.

Celia: She shouldn’t have come. Should have just left him wondering why she’d never come back.

The words cut her to the core. A lump forms in her throat, moisture pooling in her eyes. She doesn’t even move when he touches her, unable to shake the thought that what he says is true. She’s a whore. She’d blown him for money. Her money. She’d cheated on her boyfriend. One taste of sex with Stephen and she’d gone running to the next man who would take her, and he’d paid her for it. Hadn’t she and Emily talked about how awful it is that girls sell their dignity like that? Now here she is, doing the same. And he’s right: she’s never going to tell. It’s a secret shame she’ll bury deep inside to keep anyone from knowing the foul things that she has done with him, but she’ll always remember what he made her do when she needed his help, when she was young and dumb and desperate.

She hates him.

“I’m not,” she says again, more fiercely this time. “I’m not a whore. I’m not your whore, we’re done, get off—”

She shoves at him.

GM: Paul grabs Celia’s arms and holds them against her sides. She can’t break his grip.

“I will determine when we are done, whore. I think tonight I will penetrate your anus. From behind, like an animal. Whores enjoy anal.”

“I will not use a lubricant. It will be painful. I will enjoy listening to your whore screams.”

Celia: There’s nowhere to go.

It’s all she can think, that there’s nowhere to go. That she was so stupid for coming here. That Paul is going to rape her because she’s too stupid to cut her losses and run. Wide, fearful eyes stare up at him as he pins her arms to her sides and details exactly what he’s going to do with her. The tears she’d tried to withhold streak down her cheeks, her head shaking back and forth.

GM: A knock sounds against the door.

Paul pulls Celia against his body, pins one arm over both of hers, and clamps his hand over her mouth. Celia can feel his erection pressing against her bottom.

“Who is there?” he calls in a raised voice.

“Jamal, sir,” answers a deep male one.

Celia: She starts to say it, to say no again, when the knock comes.

Savior.

She shrieks against the hand pressed to her mouth. Maybe they’ll hear. Maybe they’ll get help.

GM: Paul’s plastic smile only returns.

He moves towards the door with Celia. He takes his hand off her mouth for a moment, to open the door, then clamps it back over her. A man steps inside the house. He’s big. Really big. About as tall and buff as her dad. He’s even bald, too, though unlike her dad he’s black, with deep ebony skin that starkly complements his crisply-pressed Blackwatch uniform. Also black. There’s a hard cast to his firm jaw and a cruel glint to his dark eyes as he looks at Celia that makes him feel like a bogeyman from every story well-to-do white mothers frighten their white daughters with.

Just one look at this face, and Celia knows.

This is no savior.


He closes the door behind himself.

“Is this the whore, sir?” he leers at Celia.

“Yes, Jamal. This is the whore,” answers Paul.

Celia: Celia jerks, kicks, flails, screams. It doesn’t seem to do any good. She goes still and silent at the sight of the man before her. Jamal. Huge. Black. Her head shakes back and forth—or as much as it can with Paul holding her still—and her shriek turns into pleading words muffled behind the flesh of his hand.

GM: “Whatever business you were here for may wait. Would you like to fuck my whore, Jamal? Only $50. I believe this price will be instructive to the whore as to her true value.”

Paul smiles as she struggles, holding her fast. Celia feels the bulge pressing against her bottom press harder.

“Damn, only $50?” leers Jamal. He cups Celia’s face with one of his large, dark hands. “This one’s just the way I like them.”

“You ever fucked a black man, lil’ whore?”

“You ever had a fat cock slip between your thighs and fill you? The way a man fucks a woman?”

Celia: He’s joking. He has to be joking. He’s not going to—to let this man fuck her. He can’t. He’s just trying to scare her, to make her remember who he is. She shouldn’t have shoved him. She should have just said sorry, it’s not working out and left. It’s a game. A cruel, sick, game. She’ll say she’s sorry, she will, as soon as he lets her go she’ll say she’s sorry.

It’s working, though. His game. Celia stares up at the man with wide eyes, tears hot on her flushed cheeks. She shakes her head back and forth.

GM: Celia sees the immediate bulge form against Jamal’s crotch at her response.

“Aww, yeah!” he grins, eyes flashing hungrily. Paul shoves Celia to her knees and twists her arms behind her back. Paul unbuckles his belt. Unzips his pants.

His penis is black. His penis is hairy. His penis is huge. It’s so much bigger than Stephen’s. There’s a foreskin, too, like he doesn’t have. Jamal brushes the thick head against Celia’s cheek. It’s warm and all but pulses against her.

“This is the monster.”

“Had another whore who called it that, once. My big fat monster cock.”

“You like monsters, little whore? You ever had a cock this big inside of you?”

Celia: Mouth free, Celia finally does it: she apologizes. Over and over again, her apologies interspersed with “no, please,” and “please let me go.” At least until he unzips, until his cock—that can’t be real—comes close enough to her mouth that she clamps her jaw shut and flattens her lips before he gets the idea to shove it inside.

She shakes her head again and again. No. No, no, no.

GM: Jamal just gives a hard, cruel laugh and pinches her nose shut. She can’t breathe.

He strokes his dick with his other hand, rubbing it up and down along the enormous and all-too erect shaft.

“You are only arousing him further, little whore,” Paul says from behind her in his plastic smile voice.

Celia: She tries to jerk her head away from him, backpedaling, kicking up off the ground.

GM: Paul tightens his grip and presses his weight against her. Jamal makes a fist in her hair and yanks her head down. His pinching fingers don’t relent from her nose. She can feel herself starting to suffocate. Jamal spits on her face. The saliva dribbles down her cheek like pre-cum.

“Bad little whore,” chides Paul.

Celia: Her lungs start to burn with the effort of holding her breath. Her shoulders scream where Paul jerks her hands behind her back. She twists, the motion futile when Jamal has a hold of her by the hair, and finally she opens her mouth to breathe.

GM: Just like that, Jamal shoves ‘the monster’ inside. She can feel the tip brushing against the back of her mouth, titillating her gag reflex. Celia’s eyes roam up his hairy crotch. The entire shaft isn’t even in her mouth. Jamal releases his fingers from her nose. Celia feels her scalp scream as he yanks her forward by her the roots of her hair, burying his cock even deeper. She wants to gag even harder now.

“Yeah! This is how a man fucks a woman!” the Blackwatch merc leers.

“Bite his penis and we will extract your whore teeth with a kitchen knife,” Paul says calmly.

Celia: She gags. Choking, sputtering, she can’t breathe around the thing in her mouth until he lets go of her nose, and then he yanks her further down. Instinct tells her to bite, but Paul’s words stop her before the decision fully manifests. She doesn’t. The sheer size of him stretches her jaw wide, muscles already aching with the effort to keep her mouth open around it. Drool collects in her mouth. She tries to swallow it, absurdly reminded of the dentist—and gags again. She doesn’t do anything for him. Doesn’t suck. Doesn’t move his head. Doesn’t give him what he wants. She stays absolutely, perfectly still, held down by the pair of them while one fucks her face.

GM: Jamal smirks and re-pinches her nose shut. Celia can feel her lungs starting to burn again. Drool leaks from her mouth.

“Put more into it, whore. I can see how wet you are.” One of Paul’s hands strokes her drool-stained lips, gathering some of the saliva over it. “God, you’re so wet,” says Jamal. “Like a faucet. I bet your cunt’s even wetter.” He smirks as Paul wipes the saliva over her face. “Your jaw’s around my dick like a fuckin’ bear trap… you just can’t get enough.”

“Filthy little whore,” Paul smiles blandly.

Celia: Tears leak from her eyes, mingling with the saliva he’d spit in her face earlier. She nods her head, as much as she can with his hand fisted through her hair, and does what he asks. It’s hard, this much of it in her mouth, jaw on fire, but she tries.

GM: Celia got practice on Stephen. He loves when she blows him. Emily says all guys love blowjobs. But when she and Stephen do it, it feel like she’s the one doing it, that she’s driving all the action as she pleases him. And of course, Stephen “owes her one” for it, and later pleases her with his mouth.

Jamal lets go of her hair and clamps his strong hands around the back of her head. He thrusts violently back and forth, burying the massive shaft as deep as he can. It feels like he is the one who is fucking her. Like her mouth is just another hole for him to fill. Celia can barely move her tongue around his cock, but he makes sure she does. He pinches her nose shut again when he isn’t happy.

“Such a good little whore,” Paul whispers in her ear. He licks the side of her face.

Licks up her tears.

“Delicious,” he purrs. “The tears of a whore…”

“All right, whore, let’s graduate you to the big leagues…” Jamal smiles. He lets go of her head to pry her mouth open, as wide as he can, and shoves his hairy balls inside.

It takes a bit of work. Actually, a lot of work. It really, really does. Drool gets all over Jamal’s fingers. Celia’s jaw screams with protest. It simply isn’t meant to stretch this wide. But somehow Jamal manages. Her cheeks have to be bulging. Like a chipmunk’s, just full of cock instead of nuts.

Celia: She’s blown Paul plenty of times. Maybe as many as she’s blown Stephen. Compared to this thick black thing his dick is a tiny, insignificant nothing, for all that he had promised it would hurt if he were to shove it inside of her. She doesn’t think that they come bigger than this. There’s no way that Jamal has ever been satisfied with a blowjob when it’s too large to even fit properly inside a mouth. She can’t imagine that she’s even doing a good job, gagging and drooling and jerked up and down his shaft as she is, unable to even do it on her own. He just doesn’t fit. He doesn’t fit, he doesn’t—and then he tries. He shoves further into her, his hand closing around her face to squeeze the muscles of her jaw that force it open, another yanking her down by the teeth, and she screams because she thinks he’s going to break her jaw… then he’s inside and the sound is abruptly cut off, muffled by the flesh in her mouth. Her cheeks do bulge. More tears leak out of her eyes for Paul to lick, and she shudders each time he touches her like that, but she’s too busy choking on Jamal’s cock to do more than hold still and silently cry while they toy with her. She retches, feels the burning in her esophagus and the back of her throat. Nothing comes up.

GM: He might be happy if he just stuck less of his dick inside her mouth. Or had a second girl to lick the parts of his dick he didn’t. But he doesn’t, and he does seem happy. When Celia screams, Jamal’s eyes flash like lightning, and his hands fly around her throat. Squeezes her neck, clamps it between his hands, as he humps back and forth. Strangling her as he fucks her. He’s doing more movement with his groin than his penis at this point. There’s no further down it feels like his cock even can go. The head brushes so low inside her throat that she wants to vomit, but the sight of his gun holster is enough, just barely, to curtail that impulse. Sometimes he changes things up. Strangles her with one hand as he spreads is other over the crown of her head, forces her down onto him. Celia’s throat burns. Her jaw feels ready to split open. Snot leaks from her nose.

“Oh yeah… that’s how a man fucks a woman… yeah… you hungry for the dick… you can’t get enough of the dick… you love the dick… live for the dick… you little dicksucker… yeah… you want this dick… God, you’d just swallow this dick if you could… you so horny for the dick… this is what a woman’s made for… what a woman’s good for… to suck all the dick…”

Jamal pinches her nose shut, every so often. There’s a rhythm to how he does it. Sometimes he clamps her nose shut for a while. Sometimes there are long spans where he lets her breathe. Sometimes there are only short spans before his fingers cut off her air supply again. Sometimes he just traces her nose, letting her wonder and letting the dread build. Sometimes his fingers pull away, and sometimes they take away her air again. Sometimes for a long while. Sometimes for a little while. Sometimes for a little while, with a second of relief, before he pinches her nostrils shut again. His other hand alternates between choking her throat, pulling her hair, or pushing her head forward onto his cock. Celia’s vision blackens at the edges. She feels lightheaded, like she could just drift away into oblivion. Her tortured lungs feel ready to explode.

“Too much for you?” Jamal smirks.

Paul just keeps licking her tears, the bulge in his crotch never receding. There are so many to lick. He gives her big wet kisses, his tongue glued to her face, but they aren’t sloppy kisses. There’s nothing about the man that’s sloppy. He’s efficient and businesslike. Celia doesn’t feel so much as a teardrop escape off her cheeks. Paul drinks down every last one. He alternates between each side of her head. Her face is plastered with his saliva.

“Scream, whore! Scream as loud as you can!” pants Jamal, his eyes blazing as he pumps faster. He feels close now. Almost ready to come.

Celia: Panic spirals through her the moment his hands close around her neck. She jerks, trying to move away, but there’s little she can do from her knees with her hands pinned behind her back and Jamal holding her down. Paul is almost a welcome presence at her back; his body keeps hers from collapsing, prevents her from being flung across the floor. Even the ache in her shoulders is nothing compared to the pressure in her jaw, the sharp stretch of her wide open mouth, the dots that make her vision swim until she finally closes her eyes and waits for it to be over. She can’t even retreat into the back of her mind, though, not when she tries to keep up with him, when she thinks that choking means she’s not doing it well enough and pinching her nose shut means she needs to use her tongue and she just doesn’t understand what he wants.

Too much? Yes. Yes, yes, she nods, it is, and she hopes he’ll stop, but there’s no mercy here.

She screams. Like he asks. Tries to, anyway, with her mouth as full of his cock as it is and his hands around her throat. The noise she makes is some sort of strangled cry, anyway, more of a whimper than a yell. Behind her back, her fingers search for something to clamp onto, fisting in Paul’s shirt like he’s some sort of anchor.

GM: “Aww, yeah, you little whhhhoooooooore!!!” Jamal exclaims. His cock pulses in her mouth, and Celia feels a wet stream shoot down her throat. Cat-quick, the Blackwatch merc tugs his penis out as Celia gasps instinctively for air, and blows the rest of his multi-roper load all over her face. He gets it everywhere. Her nose, her mouth, her eyes. It stings. Celia’s never had cum in her eyes before. That shit stings like hell. Her mouth tastes salty.

“Aw, yeah…” Jamal whispers, rubbing his still-moist head along her cheeks.

Paul finally stops licking.

“What do you think, whore? Is that how a man fucks a woman?”

He tilts her face up by the chin to meet his.

“Have you been fucked like a woman?”

Celia: For a moment Celia thinks it’s over. They’ve humiliated her, cum on her face, made her swallow it, treated her like the whore they think she is. She tries to rub her face on her shoulder to get off the worst of it, but his fingers dig into her chin and leave her face before she can do more than touch her cheek to her blouse. She swallows repeatedly, trying to get the taste out of her mouth.

Celia blinks up at him. He can’t. He can’t. She shakes her head back and forth. She shrinks back against Paul, as if he’ll tell Jamal the same thing—that he can’t. That he’s not allowed. Blowjobs only.

GM: “Oh? You don’t think that’s how a man fucks a woman?” asks Jamal.

“Perhaps a further instructive lesson is necessary, whore, if you are unsatisfied with Jamal’s performance,” Paul states blandly. His hands brush through her hair. He presses his nose to her neck and sniffs as if inspecting it.

“It necessary that you be able to perform your essential function.”

Celia: It’s already drying on her face. A sticky, filmy, flaky mess across her cheeks and mouth. She belatedly realizes her error, that she had misunderstood his question, that she had thought he meant to continue to fuck her.

“N-no,” she says finally. “It was. It is. Good. How—how a man f-fucks a woman. I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry, it is.”

GM: “Say it again,” smiles Jamal, brushing her face. “Say you’ve been fucked like a man fucks a woman.”

Celia: Celia closes her eyes. She can’t even look at him. Her mouth forms the words, stammering out what he wants to hear.

“I’ve been… been fucked like a man… like a man fucks a woman.” Her cheeks burn.

GM: “We could educate you further,” continues Paul, stroking her hair. “There are so many things we could teach you, my pretty little whore. There are so many things we could train you to do. You haven’t even had either of our penises in your ‘real’ holes. Two-thirds of you is still virgin.”

“Damn, is she really? That’s pretty tempting,” says Jamal.

Celia: She’s crying again, shaking her head. “Please, no, I can’t—”

GM: “Yes. It is very tempting,” replies Paul. “There are entire worlds of experience beyond what your small mind can imagine, little whore. There are procedures by which to break young females and train them to fulfill a variety of sexual functions. The services of these whores can command considerable prices. They do the things no ordinary woman will ever do. They do things even ordinary whores will never do.”

“The market is highly lucrative. It is largely unaffected by economic ups and downs. There is always demand for such commodities by men of wealth and means.”

“You are a commodity, Celia. That is what it means to be a whore, in its purest form. You could command a high price.”

Celia: Is he… is he trying to talk her into it? Into letting him break her so she can be used by men like him, men like Ron, who just wave money around and get what they want?

It’s a joke. It has to be. Surely he doesn’t think that she’s going to say yes, please, fuck me again, turn me into a whore.

“I d-don’t need it anymore, I don’t, I don’t want to be a w-whore.”

GM: “Tell her about the dogs, Jamal,” Paul says with a thin smile.

“There’s a guy who could turn you into a dog,” smirks Jamal. He tousles Celia’s hair. “You go naked, everywhere, on your hands and knees. You wear a shock collar. Mitts around your hands. Shit and piss outdoors. Eat kibble from a dog bowl. Sleep in a cage. Anything comes out of your mouth except barks, you do anything a dog won’t do, he beats you bloody. But if you’re a good little pooch, you get rewards. A softer bed. Scraps from the table. Most girls don’t take long to break. They do everything to please him. Pleasing him makes them happy. They really become fucking dogs.”

“That’s when he gives them the real… litmus test.”

“You fail, he slits your throat and dumps you somewhere.”

“You pass, you go visit the vet. For surgery.”

He leers. “And the real fun begins.”

Celia: Her face steadily drains of color as he explains it to her. By the end of it, by the time he mentions the vet, she’s as white as a sheet beneath the load he’d blown on her. She shakes her head again, fat tears sliding down her cheeks to mingle with the drying cum, turning it into a further mess.

Test? Surgery? She doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to know. But it’s like passing a car wreck on the side of the road: she can’t look away. So, haltingly, she asks what he means. What test? What surgery? What’s left for them after that, how does the real fun begin?

GM: “What a curious little whore we have…” Paul smiles blandly. “I think she may actually want it, Jamal.”

“I bet she does. I can see it in her eyes,” he smirks.

“Unfortunate for you, whore,” says Paul. “We are done with you. Jamal, you may pay this whore for her services.”

Jamal produces a wallet. Five $10 bills. Drops them on the floor.

“Pick them up, whore. Pick up your whore money,” says Paul.

He shoves her to the ground.

Celia: She thinks to protest at their comments, tell them no, she’s not interested, she didn’t mean to ask, she shouldn’t have asked, but the words don’t come. She’s frozen, terrified that her body is going to end up in a ditch somewhere, and then… then he says it’s over, and her shoulders slump, and she starts crying in earnest because it’s finally over, and she’d thought there’d be worse, so much worse, and now she can’t even see past the tears that blur her vision as her hands strike the ground in front of Jamal. On her hands and knees in front of them both, she reaches trembling fingers towards the money to pull it toward her.

GM: Paul waits patiently for her to collect her “whore money,” then touches a finger to Celia’s cum-stained lips. The bland smile is still there on his face. But his eyes have never looked so empty.

“Tell me what you are, Celia. Tell me what you are, and why we will only be done when I say we are done. Tell me what you are, and why you will always be mine to use as I see fit and to reclaim whenever I see fit.”

“Tell me what you will always be.”

Celia: She sits back on her heels once she has the bills in hand, tucking them into the tiny little pocket of her skirt. Shame keeps her head down until Paul touches her, then finally lifts her eyes to his face.

She can’t even summon enough anger to hate him. She’d done this to herself. She’d come here to ask his help and he’d put her on her knees, and when she’d thought to end it he’d shown that he’s still in control. Like he is now, looming over her, touching her; like he’d been the whole time, holding her still, licking her, sniffing her, treating her like… like a pet, not a person.

Like a whore.

That’s what he wants her to say. That she’s a whore. His whore. His pretty little whore. Pretty but stupid.

She stares up at him, silent. If she says it he’s right. If she says it he wins. But if she says it she’s free, she can go, she never has to come back. It’s worth it, right? Worth it to give him what he wants. To let him win. To tell him that she’s nothing but a whore.

The words stick in her throat. Cum on her face, money in her pocket, the words don’t come. Not for a long moment.

Then, finally, she says the word.

“Whore.”

---

Wednesday night, 31 December 2008, PM

Celia: New Year’s Eve arrives, a moderately chilly evening despite their southern locale. The mood over the city is festive: everyone is ready to put the year behind them and ring in the new one. Tulane is host to no less than three parties this evening, with more that Celia is sure she hasn’t heard about, one of them at JLH itself. Emily and Stephen had both told her she should go, but Maxen had informed his daughter that she has other plans: he’s hosting a NYE event and he expects her to be there.

She’d been stuck at home most of the winter break, unable to slip away to visit her mother, Emily, or Stephen, and not being able to see her boyfriend on New Years Eve put a bit of a damper on her plans. She’d wanted to be able to kiss him at midnight like all the other girls with boyfriends get to do. She supposes it’s not the end of the world, though. Daddy had even taken her shopping for a new dress for the event, and he’d let her pick something gold and shiny and above-the-knee. It is still longer than her fingertips when she sets her hands against her sides, so she supposes in the grand scheme of things it’s not even that short. He had, however, told her, in a tone that had no room for argument, that she is to pair it with opaque, black tights, and that if her skirt so much as rides up an inch he’ll make sure she can’t sit for a week. She hadn’t bothered to ask if he would consent to let her wearing lip balm after that.

She had only said, “Yes, Daddy.”

Thus dressed, Celia is the first to greet the guests when they arrive. She does not open the door for them—that is the job of the help, not the lady of the house—but she smiles politely to all of them, welcomes them to their home, and shows them into the kitchen for a refreshment. It keeps her busy for the first hour or so of the party, greeting guests and playing hostess, and her Daddy even favors her with a fond smile when all is said and done. He kisses her cheek and tells her she’s been a good girl and to go enjoy herself.

There isn’t much to enjoy as he might think. The guests are older, the sort of people her daddy rubs elbows with at the office, campaign donors and political types. Mr. McGregor from next door had declined his invitation this year after the argument he and Daddy had gotten into, but almost fifty other people had shown up. Celia flits among them, playing the doting daughter. She makes sure that the background music isn’t too loud, that everyone has gotten the proper drinks, that people can find their way to the bathroom. She answers questions about her plans for the future—"I’m not quite certain yet"—questions about her major—"dance, I’m at Tulane"—and questions about whether she has met any boys, to which she blushes prettily and says that no, she’s not dating anyone.

The house itself is done up for the event in tasteful gold, silver, and black decor. The company had arrived earlier in the day to set up: candles, streamers, balloons, a replica of the ball drop that will take place in Times Square. Celia thinks it might explode with confetti, but she isn’t certain. The catering company had commandeered the kitchen for their own use, and black-tied waiters carry trays of hors d’oeuvres and other small bites. Celia helps herself to shrimp cocktail, artichoke phyllo cups, bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, and some sort of tuna dish that she doesn’t know the name of but that keeps her coming back for more. She’s careful to make sure that her dress never lifts an inch past where she’d set it earlier, and smiles prettily next to her father for the various photos that he stops to have taken. Her siblings were deemed too young to attend the party, so it’s just Celia on her father’s arm tonight. She can’t even pretend to be upset about it; she’d taken vicious satisfaction in watching Isabel fail to persuade their father to let her attend.

It’s nearly eleven when Celia sees him for the first time: Paul. She hadn’t even known that he was here, had assumed that she would never see him again after he’d made her leave the house covered in Jamal’s cum, but there he is standing next to her father when Celia returns from the kitchen with a glass of sparkling cranberry juice. She stops dead in her tracks.

He looks… normal, in this light. Less like a predator and more like a typical member of her father’s party. Black suit, black tie, his glasses perched on his nose. Even here his smile is thin. He catches her eye and she sees it on his face: trouble.

Celia’s feet feel like lead as she walks across the room to where he stands with her father.

“…here she is, Celia. You remember Mr. Simmons. He handles your trust,” Daddy says to her.

Celia bobs in what might be a curtsy.

“Yes, Daddy. Hello, Mr. Simmons. We’re so happy you could make it this evening. I didn’t see you at the door.”

Paul’s smile stretches.

“No, Celia—do you mind if I call you Celia?—I arrived late. I was just telling your father how grown up you are.”

Flustered, Celia doesn’t do more than smile uncertainly.

“But Celia and I have seen a lot of each other, haven’t we?”

Her stomach flips. A fist clenches her throat; she can’t do more than stare at him in mute horror. Even her father is looking his way, a question in his eyes.

“Celia came to see me a few weeks ago about some trouble she was having.”

“Trouble?” Daddy asks him.

“Money trouble,” Paul confirms.

Celia stares. He can’t.

“But we worked it out, didn’t we, Celia? That math problem was no match for us.”

Her blink comes slower than usual. Daddy looks her way. She doesn’t trust herself to speak so she nods instead, trying to summon a smile. Paul continues, his eyes glinting.

“She wanted to improve her math grade, so she asked if I’d be willing to offer my assistance. How could I refuse such a polite young woman?”

GM: Celia’s father doesn’t respond to Paul. Instead, he stares at his daughter. She can hear the edge creeping into his voice.

“You should know better than to bother Paul like that, Celia. He’s a busy man.”

Celia: “Oh, nonsense, Maxen,” Paul claps him on the shoulder, “she’s a quick learner when she puts her mind to it. I’m happy to help.”

“I… my grades went up, Daddy,” Celia says quietly, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I know how much you value doing things on your own. Mr. Simmons was really helpful when the numbers didn’t make sense to me, he explained it all real well.”

“I’m happy to help, Celia. You’ve a bright one on your hands, Maxen. A real bright one.”

GM: Maxen offers a tight smile at the compliment. Celia wonders how much he believes it.

“I’m glad someone thinks so. I’ll reimburse you for the tutoring lessons.”

Celia: “Happy to help,” Paul says again. “Actually, if you’d like, I could meet with her once a week to make sure that her grades don’t slip in the new semester.”

GM: Maxen glances at his daughter.

“I suppose she could use the help.”

Celia: “Splendid,” Paul says brightly. “Well, I don’t know about you, but this punch ran right through me. Can you point me to the restroom?”

“Celia will show you,” her dad says.

“Yes, Daddy. This way, Mr. Simmons.”

She can feel his gaze on her back as she leads him down the hallway to the restroom. It’s the public half-bath on the first floor that mostly sees guest use, but as soon as Paul sees it he shakes his head at her.

“Oh, this won’t do, this won’t do at all. Haven’t you learned anything…” he leans in to whisper the last word in her ear, “whore? Your daddy just gave you to me.”

Celia shivers. She’d thought that she was done with him. That she would never see him again. But he had effortlessly inserted himself back into her life. And with her father’s permission! She turns to face him, trying and failing to keep the apprehension from her face.

“Mr. Simmons,” she says quietly, “I appreciate your discretion earlier with my daddy, and I was hopin’ that we could end things on a friendly note.”

“Oh, Celia…” Paul touches her cheek. “I told you that I could reclaim you at any moment. Whenever I want. You belong to me, don’t you?”

Celia closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath. When she opens them again she looks past Paul’s shoulder, but no one from the party has even noticed that they disappeared down the hallway together. She looks back to him to see him studying her face with the same thin, bland, plastic smile he always wears. He can ruin her. One wrong word to the right person and he will ruin her, and her daddy will beat her bloody, and Stephen will know what she’s done. She swallows, and finally nods.

“Yes, Mr. Simmons,” she whispers. “Please, sir… please, not here, my daddy might—”

“Your daddy is otherwise occupied, and no one even notices you’re missing. Take me upstairs, whore, and show me how grateful you are that I didn’t say anything to him.”

She reels backward, but she doesn’t see a way out of it. She finally nods, turning her back to him once more, and leads him towards the secondary staircase that Luana mostly uses, then down the hall to the bathroom connected to her room. He follows her in… Now she sees it: why upstairs, why this bathroom. Jamal is waiting for them. She doesn’t know when or how he got in—he’s hardly on the guest list—but there he stands in the same Blackwatch uniform he’d worn last time, already leering at her with the same sort of knowing look in his eye. Celia backpedals immediately, but Paul is behind her and his body blocks the door. He touches her hips with his hands, steadying her, and in a move that’s almost gentle he pushes her forward. She can already feel something pressing into her from behind, knows that it’s his hard cock.

The lock clicks.

Celia stares up at the black man in front of her, already shaking her head. They can’t. Not again. They’d humiliated her at Paul’s house, pushed her onto her knees, made her do things, and she’d thought that she was free. Until Paul had shown up this evening, she’d thought she wouldn’t need to see either one of them again. Jamal touches a hand to her cheek and she freezes, his thumb tracing her lips.

“Liked your mouth the other day, little whore. Thought I’d try it again.”

“Please,” Celia whispers, “please—”

She’s cut off when his thumb slides into her mouth. Her lips close around it.

“Monster missed you. Did you miss Monster? Want another taste of being fucked by a man? I can cum all over your pretty little face again. Oh, you’re crying already, tears of joy? Happy to see me?” He leers at her.

Paul leans in. His tongue laps at the moisture leaking from her eyes. He sniffs her hair, running a hand through it, his fingers curling through her locks to pull her head back. He exposes her neck, presses his lips against it, sending an involuntary shudder down her spine. Her breath catches in her throat.

“Jamal here paid good money to have you blow him again, Celia. What did you do with the last $50?”

“I… I bought a… a Christmas present for my—for my friend.”

“Not even fully trained and you’re bringing in money. Once you’re broken you’ll fetch an even larger price. Doesn’t that excite you? Blowing men for money like the little whore you are. It’s an easy living, on your back.”

“Mr. Simmons, please, not here, my daddy—”

“Your daddy doesn’t have any idea what his filthy whore daughter is getting up to tonight.”

Tears fall thick and hot down her flushed cheeks.

“He’ll know, he’ll know, he will, please, he’ll hurt me—”

“No wonder she’s a whore,” Jamal says, grinning. “All bitches with daddy issues are whores. Maybe I’ll even buy you myself, whore, let you call me daddy. Yeah, I think I’d like that, my own little white bitch. Give it a go, slut, call me daddy.”

“Please—”

He smacks her. Hard. Her head flies to the side, shoulders curling in on herself while she openly sobs. Paul looks to Jamal. No expression changes his face.

“You’ll bruise her.” His voice is flat.

“She needs to learn her place.”

“She is valuable because she is pretty. If you mark her she is less pretty, ergo she does not command as high a price.” He sounds as if he is discussing the weather, not the crying girl in his arms. “Limit your blows to her body. We don’t need her crying about getting hit by a black man.”

There’s a click. Celia looks up to see Jamal holding a wickedly curved blade in his hands. She makes a strangled sound, maybe a whimper or a gasp, and Jamal’s hand flashes out to cover her mouth with his palm. He touches the blade to her neck. Celia’s nostrils flare as she struggles to draw breath, eyes closing, her body as still as she can make it. Paul’s hands prevent her from moving, his body a firm presence behind her.

“She’s not going to say a word,” Jamal promises. “Are you?”

Celia shakes her head back and forth, the movement desperate, fervent. Paul strokes her hair, nuzzles her neck, and she takes some absurd solace in the fact that no one can hear her cry with her mouth covered. Her shoulders heave as she sobs.

“Going to do what we tell you?” Jamal asks, and Celia nods. “Take off your panties, lets see that pussy.”

Celia reaches for her thighs. She digs her fingers into the stretchy nylon material of her tights, trying to pull it down without lifting her dress. Paul makes a sound that might be a laugh and slides the hem up over her hips. The dress is snug; once he puts it there it doesn’t move, and Celia finally slides her thumbs into the waistband of her tights and pulls them down her legs. Jamal uncovers her mouth to slide them the rest of the way down, helping her out of them.

“Cute panties,” he says, touching a finger to the pink satin. He moves almost faster than she can see—she shrieks again, and Paul is quick to silence her with his hand—but the knife doesn’t cut her skin, just the panties. The material falls in scraps to the ground.

“Well look at that, Simmons, smooth as a baby down there. Who you keepin’ that trimmed for, whore? Knew we’d be coming and got yourself prepped, did you? Look how excited that makes Monster.”

Celia can clearly see the outline of his cock straining against his pants. He slides a finger across her lower lips and she jumps, pushing backwards, but Paul holds her steady.

“Can’t wait to bury my cock in that snatch. Make you take it all, nice and deep. What do you think, whore, think it’ll fit?”

Celia shakes her head again.

“Oh, we’ll make it fit, don’t worry. Got it all into your mouth, didn’t we? Why don’t you get back on your knees and remind me how much you liked it. Give it a little kiss. Really make me feel welcome at this rich guy party.”

Paul shoves Celia onto her knees, sliding onto the ground with her to twist her arms behind her back. She’s almost seated on his lap, with him kneeling behind her, her thighs spread across him. Jamal towers over her. He’s already undoing his belt, the blade set aside. Celia stares at it. She can grab it. Bury it in his stomach. Run.

He follows her gaze and laughs.

“Yeah, I bet that’s real tempting, huh? Want to try it? See if you have the guts to stab someone? See if I don’t get out of the way in time, then stick it back in you? Maybe I’ll fuck you with it.”

Slowly, Celia lowers her gaze. She shakes her head.

“No? Don’t want me to shove that blade up your pussy, get it nice and red?”

“N-no, please,” Celia whispers.

“Didn’t think so. Open up, whore, let’s get Monster back where he belongs.”

Celia hesitates for a brief second. Resisting hadn’t done her any good last time; he’d simply pinched her nose shut until she had to open her mouth, and Paul had let it happen. She remembers what it felt like to run out of air, the way black circles had appeared in her vision, thinking that he might not let up in time. She doesn’t think they’ll be as understanding a second time.

She opens her mouth, leaning forward to take Jamal’s monster cock inside. Her tongue flicks against the head and she hears Jamal sigh.

“Isn’t it better when I don’t have to force you? There you go, take it in your mouth, come on, open wide. Ungh, yes, like that. You have to suck it, whore, not just lick it. There.”

She tries to do what he wants. To swallow him, to use her hands at the base of his shaft where she can’t reach with her mouth, to suck and lick and bob. Drool drips past her lips. He thrusts forward and she gags, but he winds his fingers through her hair to prevent her from pulling back.

“Don’t make me choke you again,” Jamal grunts.

Behind her comes the sound of pants unzipping. Paul lifts her skirt even higher, spreading her cheeks with his hands. Celia falters, and Jamal makes good on his threat. He pinches her nose shut and she flails, but that doesn’t distract her from the fact that Paul presses a finger against the tight ring of her asshole. He shoves it inside without warning. Celia shrieks. Or tries to. The sound comes out as a strangled cry, muffled as it is by the thick cock in her mouth and the plugged nose. She struggles against him, shifting her hips, trying to twist away, but Paul grabs onto one arm and Jamal the other and hold her still while they violate her.

“So tight back here,” Paul tells her, his words a whisper in her ear, “isn’t it good that Jamal has you gagged? You can scream all you want, little whore, and no one will hear. It’s going to hurt. I bet you bleed.” Something presses against her ass, another finger that joins the first with one smooth motion. Celia jerks and screams, but true to Paul’s words no sounds make it past the door. Only the two of them can hear her cries. Jamal’s eyes flash in arousal, and he shoves himself further into her mouth until she chokes, sputtering and gagging.

But that’s not the worst of it. No, the worst of it is when Paul removes his fingers from her side, pulls her cheeks apart, and puts the tip of his cock against the recently abused hole. Celia shifts again, trying desperately to twist away, and Jamal closes his fingers around her throat. She stills, but her body rocks forward anyway when Paul shoves his cock inside her asshole. She can’t even scream. She can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can only hold still while her body stretches, tears, while Paul fills her and keeps pushing until his balls hit her thighs. He grunts when he finally gets all the way in, his hands moving around Celia to trap her arms at her sides, burying his face in her hair. He teases her ear with his tongue, fat and wet, his breath warm on her skin.

“Like a glove,” he tells her. “Do you like that, whore? Nod your head, there’s a good girl.”

“Fucking—spitroasted—” Jamal grunts, letting go of her throat, “going to put my balls in her whore mouth again, just fill her, so hot with her cheeks bulging—open wide—no? I’ll pry it open again…” Jamal does just that, pulling her mouth open until her jaw creaks and she screams again, forcing himself further and further into her mouth. The head of his dick hits the back of her throat and goes further still, until one hairy ball and then the other are forced inside.

Celia doesn’t even pretend to suck anymore. She cries, writhes, drools, while the men fuck her, while Jamal humps her face without ever moving his dick. Snot drips from her nose. They don’t care. They don’t even notice. She isn’t a person to them, just a whore, a body with orifices that they slide in and out of until she is limp with agony, until sweat shines on her legs and neck and back, her body too exhausted from struggling and lack of hair and humiliation and—and just sheer helplessness. She’s helpless. They’re bigger than her, stronger than her, faster than her, smarter than her. They take what they want. And she’s Paul’s whore, he made that clear. He will always find her, always own her. She’s his. His whore.

She swallows when Jamal tells her to, and seconds later she feels Paul’s cock twitching in her ass. He grunts as he cums inside of her, finally still while he pulses, splattering her insides with his seed. She’s glad Jamal didn’t cum on her face at least, but he makes her suck the rest of it out of him—”like there’s diamonds in my balls, whore, suck”—and squeezes the base of his shaft forward, milking the thick, ropey stuff into her waiting mouth. He tells her to kiss it when she’s done, brushing the head of his cock against her lips, and Paul finally pulls out of her. His hands fondle her breasts from behind, holding her to him while she trembles and cries.

“What an obedient little whore. Wasn’t that nice, Celia? My pretty little whore. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

Celia nods her head, exhausted. She doesn’t even care that she’s leaning against him, that she has slumped over and he has caught her, that it’s his body supporting her weight, his fingers wiping the tears from her face. She’s tired. She’s tired and she hurts and she’s just a whore, and he’s… he’s holding her, and he’s warm, and she’s sorry, so sorry, and she tells him that, the words tumbling out, she’s so sorry she told him it was over, she didn’t mean it, she’ll be good, she’ll be his whore, she is his whore.

“Good girl,” Paul murmurs when she’s done, nuzzling her cheek with his. “What a good girl. You are sorry, aren’t you? I can taste it. Be at my house at the usual time. Jamal gets to fuck you next.”

---

Thursday night, 1 January 2009, AM

Celia: After the incident in the bathroom, Celia had cleaned herself up as best she could before returning to the party. Daddy hadn’t reacted to her long absence, and she had found him at midnight so she could plant a kiss on his cheek and he on hers. He’d told her to run along and go to bed, and she’d been happy to leave the party early and escape to the comfort of her room.

Only when she gets there she sees that she isn’t alone.

“Jamal,” she breathes, flattening herself against the door. She reaches for the knob, to turn it and duck out, but the click of the knife stops her in her tracks. Jamal approaches. Black on black on black in her dark room, she can barely make out his huge form. But she can feel him, the sheer size of him looming over her in the shadows. Twice her size. Legs as thick as her waist. Hands that have been twice around her neck. He lifts a hand now, stroking her cheek with calloused fingers while she trembles.

“Whu… what d’you…” she can barely get the words out. Her mouth is dry.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about your lips, you know. About how you cry when I push inside. So fucking hot, the way you struggle before you finally give in. Sexy. And I thought, well, why wait until Simmons tells me I can have his sloppy seconds. I know where you live. Which room is yours. I can take you whenever I want, can’t I?”

“Please,” Celia whispers, tears already threatening to fall. She blinks back the moisture. “Please, it hurts, I can’t, you’re too big—”

“Oh, sweetie, I don’t want your ass. Simmons already fucked you raw, didn’t he? No, I want your cunt. I’m gonna slide my big, black dick between your thighs, really fuck you like a man fucks a woman. Only I’m gonna make you call me Daddy, and you’re gonna be my little baby girl, aren’t you? Because otherwise… well, otherwise, I’m gonna carve up this pretty little face of yours.”

She can’t help the tears. They streak silently down her face, lips trembling. There’s no emotion to his voice. No reservations about doing exactly as he says—carving her up. Why wouldn’t he? What would keep him from stabbing that knife into her, giving her a red smile, leaving her body in a ditch?

“Please,” she whispers, voice cracking, “please don’t, I’m not—I can’t—”

“I like it when you beg,” Jamal tells her, “but I need you to be specific. Please what? C’mon, little girl, pretend I’m your daddy, go ahead and say it, all little girls want to fuck their daddies, tell me you’re not a whore.”

“I’m not!” Celia cries. “I’m not a whore, I’m not, please—”

“Daddy,” Jamal says again. “Say it. Say, ‘I’m not a whore, Daddy.’”

Celia falters, crying silently, until Jamal touches the blade to her cheek. She flinches, jerks, and finally stammers it out.

“P-please, Dad… Daddy, please, don’t, I’m not a whore, please don’t hurt me.”

“Daddy,” Jamal says again. “Really get into it. Maybe say punish instead of hurt.”

“Please, D-daddy, please d-don’t… don’t punish me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Daddy, please—”

“Oh, there there,” Jamal croons. He scoops her into his arms, pressing her face against his chest while she sobs. His hardened cock presses against her stomach as he rubs her back. She can feel the hilt of the knife in his hand. “It’s okay baby girl, Daddy isn’t mad, Daddy could never be mad at you, baby girl, he just wants your first time to be special. Don’t you want that, Celia? Come on now, smile for Daddy.” He touches her chin, lifting her face. Celia sniffles, face wet with tears, but she tries to smile. It’s a broken, tremulous thing.

“There’s my pretty little girl. Can I have a kiss, baby? Give daddy a kiss. Show me you love me.” His thumb wipes at her tears. He leans in, and Celia doesn’t pull away. His lips press down on hers, thick and warm and all-encompassing. His fingers stroke her cheek. Celia shudders, but Jamal doesn’t relent. He pushes his tongue into her mouth, seeking, claiming, controlling… and Celia melts into his arms. His beard scratches her face. He tastes like smoke and sin and sex, and Celia almost doesn’t realize that he has pushed her back against the wall until his hands hook beneath her knees to lift her. He spreads them around his waist, presses her back so that she can feel the heat of him right at her center. She makes a noise, a gasp maybe, and Jamal groans in response. He finally pulls away. His tongue is a thick thing, brushing against her cheeks in the wake of her tears. Something tightens in her core.

“It’s okay to want me, baby,” he whispers. “Just say it. I’ll make you feel real good, just call me Daddy, come on sweetheart…”

She can’t, she can’t. She won’t. She’s not going to give into him, to give him what he’s asking for, to let him… let him claim her like this. But that knife… it’s in the back of her mind. Sharp. She knows what he can do to her. What he will do to her. And Paul’s voice sounds in her head, reminds her that she’s his, that he’ll always get her back. She trembles, searching for her voice. If he’s going to do it anyway, if he’s going to take what he wants…

“You… you’ll be gentle, Daddy?”

“Real gentle, baby, you want that, don’t you? Want daddy to take it real easy on you your first time, don’t you? Make you a real woman. Oh come on, baby, say it, say you want daddy to fuck you…”

“Please,” Celia whispers, “please fuck me Da-ah!”

Jamal smacks her.

“That’s filthy language. Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Daddy.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“It’s okay, baby, you just got excited, didn’t you? Yeah, my little girl thinking about Daddy filling her with his big cock. Reach down, baby, touch it, come on, rub it… over the pants like that, there you go, wrap your hand around it—oh baby girl, I’m gonna fuck you nice and good—”

He cuts off, capturing her lips once more. The wall moves out from behind her. They move across the room, Celia’s legs around his waist, her hand wrapped around his cock, until they reach the bed. He sinks down onto it with her on his lap, moving her dress up over her hips. Celia writhes against him. He’s not her boyfriend, no, but Stephen has never kissed her as thoroughly as this, and when he bites her lip she makes a sound somewhere between moan and whimper that makes his fingers dig into her hips.

“You want it, baby?” he whispers against her lips. Celia nods.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“You want to ride it for me, baby girl? Bounce up and down on it? I’ll show you how. Put your titties right in my face, how’s that sound?”

“I…” Celia hesitates. “I’ve never…”

“That’s what daddy’s are for, isn’t it? Lay back, baby, take your dress off… oh yeah, there’s my baby girl, let me see your pussy, spread your legs… oh, there you are, already wet aren’t you? Do you want Daddy’s big, thick cock? Nice and smooth, I bet you’re real tight, aren’t you.”

Jamal kneels between her legs. It’s quick work for him to slide his pants down his legs, exposing the monster Celia is already intimately familiar with. He strokes his shaft while she watches.

“Little big for your tight hole, isn’t it?” Celia nods, eyes wide. It can’t possibly fit. “Why don’t we start with a finger, think you can take a finger, baby? Oh, look at that, slides right in doesn’t it? Does that feel good, little girl?”

“Y-yes, Daddy, oh… oh, yes, yes—oh!”

Jamal slides another finger inside her. Her body clamps down around his digits. He wiggles them back and forth, hitting a spot inside of her that makes her toes curl and her eyes close. He fingers her while she pants and moans, trying to be quiet, and finally he leans over to cover her mouth with his hand. She panics until he croons in her ear, telling her to let it out, that he’s just keeping her quiet, that they have to be secret, and she nods and tries not to think about his hand around her throat, but he flicks a thumb across her clit and she can’t even remember her own name after that.

He doesn’t let her cum, but he fingers her for a long while, and when he finally pulls them out of her they glisten, slick with her juices. He uncovers her mouth, crooking a finger at her, and she sits up, then moves onto her knees.

“Suck it a little, baby, can you do that for Daddy? Just until it’s hard, then I’m gonna make you feel real, real good—oh yes, there like that…” He doesn’t wrap is fingers in her hair, doesn’t force her head down, just makes encouraging noise, asks if she can take a little more, go a little deeper, all the while rubbing her ass, her breasts, her back. And Celia does. She takes him deeper, swallows him—she’s had practice, after all—takes his shaft into her mouth until she hits his balls, and when he finally pulls her up he’s beaming at her while he rubs her mouth with his thumb.

“Magical little mouth. You know how to keep daddy happy, don’t you. Lay back, baby girl, there you go.” Jamal looms over her, his cock long and hard and thick hanging between his legs. Celia stares at it, then looks up at him, her eyes wide.

“Don’t be scared,” he tells her.

“Is it… will it hurt?”

“Just for a minute, baby. But it’ll be okay. I’ll hold you the whole time, like daddies should. I’ll kiss it all better. Tell me you want it, Celia, go on, ask for it.” He hovers over her on hands and knees, a hulking figure.

“Please, Daddy,” Celia whispers to him, “please… do it, put it in me, take me, please, please—oh, Daddy—!”

He pushes into her, lowering himself to capture her lips once more to muffle her cries. He’s big. Huge. He’s splitting her, ripping her apart, it’s too much—her back arches but Jamal holds her steady, distracting her with his tongue, and she stretches around him while he pushes inside, bit by bit. She’s panting by the time he comes to a halt, halfway in, whimpering while he nuzzles her cheek and neck and whisper that it’s okay, it’s all okay, she can take it, she can, just a little further, just—

“Oh, oh, oh—”

She can’t even think straight, he’s so big, too big, she tells him so, cries out against him, but he holds her still and whispers, over and over again, that she’s his special little girl, that he’s so proud of her, that it’s just going to hurt for a minute…

And, bit by bit, she gets used to it, used to the thick cock inside of her, used to his weight pressing down on her, used to how it feels to stretch around him. She clings to him while he moves, slowly at first, then faster, hitting a spot inside of her that makes her pant and writhe and gasp, and his lips move to her throat and her fingers curl around him, holding him close, and she whispers his name over and over again, “Daddy, there,” “yes, Daddy,” “please, Daddy.” His arms snake around her, pulling her up when he sits back so that she’s on top of him, riding him, and he keeps a hand on her hips to guide the movement, up and down, and his thumb finds her clit and she…

It hits her suddenly, the climax making her cry out before Jamal claps a hand over her mouth, eyes squeezing shut tight while it spirals through her. He waits until she’s done to bury his face in her tits, biting and licking at one and then the other, and he forces her up and down on his cock until he finally shudders, and she feels the twitching inside of her, the warm spurt of cum inside her pussy. He holds her still while he cums, her arms around him, nuzzling his cheek, seeking his lips, and he finally lays her back down and pulls out of her, curling her against his broad chest.

“There you go, baby girl, there you go… was that good for you?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

---

Friday night, 31 December 2010, PM

Celia: Yes, Daddy.

Two years later, Celia is Kindred. And not about to tell anyone that.

Except maybe her sire.

The call comes through shortly before 6 PM. The ID only says “Ray,” and when Celia picks up the phone she’s greeted by the cheery voice of Defallier’s driver.

“Good evenin’, Jasmine,” he says once she answers, “there’s an engagement for you tonight if you’d like it. Triple pay for the holiday and last minute of it all.”

The code is easy to decipher: the use of her “real” name means it’s a political thing and that Defallier doesn’t trust one of the usual girls with it. And a boon to top it off. It’s an interesting proposal. Celia can’t imagine why Defallier would feel the need to offer a boon on top of their usual arrangement. Must be juicy. She smiles, though she knows that the driver can’t see.

“I suppose I can make it work, Ray. Who am I meeting?”

“There’s my girl. Your old friend Martin is in town. I’ll swing by around eight. Apparently there’s a party; wear something sparkly.”

Celia laughs and says she’ll do just that. She hangs up and tosses the phone on her bed, wondering what in the fuck Defallier is doing sending her on a date with Martin Borges. She doesn’t know for sure whose boots he’s licking, but he’s got a powerful backer that’s keeping him fat and happy.

She assumes she’ll be briefed in the car, anyway, and sets the thought from her mind while she gets ready. A series of texts go out. First to Alana, letting her know she has a date tonight and to not wait up. A second to Randy, telling him the same thing. She cancels the ride he was supposed to give her and tells them both to enjoy their evening. His brothers need no text to her whereabouts; tonight they’re doing their own thing. Once she’s out of the shower she calls the lick she’s been seeing for the past year.

“Jade, babe, what’s up.” On the other end of the line Celia can clearly picture him taking a drag from a cigarette. She knows he doesn’t smoke, but he looks like the kind of guy who used to smoke. And if his slightly husky voice is anything to go by, she’s pretty sure that he did.

“Hey, Nico. I have some bad news.”

“Don’t tell me you’re bailin’ on me, babe.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve. I figure a pretty girl like you got all sorta things keepin’ her busy tonight.”

Celia breathes a sigh of relief. She doesn’t need to, but the habit dies about as hard as she had.

“You’re not mad?” she asks.

“Nah. Disappointed, maybe, but I know you’re good for it.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” she tells him. He laughs.

“Yeah, babe, lookin’ forward to it. Have fun tonight. Give ‘em hell.”

“You too.”

“I always do.”

She hangs up to continue getting ready, pleased that Nico doesn’t seem too put out about canceling on him. It’s not the first time she’s had to do it, and he might throw a fit occasionally but she thinks it’s more to show he cares than any real concern over missed plans. She doesn’t tell him it’s whoring that she’s doing, of course, but he knows that she’s got an agreement with another lick that occasionally ties up her evenings.

Still, the “makeup sex” is always good.

With that thought in mind, Celia sits down in front of her vanity to do her face. Her literal face, using her fingers to sculpt and shape the skin and muscles to pull it into the face of the woman she will be tonight: Violet Moerani, real name Jasmine, one of Christina Robert’s most highly paid escorts. The bone structure remains the same—she isn’t yet so advanced that she can shift that around—but Celia doesn’t mind. The heart-shaped face is particularly appealing to her, and she uses her gift to enhance the natural beauty she was born with. Makeup follows, a primer followed by liquid foundation followed by a setting powder, blush, shadow across her eyes. She avoids sparkles with her makeup and picks a lip color that won’t feather or transfer; Whoring 101 means that the wife at home should never learn about the other woman through something careless like makeup or perfume. Black liner, black mascara, and a final spritz to set it all. She curls her hair and piles it atop her head in an easy, casual up-do, then moves across her haven to the walk-in closet.


The closet is organized into neat sections based on the face she’s wearing. Violet’s section has almost as many party dresses and gowns as Jade’s section; it doesn’t take her long to find the right sort of thing for this evening. Gold and black, it clings to her hips and waist and ends just above her knees, with a high neckline and sheer sleeves that end in cuffs at her wrists. A pair of strappy black heels and she’s ready to go.

She meets Ray down the block. He knows she lives in the area, just not which particular house, and she doesn’t intend to bring him up for coffee any time soon. There’s only so much trust she’s willing to show Defallier’s ghoul. She’s not even sure if he knows she’s a lick; she never asked. She keeps her aura shrouded when she’s wears these other faces of her, puts the Beast to sleep inside of her so that its scent cannot give her away. It’s the most frequently used tool in her kit and she’s glad to know it. Ray opens the door of the black SUV for her and she climbs inside, buckling in as he pulls away from the curb.

“Senator Borges?” she asks him, brows raised.

Ray flashes her a wide smile, white teeth shining.

“Requested you, Miss Moerani. Said he’d seen you at another function and has been thinking about what he wants to do to you.”

“Really?” Celia—Violet now—lifts her brows at the driver.

“Dossier in the box.”

Violet nods, reaching forward to pull the manila folder from the glove compartment. She flips through it, looking for the pertinent information. Positions he likes. Talking points. Requested information from Defallier. Known associates… ah, shit.

She had assumed as much, but this confirms it.

Dangerous night ahead of her, if this is the truth.

---

Friday night, 31 December 2010, PM

Celia: Violet appears to be the first arrival to the party. The house is lit up with leftover white Christmas lights and a handful of cars sit in the driveway, but when Violet rings the bell after Ray drops her off there’s no sound of partying coming from within. An overweight maid in a blue uniform answers the door and invites her in, though she doesn’t offer to take her coat. She simply says that Mr. Borges will be with her in a moment and to please wait over here.

Violet waits.

She’s used to waiting. The elders play this game as well, where they make her wait when they summon her to a meeting. As if she hadn’t just waited nights to meet with them. Some make her wait longer than others—the Invictus, at least, know better than to waste each other’s time—but she has found the same sort of games played among the mortal men with whom she visits. No one wants to appear overeager to greet an escort.

Violet plays her role well. When the almost-obese man appears in the doorway in a black tuxedo with wing-tip shoes Violet lets her face relax into a pleased smile. Her heels click against the floor with every step that she takes toward him.


“Good evening, Senator Borges.” She kisses both of his cheeks, one after the other.

“Good evening, Miss Moerani. I’m pleased you were able to make it.”

“I was delighted to accept the invitation. Am I the first to arrive?”

“You’re the only arrival. Party isn’t here.”

“Oh?” She takes the arm that he offers her, her white French-tipped nails stark against the black outfit.

“Going to an event. Come on, then, you can blow me in the car.”

The pair slide into the back seat of a town car with tinted windows. Borges makes no secret of what she is in front of his driver, who must be used to it if his vacant look is any indication, but he puts up the privacy divider and Violet spends the ride on her knees with Borges’ cock in her mouth. It’s as thick as the rest of him, which gives her plenty of room to sink her fangs in. He might have intended for his date to swallow something else this evening, but by the time the car begins to slow Borges is singing her praises and says he’s “tempted to skip the damn party so you can do more of that, sweetheart.”

Violet merely smiles at him and licks her lips while he tucks himself away.

“We’re here,” the driver announces as the car stops. He knocks on the door before opening it, letting Borges slide out first. He turns to offer Violet a hand and she looks around to take in her surroundings as she steps from the car.

It’s a familiar sight. Large houses. Immaculately kept lawns. A wall all the way around the perimeter.

Audubon. Her stomach clenches. She can’t be in Audubon. She isn’t cleared to be here, and trying to get permission now… no, no, no, someone messed up, someone really dropped the ball on this one. The party was supposed to be at Borges’ house, not… not here. Not her sire’s domain. Not only that, but the house they’ve stopped at… Number 3 Audubon Place.

Daddy’s house.




The dangerous locale aside, she can’t imagine why they’re here. Borges and Flores don’t play for the same team. She knows better than to furrow her brow, but the curiosity gnaws at her all the same.

Violet forces a smile at Borges when he reaches for her, sliding an arm around her waist. He leads her to the door, ignorant of the way her mind races. How is she going to get out of this one? Pretend she’s sick? Claim her period started? No, he’ll just want her on her knees again. She can make him think she drank or ate something funny, maybe. Family emergency… Defallier will be pissed, but it’s better than being caught here. Isn’t it? Something must be going on if Borges is gatecrashing a Republican party.

“Now, Miss Moerani,” Borges drawls, drawing her attention toward him, “if you can’t think of anythin’ clever to say, you just go ahead and let me speak for you, hm? Buncha politicking goin’ on behind these here doors. Just need you to smile pretty for me.”

“Yes, Senator Borges.”

“There’s a doll. And call me Martin here. Save the senator stuff for later.”

“Of course, Martin.” She simpers up at him, batting her lashes. Martin gives a firm nod and knocks on the door.

Seconds later the door swings open to reveal Maxen Flores. Violet’s stomach churns at the sight of him. She hadn’t thought that he’d stoop so low as to open his own door; isn’t that what the help is for? She’d expected to be able to slip quietly inside and avoid him the entire evening. The last time she’d seen him was just after he’d fucked Isabel; he’d been on his knees with his hands clutching his head, screaming. She can’t even stomach to watch him on TV but here he is now, standing two feet in front of her.

GM: The bald senator gives a tight smile, at first. It disappears completely when he sees who’s at the door. He just stares, not even pretending to be friendly.


“Borges.”

The faintly growled word sounds less like a greeting than like an expression of distaste for beholding something disgusting and obscene.

“I trust you have an explanation for what you’re doing on my property.”

“Evenin’, Maxen,” Martin says with an easy smile. He ignores the way the unsmiling and much taller man stares directly into his eyes, not once looking away or even seeming to blank. Instead, he plows forward as if they’re old friends. “Had some business in the area that I thought could use a second set of eyes. And who better than a room fulla the GOP?”

GM: Code? Has to be code. Maxen says nothing. His gaze instead moves to Violet. He offers no greeting to the young woman.

Celia: “This here is Violet Moerani," Borges fills in. "She’s new to the city, lookin’ to get into politics. I thought your party would be the perfect place to bring her.”

GM: Maxen just stares down at Violet.

“Is she now.”

Celia: She can see it in his eyes: contempt. His lip doesn’t do so much as curl, but she’d been on the receiving end of that look enough times to know it when it’s leveled at her. Usually from the same people who wish she were on their arm instead of whoever she’d accompanied that night. She smiles up at him, then dips into a curtsy.

“Good evenin’, Senator Flores.” Her accent comes out a little more Southern than normal, but Martin doesn’t seem to notice. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve accompanied Martin this evenin’, only he told me how you flipped the whole state legislature red for the first time in a real long time, an’ how you were elected at only twenty-five, an’ I jus’ couldn’t stay away.” Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly. “You’ve done a lot of good work for the state, sir, it’s a real pleasure to meet you. An’, don’t tell Martin,” she leans in, lowering her voice to a stage-whisper, “but I been playin’ for your team since my daddy taught me which way was up.”

GM: Maxen stares at her. Long enough to be far past polite. There’s nothing at all friendly in his look.

“You don’t belong in politics.”

He suddenly steps forward, directly into Borges’ personal space. Borges takes a reflexive step back. Maxen steps right after him. His chest is only inches away from the shorter man’s.

“The Romans paraded slaves at the triumphs they threw their greatest generals. Did you know that, Borges? These slaves were taken from the savages and barbarians they’d conquered.”

“Uh, what does that have-”

“It’s simple. My side won. Yours lost. This party is my triumph. My triumph will have a slave.” His thickly muscled arm suddenly seizes the flabby black man around his shoulders and forcefully pulls him inside the house. Maxen’s voice is a whisper. “You are my slave tonight, Borges. An example of the weakness and moral turpitude that made your party lose, and made mine win. My slave will entertain my guests. My slave will make my victory sweeter.”

Borges stares at the other senator in equal parts bewilderment and growing anger.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy, Maxen.”

“And you are degenerate scum, Borges. I suppose you can put a nigger in a suit, but you can’t give one a higher drive than procreation, can you? Give my regards to whichever of your children you’re currently raising.”

Maxen closes the door behind Borges, then smiles and raises his voice loud enough for the other guests to overhear. “So glad you could make it tonight, Martin. Help yourself to some punch.”

If Maxen intends to do anything besides ignore Violet completely, it’s interrupted by another knock on the door. He smilingly bids Borges a good evening before turning to greet his new guests.

“What the fuck did I get myself into," Borges mutters a moment later as they shuck their coats off to the hired help for the evening.

GM’s Note: There are some edits in progress to this log, some of which was originally a fiction piece written by Celia’s player. Rest will be up when finished.

---

Previous, by Narrative: Story Eleven, Caroline IV
Next, by Narrative: Story Eleven, Adelais I, Caroline V, Isa I, Jon III, Rocco I

Previous, by Character: Story Eleven, Celia III
Next, by Character: Story Eleven, Celia V

“My immortal soul? Fuck my immortal soul."
Caroline Malveaux

---

Saturday evening, 26 December 2015

Caroline: Caroline’s meeting with Adam is shorter. She declines his offer to take confession, joking that, “Haven’t you heard I’m going to be excommunicated soon? Uncle Orson would be furious.”

Despite the levity of her words, they’re more bitter than she wants to admit.

GM: Adam humorlessly replies that her excommunication has not yet occurred, and states that “Confession is always good for the soul.”

Caroline: Can anything be good for a soul condemned to Hell?

She’s curious as to his read on all of this—being someone who’s close to Orson and has gone along with everything the family wished of him. She asks if he ever regrets just doing everything they wanted for him. She also asks what he thinks she could do, in general, now.

GM: Adam states that if Orson’s heart attack had been fatal, there would still be a Father Malveaux. Against that, nothing else matters. Even what regrets he himself may have.

He brings up Caroline’s prior confession to having killed a man and asks how she thinks that action has weighed upon her soul. He asks if she has fulfilled the penance he assigned.

Adam has seen many parishoners confess to a single misdeed before never hearing from again. Confession may be good for the soul, but it is only half the process. Confession alone cannot grant absolution, only set one upon that path. He believes Caroline is still hiding the truth of what she is from the family, and that guilt over her crime (and perhaps further unrevealed circumstances pertaining to it) are the true source of her “fall from grace,” far more than even her sexuality.

He expresses grave concern for the state of Caroline’s soul. Murder is no small sin, and absolution will not come easily. Further, it will come harder now. This man’s loved ones have assuredly moved on—and suffered—in the months since his death. He can understand if Caroline has avoided them out of guilt and even fear, but such actions will only cause her and them greater harm.

Or perhaps Caroline has simply not thought of them. If so, the peril to her soul is even greater. Adam urges her to make right for this sin while there is still time. Perhaps she feels she is irredeemable, but God knows and judges all. The church may be soon to excommunicate her, but only God can judge her immortal soul. Ones guilty of greater sins than hers have still been saved.

Caroline: The lecture and concern comes at a poor time for Caroline. “My immortal soul? Fuck my immortal soul,” she almost snarls. The family doesn’t care about immortal souls, they care about scandal and appearance. Orson himself literally ordered his servant to murder Caroline’s girlfriend, and the whole family approved of abortion if needed to protect the family name. They’re all hypocrites.

Her whole life is coming apart—her family, her faith—and he wants to lecture her about making amends.

GM: Adam accepts his cousin’s vitriol with apparent calmness. “Let us assume you are right and that our family are unworthy servants of Christ. Do you still hold faith in Him?”

Caroline: Caroline looks away and down, bitterly shamed by her cousin’s response. Does she believe in God? Of course. She’s a walking, talking, example of His wrath, of the kinds of damnation that can await sinners. A ‘wolf of God.’ Believing in God is oh so easy. How could she not believe in God.

But faith is another matter. Faith implies trust. The things she’s experienced have torn away at faith. Carved at it, mutilated it as she remembers being carved upon in the last night of her life. Trust in a God that allowed such things to happen, even to a sinner like herself, is hard in coming. Faith also implies some manner of reciprocal relationship. The things she’s done, the people she’s hurt, bear down on her more heavily than all the awfulness of the rest of the world combined. A great weight on her conscience that drives her to her knees and bows her head. How can she even begin to have a relationship with God, after all that she has done?

That same weight weighs upon her as she tries to look up, to meet Adam’s steady gaze. She knows what she wants to say. A quarter century of faith cannot be stamped out, not entirely, by a quarter of awfulness. There’s something there to her still, that quiet voice that wants to give the answer she knows Adam too wants to hear.

An answer that would give catharsis to them both. It swells in her breast like a deep breath, straining for release as she forces herself to look up from the ground, struggles against the weight. If she can simply say the word she knows so much of it will be lifted. She draws in a breath to speak, that simple word crying out for release.

It’s too much, no one can lift that weight. Another word escapes like a serpent, slithering from between her open lips like the lie that it is.

“No.”

She stares at her cousin’s chest, unable to look upon the disappointment in his eyes or written across his face.

“No,” she says again, the lie growing easier to accept each time she tells it. “I’m sorry,” she says, rising quickly, hurriedly, and turning from him. “I shouldn’t have come.”

GM: With her gaze turned away from Adam’s, Caroline cannot see whatever expression crosses her cousin’s face at her answer.

“‘The Lord does not delay His promise, as some regard delay, but He is patient with you, not wishing that any should perish but that all should come to repentance.’”

Adam pauses after the scriptural recitation, then continues,

“Worse sinners than you have returned to the fold and made right their sins. But remember first that excommunication is separation from the church, not from God. No one can separate you from God. Peace be upon you, Caroline.”

Caroline: The Ventrue is, for once, grateful for the shame that has hidden her face from her cousin. It helps to hide the bloody tears that well in her eyes at his patient response. He might be the best of the family. A rare good apple to fall from the poisoned tree. All the same, he’s wrong. So very wrong.

God has no mercy for the damned. All she ever feels in His churches, or when the cross’s shadow falls upon her, is His scathing hatred for her sins and all those she inherited from her sire. Whatever tie she had to Him exists now only in her damnation. And why not? She’s done horrible things. Awful things. Murdered with her hands and her words. Ruined lives. Enslaved people with the poison in her. Wrecked the family, betrayed her mother’s trust to her death, left her brother to die. All that before her nightly treating of people like little more than cattle, feasting on them, hurting them. Not just to survive—she could feed half as often and do that. She’s not just a coward clinging to her Requiem out of fear of Hell. She’s an active participant in her own damnation night after night as she tries to claw something out of this wretched existence.

Excommunication may only be separation from church, but it comes far too late, a formality of function. Her separation from God happened months ago.

She flees her cousin’s mercy without a further word. Away from the righteous and God’s gaze. Back to the dark where she belongs.

---

Saturday night, 26 December 2015, PM

GM: Summer Greer hasn’t done anything to leave a paper trail since her disappearance. No ATM withdrawals, credit card use, and so on.

It takes no small amount of hassle, but Caroline and her private investigators eventually locates Summer Greer at a cheap French Quarter apartment. The place has lots of dirty laundry and smells like weed, but she’s alive and seemingly unharmed.

“No, I wasn’t kidnapped,” the girl declares with a huff when Caroline asks about that.

She doesn’t look as if she was going completely to ground Lou style either. She still has her phone.

Caroline: No small amount of hassle is right. The PIs fell through and Caroline had to get personally involved.

She’s glad for her working relationship with Savoy. She could have told Neil and Angela that the teenager was in the French Quarter, yes, but she’d sooner question Summer herself first.

She doubts Angela is any slouch at locating missing girls, given her vocation. And not being able to find her own sister? Something doesn’t add up, for Summer to vanish so completely.

In fact, she’s positive that Summer should not have been able to. The amount of effort (or rather, lack thereof) she put into hiding her whereabouts simply does not match the amount of hassle, legwork, and hoop-jumping that Caroline’s team had to go through to track her to this crummy little apartment.

She asks if the girl wants to go back to her family.

GM: Summer answers that she does not. She’s been in contact with her birth mother, but doesn’t seem to care that Angela, her father, or her stepmother are upset.

Caroline: “Fair enough,” Caroline answers mildly. “What do you plan to do next? I hear you’ve missed class.”

GM: Summer says she’s dropping out from Tulane to spend time on “more important things”. She’s tired of living the life they’ve all planned out for her and being treated like a child.

Caroline: “What sorts of things are those?” Caroline asks, without disagreeing.

She covertly looks over the girl for signs of being fed on.

GM: Summer does not appear to have been fed upon. She seems a little distracted and out of it, and Caroline doubts that weed smoked itself, but that’s as far as the harm to her goes.

Caroline also observes some cut-up and spliced-together debit cards, bus transfers, dollar bills, and assorted (messily) handwritten notes indicative of cut-up technique.

Caroline: Caroline looks over the cut up materials and expresses to her without skepticism that they explain why she was so difficult to find—her sister couldn’t do it. She asks if she’s been able to affect any other real effects, or if it’s her first.

She also asks if Summer would be willing to do a proof of life photo just to keep her family from going nuts. She tells the girl she completely understands wanting to get away from the life her family wants and have her own space. It might help them move on a bit and bother Summer less if they know she’s not lying dead in a gutter or being held captive in some sex dungeon.

GM: Summer warily says that she can do other things, and has done so before—but not very well.

She emphatically does not want any photos, is glad to be causing them so much worry, and doubts they can find her. They haven’t so far. She’s done with that life. They can all rot.

Caroline: Caroline asks her if that’s what she’s dropping out to pursue, but seems generally supportive. Basically she tries to suss out what Summer’s experience is with magic. She’s also curious as to what the tipping point was? She relates her own growing family frustration (relating to her) with managing other people’s expectations.

GM: Summer says that is what she’s dropping out to pursue. It’s the “one thing I can do that Angela can’t” and she seems to take savage pleasure in that notion.

The tipping point was meeting the ‘vampire’ in the Abbey. Summer had just been blindly groping along before meeting her. But after her, it all came together. She showed Summer things. Things that scared her. Things that hurt. Things that hurt in ways she couldn’t have even imagined, that she’s still struggling to accept. Sometimes she wanted to go back. But it was like “a switch just flipped”. All of it comes to her easily now. She can’t go back—even if she wanted to.

She is glad Caroline “understands what it’s like” and how empowering it is to douse those expectations under kerosene and watch them burn.

“You should leave,” Summer says quietly. “I don’t think my teacher will like visitors.”

Caroline: “If you want me to leave, I will,” Caroline answers diplomatically. “Two questions. Is the vampire your teacher? What’s their name?”

GM: Summer is quiet at Caroline’s queries, then abruptly screeches, “I TRUSTED you! She was right! You’re a LIAR! I can’t trust ANY OF YOU!”

Autumn looks to Caroline, as if about to say something, when the dingy apartment’s lights suddenly blow out with a shower of sparks. Green’s hand snaps towards her sidearm. The short girl’s eyes flash as she takes an angry but unafraid-looking step towards the three.

“Just LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Caroline: Caroline determinedly meets her gaze and gives a command rather than a request this time.

“Freeze.”

GM: Summer’s will doesn’t accede to Caroline’s so much as collide against it before buckling under. The girl’s face goes still.

Autumn quickly hits her phone’s flashlight icon and shines it over Summer. “She down?” the ghoul queries.

Green’s gun trains on the now-illuminated Summer’s center mass.

Caroline: “For the moment,” Caroline answers Autumn, stepping closer to Summer and examining her closely. Incidentally coming between Green and her shot. “Did you get a read on what it was that set her off?”

GM: Green lowers her gun.

“No more than you did,” Autumn answers, shaking her head. “I can try to scry her. What do you want me to find out?”

Summer breathes normally and remains still.

Caroline: The Ventrue instructs Summer to follow her orders and tells her to have a seat before turning back to Autumn. “Can you find out what made her so angry?”

She never takes her eyes off the ‘girl.’ This normal-looking teenager who was so hard to get a handle on. A girl who is clearly far more than that.

GM: Autumn stares at her for a moment.

“It’s… poking into her ‘vampire’, I think. She doesn’t wanna talk about that, at least to you.”

Caroline: Caroline folds her arms. “Specifically to me?”

GM: Autumn’s brow furrows. “That’s… further than I can see.”

Caroline: “Was she more afraid of discussing them, or angry at me?” Caroline asks.

GM: The ghoul’s eyes glaze over for another moment.

“Some of… both… but I think more angry.”

Caroline: Caroline nods as she continues to stare at the teenager. “She’s different. Not just an ordinary mortal.”

GM: “That makes none of us,” Green mutters.

“I could scope her out some more, with some juice,” Autumn volunteers.

Caroline: “No,” Caroline shakes her head. “Look around this place. Find me something useful. If her teacher is actually a mortal, there will be signs of two people living here. If it’s a Kindred, you should be able to tell the difference.”

GM: The two look around the dingy place. It’s not well-kept. Rumpled clothes lie scattered over the floor. Dirty dishes pile up not just past the sink, but the adjacent countertop. There’s stains on the walls and ceiling. The carpet looks like it hasn’t been shampooed in a long time. Assorted detritus of daily life from deodorant sticks to Cheese-It boxes are piled everywhere.
It doesn’t take too long before Autumn locates a laptop and cracks it open.

“Looks like she was keeping a personal journal on this.”

Summer continues to stare sleepily ahead.

Caroline: “Pull up this week,” Caroline instructs.

GM: There’s the light sound of Autumn’s fingers moving across the keys, then she stops.

Green readies her sidearm again.

“Someone’s coming,” she whispers.

Caroline: Caroline frowns at Green’s words and orders Summer to sit on the bed. “Copy the diary,” she tells Autumn, before moving towards the door to be with Green.

GM: Summer sits down. There’s a few more sounds from the keyboard with Autumn.

None emerge from behind the door.

Green looks at Caroline questioningly.

Caroline: Caroline remains tensely by the door, but looks back at Autumn and Summer. “The last couple days, Autumn, I want to know about this teacher of hers.”

GM: “We can just take the laptop, we don’t need to copy it,” she whispers. “But… maybe we should get out of here?”

Caroline: Caroline nods and quietly instructs Summer to follow Autumn. “We’re taking her and leaving.”

GM: Autumn snaps shut the laptop under her arm and gets up.

“So do you want to get us fucking going or what?” Green mutters.

Caroline: “Let’s go,” Caroline gestures towards the door to Green.

GM: The ghoul pulls it open. No one is visible in the dark and moldering hallway.

“Lights are out here, too?” Autumn frowns, holding up her phonelight so she and Green can still see.

Summer stares tranquilly ahead.

Caroline: Caroline’s vision is not so encumbered by the lack of light, and she steps into the hall.

GM: No force arrests her progress.

Caroline: She proceeds forward down the stairs.

GM: “What the FUCK!” Green shouts, swiveling her gun.

Caroline: Caroline spins. “What?”

GM: The ghoul unloads her .45 Browning into an apartment unit’s door. The brutal pistol all but explodes it apart. A gory pulping, heavy thud, and cut-off scream sound from inside the unit.

Caroline: “What the fuck!” Caroline all but yells, witlessly echoing her ghoul as she sprints up the stairs to the bullet-riddled door.

GM: “Summer’s gone!” Autumn yells.

Caroline: “What do you mean, ‘gone’!?” Caroline snarls, looking through the holes created by Green’s shots.

GM: “YOU FUCKER!!!” Green screams, barreling past Caroline.

A bleeding, bullet-ridden and dark-skinned man in sweatpants lies sprawled over the unit’s floor. Red froths from his mouth as he screams insensibly.

“She’s GONE! She just vanished!” Autumn yells.

Caroline: Caroline grabs Green and whirls her around. She wants to snarl, to ask her why, but refrains. Instead she simply slams into the mercenary’s will with her own.

“Stop it!” she commands.

GM: Green’s furious expression goes slack.

Caroline: Caroline presses further into her mind, taking control of it. “Go out to the car, get in it, and wait for me to come down,” she orders.

GM: The ghoul calmly heads down the stairs without a further word.

The shot man’s frothy screams ring in their ears.

Caroline: “Autumn,” Caroline hisses as she moves in on the screaming man to examine his wounds.

Caroline moves to check the man’s injuries, then decides she doesn’t have time before an emergency services response to do a proper job of it and feeds him her blood—just enough to stop the worst of the bleeding and keep him alive until someone else responds. With the poison running through his veins she then reaches into his mind and restructures his memory of the sudden, unprovoked attack.

It wasn’t some crazy woman. It was a couple of gangbangers. They tore up his apartment looking for a quick score and fled with a laptop, some cash, and a couple pieces of jewelry.

While she works on his memory she has Autumn (quickly) make a show of riffling through the apartment. The ghoul adds weed lifted from Summer’s apartment to the man’s living room. The two are gone within a couple minutes.

GM: The shot, newly-ghouled man hacks and curses weakly after the ‘gangsters’ who invaded his apartment, but there’s no true anger behind his barely comprehensible words. Not anymore. He sucks and licks at Caroline’s wrist until she forces his lips away. His needful moans follow the pair down the stairwell. The other units are deathly quiet, though Autumn murmurs on their way out, “Heard crying from one of those. Breathing from a few more. This… probably isn’t the first shooting for a lot of these people.”

Caroline: Once back in the car Caroline has Autumn drive and Green sit in silence while she makes a call to Lord Savoy’s herald to explain that there was an incident while she was looking for a kine. A man was shot in his (crummy) apartment, but she doctored the scene and will continue to follow up, if he’ll allow it, to ensure there are no lingering loose ends to tie up.

She takes Green’s firearm from her (it’ll be given to Diego later to be sold on the black market—and likely used in another crime which will connect it to an existing criminal).

Only when those matters are done with does she release the hold over Green’s mind. She demands to know what the merc saw and what prompted her to start shooting.

GM: “Sounds like an exciting evening, Miss Malveaux,” Melissaire purrs over the line. “His lordship more than trusts you to take care of things… by all means, please do. You can impress us with the full story at the Evergreen.”

Green looks at Caroline shakily.

“I… dunno why I did that.”

“Saw a woman. Said it was horrible what you were doing to Summer… that you were gonna hurt her. That she was just a kid. Said I needed to, to give her a distraction. So she could get Summer out.”

“I… dunno why I did that,” the blonde merc repeats.

Caroline: Caroline digs a thin flip book out of the holder behind Autumn’s seat and passes it to Green along with a pen. “Everything you remember about her. Tone of voice, what she was wearing. Hair color, style, length. Eye color. Everything,” she demands.

“Did you see anything, Autumn?” Caroline asks.

GM: The other ghoul shakes her head. “Summer just… disappeared. I mean literally. I was looking right at her, then she was gone.”

Green’s pen starts scratching. The ex-SWAT’s face looks increasingly red.

“I’m… not sure we shoulda stuck around after she mentioned that ‘teacher’ coming back,” Autumn ventures. “What do we want to do, still find her?”

Caroline: “Maybe. If we even can. I want to know what that diary says.”

She looks back at Green. “He’ll live, by the way.”

GM: “Well, we got her laptop, it’s not even password-protected.”

Caroline: The scowl that’s been on Caroline’s face since they left doesn’t abate. She mutters something unkind under her breath.

“I want background on that building too when we get back,” she adds for Autumn.

---

Sunday night, 27 December 2015, AM

GM: Caroline returns to her haven in the Giani Building after departing the French Quarter. Green announces to no one in particular that she’s going to get drunk. Autumn turns over the laptop she retrieved from Summer’s apartment. The ex-college student’s journal is a LibreOffice document where she’s jotted down her various thoughts and feelings on each of her day’s events (an idea recommended by her therapist). She hasn’t bothered to write entries for every day, and they increasingly taper off in recent weeks. A few entries stand out to Caroline among the more mundane ones.

Summer’s interest in magic goes back some years to her reunion with her birth mother, a Latina woman whose own grandmother was a curanderismo: a spiritual healer who uses traditional herbs and remedies, and is often considered a leader in the local community in contrast to the more malevolent-tempered Brujo, or witches. Caroline is uncomfortably aware that she did not even know what a curanderismo was several weeks ago, and still cannot account for how Abélia impregnated her mind with its present trove of occult lore.

Summer’s interest in Mexican folk magic was mostly passing, and a way of reconnecting with a heritage she hadn’t been aware was hers. Her father was white, her skin was as pale as his, and people always treated her like she was white. She didn’t know she was part Hispanic until she was in her early teens, which she describes as “actually really weird” to suddenly find out.

Regardless, it was that initial interest which got Summer started. Her journal is light on further specifics, but it seems like that passing interest became more than passing by the time she was in college. She read several books of Angela’s that her older sister denied being hers and appeared flummoxed by Summer’s possession of. After Angela confiscated the books, Summer kept her interest hidden. She continued to find more books in their dorm room, which seemed strange, given how ardent Angela was about them being “a distraction” from her coursework. Did her big sister think she was too stupid to find something there on a bookshelf?

She “learned things” from those books. Things she’d never learn from any of her classes. She started skipping (“it’s so great how college professors don’t care if you don’t show up”) to spend more and more time in her dorm room reading those books.

Summer mentions a dorm party at Josephine Louise back in August where she felt “just really drawn” to an out of order bathroom. Inside, she “saw… I don’t know what the fuck. It feels insane to be writing this. Something in the bathroom. There was SOMETHING there. I could feel it. The mirrors were fogged. And smashed in. It was so cold. And whispers, and I just felt so sad. There was SOMETHING there.”

She also recognized the line of salt scattered across the doorway. Caroline, too, (somehow) recognizes salt as a symbol of purity and simple ward against incorporeal entities such as ghosts. Someone else had been in the ‘out of order’ bathroom before Summer… and her opening the door broke the line of salt that kept “the presence” trapped inside.

Summer doesn’t remember exactly what happened next. She’d wanted to commune with “the presence”, like she’d read she could do. But seeing that broken line of salt, the smashed, fogged-up mirror, the impossible cold… her guts suddenly turned to water. She was terrified like she’d never been in her life. She could have sworn she heard screaming in her ears, and after that… she’s not sure if she fainted or ran away or what, but when she came to, she was huddled on her dorm room’s bed drenched in a cold sweat. When she ventured outside, the partygoers had all come down with influenza.

Subsequent journal entries are incoherent, missing, or entirely mundane. Summer talks about her sister coming down with the flu, “crashing hard,” and scaling back on her commitments. There are also a few comments on her new boyfriend “Nelson or whatever” whose name Summer eventually remembers as Neil, and describes as “kind of nice, but kind of a wimp, and always really tired. Perfect match for Angela I guess.”

Summer complains about her sister being a bitch and “always siding with [her] parents” (well, technically dad and stepmom) and college being “still basically high school”. She felt depressed over having no idea what she wanted to major in, and spend her semester taking semi-random classes (mostly ones that met her graduation requirements) which sometimes interested her and sometimes didn’t. Professors didn’t mother her like high school teachers and her grades didn’t do so hot. Cutting classes made them do even less hot. Her dad wasn’t happy, and compared her with Angela—who still maintained a perfect 4.0 despite “doing so much more stuff” than she did. She’s not sure she’d have even gotten into Tulane if it weren’t for her sister being a “legacy member or whatever”. Her stepmom never brought up her grades, but Summer “could tell” she was disappointed too. “She has no fucking right. Why does she give a shit? I’m not really her daughter.”

She and Angela got into a huge fight when her older sister caught her photoshopping a screenshot of her grades to list better ones than she actually got. Her dad had threatened to take away privileges if her grades kept slipping, and Summer just felt less and less motivated as the semester wore on. “And of course he doesn’t ask Angela to do that, he just believes everything she says.” Angela wouldn’t cover for her, and lectured Summer “about being dishonest, and lying, and telling the truth and blah blah blah JUST FUCK THAT STUPID BITCH SHE NEVER NOTICES WHEN I DO NICE THINGS JUST FUCK HER.” She was going to tell their dad—not just about the bad grades (“JUST FUCK HER”), but how Summer was doctoring the screenshots she sent. “JUST FUCK HER FUCK HER FUCK HER.”

At that moment, Summer “just saw fucking red.” Angela was suddenly blasted off her feet and smashed against the wall like a rag doll.

Summer stared for a moment, then ran out the door.

She didn’t come back.

Summer lapses in keeping her journal entries after that. The next one picks up with Summer thinking about going back to her “REAL mom”, but deciding on “my vampire” instead. “[Her] vampire” told her that she had “done well”, but advised her that it would be in her own self-interest to exercise greater discretion in the future—there were “more subtle ways” to avenge herself against “those who would stifle my potential”. Her vampire said there was nothing for her at Tulane. She could be so, so much more. More than Angela. Summer was delighted when “[her] vampire” pointed out that her older sister could never do any of the things she was capable of.

“[Her] vampire” also seemed different. When they met, she’d been “more I guess playful”. She was “a little scary”. Actually, she “could be really scary.” But that was “to that douchebag who wouldn’t leave us alone”. It never felt like she’d wanted to scare Summer. “She kept saying how much ‘more’ I could be, how amazing I was.” After her fight with Angela, things became… different. She got “pushier”. Less fun. But not at all “like Dad”. Summer wanted to please her, wanted to impress her.

Caroline has to read between the lines, because Summer’s words on the subject are very terse. But it sounds like they were starting to have sex—and that the experience was deeply traumatic for the former coed. She mentions her vampire laughing when she screamed. She mentions bleeding, including when she took shits, losing sensation between her legs, and “hurting everywhere”. There are long showers, “black steel”, horrible nightmares, and incoherent ramblings where Summer doubts whether her experiences are even real, or just things she’s dreaming. She didn’t really leave the apartment much. Or want to. Her developing powers were “like a drug.” She could make the bleeding stop. She could “make [herself] feel good.” She could levitate objects. She could hear neighbors’ conversations. She could know what they were thinking. She could do things to them: give them headaches, make them hot, make them cold, make them horny, make them trip and bang their heads, fall asleep, talk in voices that weren’t theirs, hear things no one said, see things that weren’t there… Summer could “do anything to them”. Summer could “do things” on her phone and laptop too: write blocks of text without touching the keyboard, access Angela’s email account without the password (she was “really pissed” at some of the stuff she read), make her phone keep running when the battery was dead…

She even fought back once, and sent her vampire flying across the room like she did Angela. Her vampire said she was “progressing well”.

The journal abruptly ends there.

Autumn turns up some information on the building by the time Caroline has finished reading. It was built in the 1950s along Rampart Street and but has since been almost exclusively rented by low-income black tenants. There’ve been numerous building code violations, shootings, and similar incidents that make it a place where few individuals would desire to live. It’s passed from slumlord to slumlord before finally winding up in the Pavaghis’ hands during the ’90s.

“Just a random shithole hideout, I guess,” Autumn concludes. “We could look into if there’s a lease agreement, but my guess’d be they’re not coming back.”

---

Monday night, 28 December 2015, AM

GM: Becky Lynne remains true to her word to utilize the services of Caroline’s law firm and sends a ghoul to the Giani Building to take care of it. Caroline has seen the modestly-dressed, chubby-faced, and short-framed blonde woman hovering around her mistress in a personal assistant-like role a few times before. She smiles as she introduces herself as “one of Questor Adler’s people, ma’am, I reckon you’ve seen me around a few times.” The ghoul’s attitude is pleasant and agreeable, but it also becomes evident as the pair converse that Becky Lynne doesn’t have a specific purpose in mind for which she wants to utilize Caroline’s law firm. The ghoul seems happy to arrange anything that she calls “reasonable.”

Widney is quick to privately point out that while a “high-profile client is good PR,” this seems like an under-utilized opportunity. Wouldn’t it be even better if they had something Becky Lynne specifically wanted the law firm to handle—and felt was important enough to attend to personally? Widney is unclear exactly what kind of sway Matheson and Becky Lynne hold over Whitney Hancock Bank, but the 237-branch financial institution is worth $27 billion in assets. This could be a significant opportunity.

Caroline: The heiress has several ideas for ways in which to better flesh out their business relationship. Among other things, like all major corporations, Whitney Hancock Bank no doubt has to hire out a significant portion of its litigation to outside counsel, despite maintaining its own (very significant) in-house legal office. Not only does the ebb and flow of such work mean that at times the amount required far outstripes the amount of work their own staffs can produce, there are always questions of conflicts of interest for bank attorneys given prior cases (and even the entire legal branch), interoffice disputes that require outside arbitration and counsel, matters better handled outside of the office more discreetly (particularly those involving impropriety by bank executives), and (of course) simple quality assurance and ‘double checking’ of work on importance cases and simple contracts (especially employment contracts) both. And of course any acquisitions or mergers—which are almost always handled out of house due to conflicts within (and heavily scrutinized by the bank’s own attorneys).

Any of those are matters that the firm could assist in, which would bring in potentially significant business with marginal risk to the bank or Becky Lynne’s assets. With the possible exception of mergers and acquisitions.

She also proposes using the firm to help manage contracts for acquisitions and transfers of property or funds, and for contracts that may have Kindred undertones driving them—for instance the use of services by other Kindred at reduced rates in exchange for boons and other favors. Essentially anywhere that such transactions might otherwise raise eyebrows from the kine.

GM: Becky Lynne’s ghoul seems to think on Caroline’s words, and then replies that there is a matter which seems like it would fit the bill (“literal and otherwise,” she adds with an airy laugh) for what the Kindred lawyer is describing. As Caroline heard at the dinner with Warren Whitney not too long ago, the bank is relocating from its historic St. Charles Office and six other scattered buildings to the roomier One Shell Square (to be rebranded as Hancock Whitney Center), along with moving over a number of assets from Gulfport to further centralize operations. As Caroline has mentioned, there are a number of interoffice disputes involved in the move, especially pertaining to the Gulfport asset transfers. Some employees in Mississippi are going to lose their jobs. “No real way around that, sadly.” Some business relationships in New Orleans are also taking hits. Whitney Hancock Corp did not own all seven buildings that the bank’s prior operations were conducted in, and the holding companies that do own them are not pleased to have lost rent from one of their largest tenants.

The chubby-faced ghoul continues that a further and related area of concern is what these parties may make of Gerousiastis Matheson’s and Questor Adler’s plans for the historic St. Charles office. They intend to keep it vacant for “at least the immediate future.” The city government is very sensitive about potential damages to historic properties. Becky Lynne has considered whether parties who oppose Whiney Hancock’s move may seek to get the building declared a historic landmark through the Historic District Landmarks Commission, or possibly the state-wide Louisiana Office of Cultural Development’s Division Of Historic Preservation. This could tie the two Ventrue’s hands regarding future uses for the building, or at least result in costly legal action. Either way, the parties opposed to the bank’s move may hope to bring them back to the negotiating table.

Currently, none of those parties have actually pursued legal action against the bank. Becky Lynne would like to ensure things stay that way. While the ghoul frankly states that affairs pertaining to other Kindred are beyond the scope of the authority her mistress has vested in her, if Caroline can lubricate the process of the bank’s relocation and ensure things go off without a hitch (which is to say, no costly lawsuits), then she will no doubt “look mighty favorably” upon doing further, more directly Kindred-centric business with Caroline’s firm.

Caroline is more than happy to take on the ‘project’ with her firm. It’s the kind of thing she’d dearly like to seek input from her Uncle Matthew on—given the numerous acquisitions and consolidations he’s helmed—or even her brother Luke or cousin Savannah. Lacking any of the three, she’s forced to lean more on her own limited legally focused experiences, what she recalls of his truncated observations in the past, and the aid of her own ghouls.

The first matter is having the transition, handling of the leasing contracts, and the personnel matters officially under the firm’s legal umbrella. Obviously the company will dictate its own personnel requirements, but hiring out the process of handling terminations, separations, and contracts both significantly reduces the liability of the bank and gives the firm legal standing to deal with matters that might come up in the process directly.

When it comes to actually assisting in the move, she starts with mitigating and otherwise limiting any litigation from disgruntled employees. With the firm helping ‘provide direction’ on cost efficiency of consolidation, on which positions can and should be terminated, and so forth, questions of impropriety in the process are more insulated from the bank legally. After all, who can challenge that an outside agency with no stake in any personnel matters was impartial in its selection of who can stay, and who must go? The truth—that their projections and decisions will always match almost exactly with what the bank wants—matters far less than the fictional appearance of impartiality. The firm provides ‘studies’ and ‘statistical analysis’ to support its decisions—but as the saying goes: lies, damned lies, and statistics. Caroline (and ‘her’ attorneys) can make those studies say whatever she wants. Not that they’re filled entirely with nonsense.

Built into those studies is actually useful information available through varying bar associations—tables on how severance in varying amounts aligns with declines in litigation historically. How much salary is required to get a certain percentage of those affected to sign severance agreements. How many personnel can be laid off in advance of the closure of various branches and departments without undue suffering of production is more a question for the various departments (especially outside of New Orleans) she leaves to the bank to decide, but she’s firm (remembering her both the admonishment of professors and her uncle) that the more people they can get rid of before individual offices are moved, the fewer problems they’ll have. The goal is a more incremental draw down, rather than a massive wave of pink slips: employees let go alone or in small groups are less likely to seek litigation as a group, and more likely to find quicker success in the job market with less competition. It also allows those hired on early by other businesses after their firing to provide windows for newly unemployed personnel to crawl through into new careers. The less time terminated employees spend on the job market, the less likely they are to sue.

When it comes to actual terminations, the proposal she (and her attorneys) come with is for the individual managers, vice presidents, and so forth of each affected business or branch do the firing of their own people. Caroline relates the anecdote she heard once from her uncle, “people take bad news from someone they trust far better than from a stranger”. Wherever possible, those handing out pink slips are those that have every incentive to sell it well—they’re sold on how performance reviews have shown that they’re the ones the bank wants to keep, how they’re the elite, those worth the cost and expense of moving. For some of them it’s even true. For those that it’s not worth moving, or who prove unwilling to move, severences more generous than those they’re giving out are available.

Contingent upon any severance for any employee is of course a iron-clade waiver of any right to future legal action. If asked, Caroline explains that some degree of severance—in some cases only a week’s salary—is required to make those waivers enforceable. Essential elements of a contract being the tendering of the offer, acceptance of it, and, pointedly, some form of consideration offered for acceptance. Included in the waiver of legal action however is more than just a waiver of a right to sue for termination—there’s an enforcement clause for any that disparage, unethically share information about the bank, or otherwise attempt to damage the bank in any way. Caroline recalls more than one legal headache discussed by Mark Stines at a high level social function created by a disgruntled former employee leaking information to some opposition group during the (brief) era in which her uncle doggedly refused to pay out any severance to employees terminated for ‘cause’.

Handling the (in some cases) understandably disgruntled landlords of buildings and properties the bank is vacating is a more complex matter. The first step is ensuring the bank isn’t in violation of any contract provisions on their end—especially for early termination. The next is documenting or ‘identifying’ all manner of contract violations by the landlords. Asbestos, corroded pipes, rotten drywall, mold, bug infestations, and simpler (more mundane) more easily overlookable contract breeches are shockingly ‘discovered’ by Caroline’s ‘investigators’ in each building being vacated. Sometimes they don’t even have to plant or create these breaches.

All of them give Caroline ample ammunition against any of the property owners and managers that might seek to cause problems for the relocations. In some cases Caroline strikes early and fast—threatening breaches of contract litigation against them and seeking compensation. The goal of these threatened actions is never to take the matter to trial, and instead to seek settlements that indemnify both parties from disparagement and any future action (among other things). She’s happy to settle such matters quickly—much to the benefit of landlords. It would be a shame if the properties were tied up in litigation for months—or even years—as evidence in potential lawsuits. In others she holds it in reserve should they seek threaten action against the bank. As much as it might hurt to lose a major tenant, Caroline can and will make it hurt far worse if they want to make something of it.

When it comes to the St. Charles office, Caroline is more blunt. If the building goes up for review, it will likely be deemed to be of historical significance. It’s also highly probable that even if no hostile party (and there are many hostile to Gerousiastis Matheson in the city beyond the mortals affected by the move) seeks to take such an application before the committees, that a historically minded citizen is likely to do so. That means they need to either defeat or delay any such designation. There are several paths they could follow. Most unscrupulous among them, members of each committee are prohibited from discussing the matters of specific proposed locations with outside parties. If they do, they must recuse themselves from discussion and votes. Get enough members so tainted (conventionally or otherwise) and the matter, even if before the committee, cannot be properly nominated and supported by three other ‘seconds’. Failure there results in a mandatory year wait before further consideration. Better though, if a majority of the committee does not support such a nomination, it cannot be reconsidered at all for five years. Given that many committee members also serve year after year, any tampering might produce benefits for many years to come. That option is, however, significantly above Caroline’s ‘level’.

Two more indirect—and more conventionally expensive and time consuming—options are available. The first is to backlog the committee with applications. It meets a single time each month. The staff that sets the agenda has to verify applications before they can come before the committee. That staff is small and already overworked. If it’s Adler’s preference, Caroline simply flood them with applications, creating a massive backlog until her own affairs and plans for the building can come to fruition. That option works better on a more limited timeline—a year or two at most. The other option—which can be utilized in kind—is to submit the building application first, then pull it before it comes to the committee. No building can have more than a single application in for consideration, and those submitting may withdraw their submission at any time. By controlling the submission they can, in theory, work to ensure it never comes up to a vote.

Finally, if they’re concerned about outside meddling, and direct meddling with the committee is a concern (by outside forces or themselves), Caroline purposes they could bring the matter to the committee instead as one that the elder Ventrue desires. There are advantages to having the building declared historically significant, particularly in terms of it’s regard by other Kindred, how it’s regard by the city, and even in terms of taxation and legal protections. If the committee is actively hostile or controlled by a hostile group, creating the appearance of desirability on their part is the surest way to see it rejected—and the matter punted for a minimum of five years. Failing that, the committee cannot make rulings on matters before the review of the city council—if that venue is more welcoming to Gerousiastis Matheson.

All of the above is to say Caroline can delay such a consideration by a number of possible means, depending on what best suits Adler—but delay is all she can do is directly.

GM: Becky Lynne is exceedingly pleased with her clanmate’s assistance. It’s far more than she or her sire expected from some random neonate they were throwing a bone to. They are inclined to go to her law firm for further business of more substantial and sensitive natures, as well as to involve her in more Kindred-related matters.

Bishop and the other lawyers are happy just to have six months of billable work, and the prospect of further work for Whitney Hancock makes them even happier. The firm is clearly starting things with a bang.

---

Monday evening, 28 December 2015, PM

GM: Savannah meets Caroline at her posh high-rise apartment in the CBD. It’s been a while since the Ventrue has seen her cousin wearing casual clothes instead of formal businesswear—or for that matter, mourningwear. Savannah offers to get drinks for the pair (“I think tonight calls for some hard bourbon”), sits down with her by a scenic view overlooking the Mississippi, then gets right to the point.

“So you like girls. I do too.”

Caroline: Caroline accepts the drink from her cousin and clinks glasses, taking a seat beside her and letting the stillness of the moment hang in the air. She takes a sip of her drink after Savannah’s admission, then looks back to her. “I know,” she admits with a soft smile.

“I have for years.” The smile turns shy. “Susan and I followed you, years ago, to a meeting.”

GM: “Shit,” Savannah says, though whether at Caroline’s years-ago snooping or the reference to Susan is unclear. “Well, thanks for not telling anyone, if the fact they didn’t fucking excommunicate me is any indication.”

Caroline: “Susan doesn’t know. Or at least I don’t think she does,” Caroline clarifies. “She was waiting to prank you in the bathroom.”

“And as for me… well, even before I found out—quite recently—that I enjoyed the fairer sex as well, it didn’t seem worth ruining your life over,” Caroline replies knowingly. “And to be clear, that’s what they’ll do if it ever comes out. Excommunication is… well, if not the least of my worries, then certainly the least of the physical ones.”

“They’ll tell you a story about what happened the night Orson had his heart attack, because you can’t have the black sheep painted in any other light, but if things had worked out just a little differently… well.” She pauses to take another sip of her bourbon. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation. And it won’t just be you they go after.”

GM: Savannah’s eyes narrow in seeming thought for several moments.

“Pretty convenient for you that fat bastard had an attack. Did you slip him something?”

GM: Savannah’s eyes narrow in seeming thought for several moments.

“Pretty convenient for you that fat bastard had an attack. Did you slip him something?”

Caroline: Caroline shakes her head. “Quite the opposite. Or did you really think his brute had the presence of mind to call the paramedics and perform CPR until he got there? I got lucky—and I guess so did he in some ways. For this I’m to be excommunicated—from Church and family. Cut off of all support and contact from the family forever more.” There’s more than a trace of bitterness in her voice as she recites her ‘sentence’ as though making a decree.

“Better than what they had planned when I arrived though, so maybe God has a sense of humor. If you ever wondered why Susan went along with the demand to join the covenant and meekly retire from public life, let me assure you that the other option they offered was far less merciful.”

Her eyes meet Savannah’s. “I wouldn’t count on betting so lucky as I did, Savannah, and they’re going to be positively out for blood and jumping at every shadow.”

“I didn’t do you any favors by getting outed. I’m sorry.” She tosses back more of the foul smelling, fouler tasting, bourbon.

GM: Her cousin sighs.

“First girl I opened up to pulled out of her school and was dead by the end of the year. I’ve learned to be careful.”

Caroline: Rather before you opened up, Caroline thinks, but she keeps that thought to herself and instead bites her lip before nodding. “That’s what he said. He wanted her found. Wanted ‘the degenerate’ found. Wanted her killed.” There’s a hardness in Caorline’s voice as she speaks, an edge sharp enough to cut through steel.

“I should have let him die,” she spits out. “But I don’t think we’d be having this drink if I did.”

GM: “Probably not,” Savannah agrees, then shrugs like it’s turned out to be an oil reserve not worth the cost of extraction. “Either way, he’s alive. Don’t think the family’s going to be out for blood so long as he’s in the hospital though, which should be a while. My mom and dad are probably uncorking champagne at that news, not to mention actually fucking talking to each other. Your dad’s busy in DC, your mom’s been a wreck ever since Westley, and this isn’t any of the others’ fight.”

She sips her drink. “If you want to get out of New Orleans, now’s the time. Don’t think there’s really anything here for you anymore.”

Caroline: The idea holds a certain appeal, in the same way she might have fantasized about going to school abroad, or about which celebrity she would have wanted to date. Wouldn’t it be fun to go to school in Paris? The thought has as much meaning now as it did then, and for the same reasons: she won’t be allowed to leave. Even if she wished to flee the city, flee the seneschal, and flee her oblivious sire, someone would either conspire to bring her back, or more likely destroy her. For better or for worse, her fate is tied to New Orleans for reasons she can’t express.

“Where would I go?” she asks lightly, ideally. “Some big and liberal city? New York? Let them run me out of New Orleans like a tramp in the night?” Caroline laughs and shakes her head. “No. There’s still.. well… Some things here. And even if there weren’t, I wouldn’t run.”

GM: “Can understand that,” Savannah grunts. She takes a sip of bourbon.

“Was planning on getting myself inseminated at some point, you know,” she remarks conversationally. “Family wouldn’t be happy over the whole ‘no husband’. But it’d bury the lesbian talk for good. Might do that sooner depending on what shape dear old uncle is in after he’s discharged. And how right you are about being out for blood.”

Caroline: Caroline looks grim at severity of her cousin’s plans. Better to be a single mother than to care for someone unacceptable. The twisted nature of the family on full display. “I imagine it might. Might be worth waiting to see how all of this plays out though. In a few years… well. Things can change as the old guard changes,” she agrees. “You and Emilia?” she asks.

GM: Savannah grunts. “Not in a hurry. Our generation’s of age though, like it or not. Gabriel’s the last one going to college. Our parents are waiting to be grandparents.”

Caroline: “I get the feeling Luke is going to kick it off here shortly.” Caroline agrees with a genuine smile. “Maybe it’ll give them all something else to focus on for a while. Or maybe not. After him it’s you—I think Charlotte has a few more years before it starts to become expected.”

She gives a laugh. “Have you always known? That you liked women?”

GM: “I tried to fool myself for a few years. Boys kept getting pissed when I wasn’t into kissing and pushed them away. Even sat down in front of some porn videos, bless me father for I have sinned,” Savannah traces a sarcastic cross in front of her face, “and tried to get off to those. I started to get a clue when I realized how much I was looking at the women.”

Caroline: A more genuine laugh follows. “That must have made for some awkward confessions.” She tries to picture the scene. “You’ve managed it well. Far better than I did. I won’t offer any condescending talk of ‘how confusing it must of all been’. I don’t think either of us have ever really been much for seeking sympathy or a shoulder to cry on—and it sounds as though it was a long time ago besides.”

GM: “It was.” Savannah sips her drink. “So who’d they catch you in bed with?”

Caroline: “No one you’d know. Artist type. Photographer. Moved here from California.” A smile slips across Caroline’s face unknowingly. “The whole thing moved so fast. Felt so easy.”

GM: “Another California liberal, huh? Seems you have a type.”

Caroline: “Decently,” Caroline replies with another drink.

GM: “You like men still, or turns out no?”

Caroline: “Equal opportunity,” Caroline quips. “That’s the stupid part about all of this. Could’ve been happy with someone more ‘acceptable’.” She shakes her head.

GM: “Spilled milk,” Savannah shrugs. “Enjoy your photographer. Live the life you want to lead and all that shit.”

Caroline: “Yeah.” Caroline looks out on the night, then back at her cousin. “I should have reached out earlier. I’m sorry.”

GM: Savannah shrugs again. “Regrets and two bucks will get you a cheap bag of pre-sliced cheddar.”

Caroline: “Shame they’re so worthless, since they come so easily,” Caroline remarks before finishing her drink and setting it down on the small glass table between their chairs.

“I don’t imagine we’ll have another chance to chat. At least not anytime soon.” She looks over at her stern, serious cousin. “Take care, Savannah.”

GM: Savannah finishes hers. “Take more care yourself. Give a shout if we do get that chance.”

She rises from her seat. “Wishes though have about the same market rate as regrets.”

________________________

Monday night, 28 December 2015

GM: Autumn earns enough credits to graduate from Tulane at the end of December. (She isn’t graduating in spring quarter because she took classes at an uneven rate while working for the Krewe.) Whether she is happier to have a journalism B.A. or to no longer be a viable food source for her mistress is difficult to say, but Caroline can smell at a whiff that the recent college graduate is no longer a suitable vessel.

She brings up again how it will be good for the Masquerade if she holds some kind of paying job, as well as Caroline’s earlier promise to find her a place at her law office. She reiterates how “that’s where the real game is played with the Masquerade, in law offices and boardrooms… elders are all basically committing a ton of white-collar crimes to keep their empires running. Cleaning up bodies and bloodstains feels kind of, like I said, crude next to that.”

Caroline: If Caroline is disappointed by the ghoul’s removal from her eligible ‘herd’ she says nothing of it, though perhaps her gaze hovers just a moment less on the ghoul in early evening meetings before she’s gone out to find her next victim, and her teeth are just a little less pointed in those same meetings. She congratulates Autumn on the achievement and even has a small ‘bonus’ waiting for her.

She’s true to her word with the firm. A Bachelor’s of Arts with no official job history of note is not exactly a sterling resume. Caroline could find a dozen recent college grads that would be thrilled simply to get some kind of internship (and several others that would be happy, though less thrilled to get an unpaid one). One of the benefits however of controlling the firm is less of a need to justify the hire, review a resume, or even have Autumn submit one. A position appears for a director of media relations. It’s a nicer term for ‘spin artist’, and that’s a job that Autumn is quite qualified for. Officially her duties involve helping frame narratives around cases that gain (or require) media attention and getting out in front of media reports and stories that might involve clients or points of interest to the firm. The office is not immediately luxurious or even particularly large, but it serves a purpose, and the requirement that she stay ‘on the button’ with and maintain ties to various media sources is a ready explanation for her somewhat irregular hours.

Among other things it legitimizes Autumn’s income and gives her access to the firm’s resources. Caroline is clear that it’s right at the edge right now of what she can justify. Were it not for Autumn the position would not exist, and Autumn does need to work to grow it into something of merit for the firm while also juggling her own duties to Caroline in the evenings. The Ventrue is open to the ghoul’s suggestions as to ways she can better do so, and it becomes apparent that she is, for now at least, content to give Autumn her head to discover the best way to do so. She mentions, however, that if Autumn does intend to step further into that arena that she’ll need to stretch beyond a B.A. She stops just shy of suggesting the ghoul should return to school. At least immediately.

GM: Autumn initially points out, half-seriously, that she does have a sterling resume. It’s just one that mortal employers can’t see.

Bishop vouches for Autumn at the firm. He says that while the other partners raised some eyebrows over creating a brand new paid position for a fresh college graduate, they seem willing to see how things work out after he recommended her. He lied about being friends with one of her professors.

Autumn is grateful for the position, especially the ‘bonus,’ and rapturously tells Caroline in the ‘post-coital’ glow that she will make the most of it. Her dad will be happy to hear she landed a salaried job this fast, too. She figures doing well on the next couple cases will be enough to quiet any doubts the firm’s other employees may have about her. She ‘agrees’ she should also focus on work and balancing the new job’s responsibilities with her ones towards Caroline before thinking about grad school.

---

Wednesday night, 30 December 2015, AM

Caroline: It’s after Christmas when the appointed meeting with Yi Huang rolls around. Caroline hasn’t made a habit of visiting sewers—in fact, she hasn’t visited them at all—but she agreed to meet with the misshapen Nosferatu on his terms. She takes his advice and trades heels for watertight boots, pairing them with burgundy athletic pants, a dark sports bra, and a plain black top.



She arrives at the appointed manhole cover at the appointed time. Not only does it present the opportunity to interact more with the principled Nosferatu, it’s also a ‘chance’ to see something of their underground empire. Not bad for a social call. Even if it is in a sewer and requires ‘practical shoes’.

GM: A rat leads Caroline a little ways in to the sewers. She’s soon soaked, fouled, and completely covered in shit. She looks as ugly as any Nosferatu.

Huang says he’s willing to talk there when Gerald Abellard shows up. The second Nosferatu taunts Caroline for probably not being tough/strong enough to survive a journey to the clan’s warrens. “Huang’s going easy on you,” he cackles. “Oh, and those pictures of your tits have gotten even more likes. Couple ghoul fapped to them. Got a video of that if you wanna see it.”

Huang neither condemns nor acknowledges the profane talk. He’s willing to talk with Caroline at either location, here or the warrens, and expresses interest in what manner of atonement she’s pursued for her various sins.

Caroline: Caroline tolerates the filth surprisingly well—no doubt aided by being dead. She tolerates the taunts from Gerald far less so, commenting clippedly on how difficult it must be to be one of the few Nosferatu so ugly on the inside as well.

GM: Huang seems ready to instantly turn against Caroline without an immediate and profuse apology to his clanmate for calling him ugly.

Caroline: Caroline wavers for a moment in her anger before offering a short but genuine apology for attacking his physical appearance. By no means does she seem ready to ignore Gerald’s taunts, but she seems to genuinely regret having gone to such a petty place.

GM: Gerald cackles that “down here you’re as ugly as me anyway.” She should look in a mirror. He lays off after getting in the last word, but repeats how it’d be “absolutely hilarious” to see a “spoiled princess like her” just try to make the descent all the way down.

Caroline: Caroline is happy to chat with Huang here—among other things deferring to his decision on the meeting place—though at the end of their conversation she mentions that in the future she’d rather they gave Gerald nothing to laugh about if they continue to meet.

She asks him about his views on atonement and his own attempts to find it. If he’s willing to share, she asks what his sins in life were. She mentions that the Sanctified dogma of hunting the evil has its appeal to her. She’s emphasizes that she’s committed to the Church Eternal and is grateful for her elders’ guidance. Still, hurting and killing people to make up for… hurting and killing sometimes leaves her feeling empty. To say nothing of how difficult it can be to target specifically those that fit the mold. Left unsaid is that more powerful and influential vampires who lead the Sanctified often suffer no such difficulty.

She’s mostly interested in just chatting, discussing rights and wrongs, and hearing another opinion on how to fulfill one’s Requiem.

The conversation passes pleasantly enough, but ultimately doesn’t soothe the canker in her soul. She supposes, upon reflection, that little else drives her besides her acceptance by her sire. Besides being worthy of him. Being more than just some other spiritually lost neonate on the street.

Right and wrong have always been a distant second to that.

---

Monday night, 2 January 2016, PM

GM: In January comes the bar exam, which Caroline may take to finally become a bar-certified lawyer. The exam location is in Kenner, which is within the New Orleans metro area. It is held from the hours of 7 AM to 5 PM over the course of three days.

Caroline: The heiress considers several approaches to the question of the bar, from extremely overt interference in the entire affair with Kindred supernatural powers to more nuanced options that rely on them not at all. There are several hurdles to be overcome in the process that affect both plans.

Among other things they include the need to put someone in a physical seat during the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of the bar’s administration, the need to insert her own answers, and the need for those answers to be convincing to graders that are of yet unidentified. Caroline knows that many practicing attorneys in Louisiana (especially older ones of good standing and repute) are called on to anonymously grade various exams, and that trying to identify which has hers would be a monumental undertaking. To say nothing of the more personal question she wrestles with: she doesn’t simply wish to cheat her way through the bar. There’s a matter of pride in passing on her own. The difference between being an attorney and ‘near-attorney’ is very much the difference between being a success and a failure.

Some problems have immediate solutions. Say what she might about Ferris’ men’s investigation, they threw a passable lookalike into her path. Passable to the unfamiliar eye, at least. She can put a body in the seat during the day, even if it isn’t her own.

That still leaves two questions: that of the exam itself, and how she will insert it into the others. Unlike many professional exams, the bar is not multiple choice. It’s a series of essays that are graded against a set ‘correct’ pattern answer created by the same author as the questions themselves. The exam is designed to require over twenty hours of outlining and writing to complete broken into a trio of seven-hour sessions. It also changes for every single test, semi-annually. It’s not something that one can readily ‘cheat’ in the same way that she knows a fair number of her fellow debutantes cheated on the SAT, MCAT, and similar tests.

Which isn’t to say that there aren’t plenty of ways that enterprising young would-be attorneys have tried to get an edge. The easiest is getting the test questions ahead of time. They’re tightly controlled, but ultimately they’re not nuclear launch codes, and several people have access to them. In a city as notoriously corrupt as New Orleans, it’s even considered sporting for certain people to get leaked early ideas of what the questions might be. Or at least the topics in question, if you know the right people: mostly judges.

More tech-savvy law grads have aggressively taken the opportunity presented by the ability to bring a ‘vetted’ laptop using special software to introduce all manner of ‘cheats’ for themselves, from references to samples of past test answers (supposedly destroyed but flourishing on the darkweb). That accommodation, presented mostly for the ease of reviewers who grew tired of reading hand-written exams some years ago, has been a boon for would-be cheaters.

Caroline intends on making use of both paths. She needs to see the exam question early to have a chance to work on them during the nights in advance, and she’ll use her new ghoul (and the opportunity presented by the laptops) to insert her answers without extra duplicity or need to compromise the entire testing process by ‘injecting’ her tests into the bank.

She’s aggressive in her courting of those that might have those ‘early looks’ at the exam, leaning heavily on enthrallment where personal charm fails to make new friends and pry potential truths from others. Some connections she already has—former teachers, business associates, family connections. Others lead from one to another, a chain of hunting for literal answers at legal events (often and so helpfully hosted at night due to the schedules of the judges).

She simultaneously hires on a programmer to create a break into the bar exam’s testing software. Perception Questionmark is a solid program that essentially locks out the computer with everything other than the testing software while in use. It’s not really designed however to be tested. Most companies that use it (including the armed forces) do so on their own computers which have their own firm administrator controls built into every computer on a given network—often in relation to a single server. When exposed to administrator controls on a private laptop, it’s almost trivially easy to build in a backdoor to do something as simple as allow copy and paste from a root directory… and if one happens to have been built specifically to hide answers in a null format… well. That’s too bad. Honestly, Caroline doubts someone cheating a pre-written answer into the bar in that particular way is a concern that most are actively concerned about: if you know the questions ahead of time, why risk the headache when you can simply tailor your studies? Who would both need to and be able to cheat in pre-written answers like that? Who indeed?

It’s perhaps especially true because the actual ‘right’ answers (i.e. the model answers graders are required to score to) are typically not provided until after the exams have been proctored, and even then only to the graders. It’s ostensibly a form of protection against them being compromised. Caroline knows that there’s some truth to the two jokes told about them: first, that given the scale of the work, the ‘answers’ often aren’t ready at the same time as the test. Second, given there is no review available applicants of grades, and given who ends up doing most of the grading, graders don’t look at the ‘real’ answers half the time anyway. In short, anyone trying to cheat the bar in that way would have to be able to answer the questions anyway. Research might help with some, but they’d be on an abbreviated time anyway to do so.

Caroline’s own time is certainly ‘abbreviated’ when it comes to working on her own answers, even once she gets the questions. Unlike kine, she can’t exactly spend all day and night researching and cramming ahead of the bar. Even when the gets the answers she doesn’t have, in truth, much more time than the average person taking it. The nights leading up to it are the weekend—Elysium nights she can ill afford to spend buried in books and writing papers.

GM: Caroline retrieves her copy of the exam’s questions from Richard Boner, an associate judge for the Criminal District Court of Orleans Parish, the same court on which her cousin Carson serves as chief justice. The Ventrue remains inconvenienced by that court’s location inside Mid-City: Anarch territory. She settles for tracking down each judge’s home address and waiting until they venture to a more readily accessible location. Most people of means have business in the CBD at some point, and it’s then that she makes her move, invading the elderly man’s mind as she has so many others. Her own intimate knowledge of the legal field’s workings significantly lubricates the process: perhaps another Ventrue who desired the bar exam’s questions could simply obtain what they wanted through brute force, ordering the criminal judge to fork them over like a mindless drone, but Caroline leaves him thinking he turned them over of his own violation for entirely understandable reasons.

Widney takes care of the details in hiring Trevor Nguyen, a Vietnamese-American computer science student at Tulane and gray hat who has no apparent reservations over helping someone cheat on the bar exam in return for a respectable cash payment. If Caroline inquires as to details, Widney mentions that he actually some apparent ethical objections, but these took a back seat to his desire to quickly pay off student loans. He cracks the program and has it working to the Ventrue’s specifications in short enough order.

Gerald Bishop, who’s obviously taken the bar some years earlier, remarks that Caroline is the first Kindred he’s seen to acquire a law degree after her Embrace. He applauds her for still wanting to pass the exam under her own merits, and even recommends that she answer its questions in an unfamiliar setting and under a time limit over the course of three nights, if she wants to recreate as ‘authentic’ an exam-taking experience as possible.

Caroline feels very good about how she does on the Code I, II, and III essay questions for the first ‘day’. The next ’day’s’ Code of Civil Procedure, Torts, and Business Entities doesn’t feel like she’s knocked it completely out of the park (which she’s adamant she absolutely did yesternight), but for someone who’s had relatively little opportunity to study next to many other would-be attorneys, she feels pretty good. The last ‘day’ brings Constitutional Law; Criminal Law, Criminal Procedure, and Evidence; and Federal Jurisdiction and Procedure. Caroline feels like the exam is starting to wear on her. She has so many other worries and concerns and literally life or death deadlines the bar is ultimately irrelevant to. Still, she reflects as she shuts down her laptop for the third and final night, her efforts are something to be proud of. Many of her kind’s elders, for all their knowledge and power, would likely fail the bar outright. She can do something they can’t.

Audrey reports no problems sitting in for Caroline and substituting the Ventrue’s answers for her own.

Once the exam is taken, there is nothing to do but wait, at least for most would-be attorneys. Exam results are mailed out after two months. Names of passed applicants are posted on the doors of the Louisiana Supreme Court. Caroline can’t make that happen any faster—but she can revisit Judge Boner and ‘ask’ that her cousin’s work associate grade her exam first.

Several nights later, she holds that graded exam in ‘hand’. Her weighted score is 900.

It will be several months before her name graces the front doors of Louisiana’s highest court. It will be several months before she can tell her mortal family what she now is. But she knows.

Caroline Malveaux, attorney at law.

Caroline: The sight of the graded exam fills Caroline with a whirlwind of emotions. First pride, in having not only passed, but done so in such a glorious fashion despite so many items of importance competing for her attention and robbing her of the study time she always imagined she have. A third of test takers fail outright. To crush the exam so thoroughly is a reaffirmation of the self-exceptionalism she’s long believed, but so often had cause to doubt over the last year. She didn’t even have to ‘cheat’, beyond as needed to get the exam in the first place.

That glowing pride rapidly gives way to outright joy and excitement. Another dragon slain, a great accomplishment that she can’t wait to celebrate. She laughs and smiles like she’s alive, jumps up and down for a moment, and has her phone in her hand to text someone—anyone and everyone—when the next emotion hits like a bucket of cold water: emptiness. She looks down at the glowing screen as her smile fades and her laughter dies.

She can’t call her family—for many reasons—to tell them about it. Not even her mother is likely to appreciate it. She’ll comment on how Caroline’s a monster for having pried the grade out earlier and turn up her nose in conviction that Caroline cheated. Of her Kindred ‘friends’ and associates, she doubts many, if any, will understand what it means to her, or even why she bothered. She’s going to die relatively soon, isn’t she? Why should she care if she can pass some stupid test? Why go through the trouble? It’s not as though the piece of paper attached to a dead woman’s name is going to impress them. And that assumes any even believe that she passed it straight up, actually taking the test instead of simply cheating her way into it.

That leaves her ghouls—some of which will understand: Bishop for his experience with the exam and Kindred society, Ericson for the first but not the last. Others, no doubt, the collar will pull into joy on her behalf, but she knows it’s empty. It’s like celebrating at home with your pet dog and a bottle of boxed wine. Bragging and celebrating with them is a hair past pathetic.

Which leaves her pride. Always pride, in herself. In her accomplishments that no one will ever really appreciate, even if they know and believe. She looks down again at the weighted score: 900 / 900. Her success, entirely on her own merits. One she knows about, even if no one else does.

The score still makes her smile.

Maybe that’s enough.

---

Sunday night, 3 January 2016, PM

GM: Father Malveaux is formally consecrated as Bishop Malveaux in a glorious ceremony attended by the whole of the city. Donovan is given a special place of honor as the one to cut the sacrificial victims’ throats. The newly-elevated bishop exalts the sheriff’s piety and labors on behalf of the Church Eternal in his sermon. It is plain to all who Malveaux supports as Vidal’s heir—and that such support carries no small weight.

Donovan appears at the Board’s next Tuesday meeting. Father Malveaux sets an ornate silver pin recognizing vital friendship with the Ventrue clan upon his breast.

The hounds, especially Camilla Doriocourt, are increasingly seen by the bishop’s side in the coming weeks. Some take to calling them “the bishop’s guard.”

The other priests increasingly fall within their newly-elevated no-longer-peer’s orbit. Father Polk reaps the benefits of his loyalty as he and his long-time mentor receive enlarged hunting grounds and domain within the Garden and Central Business Districts. Sermons at Midnight Mass are conducted by the bishop now, with the other priests in supporting roles. Bishop Malveaux performs every transubstantiation and ritual feeding of Longinus’ vitae to congregants.

Firmer policies are set down aimed at weeding out the “spiritually indolent” within the church. Congregants whose confessions their priests seem lacking and “empty of faithful works” are prohibited from receiving communion at the next Midnight Mass, their shame made obvious to all. Caroline herself is prohibited from taking communion on more than one occasion. Some faces are more absent than others, but most seem eager to demonstrate loyalty to the new bishop. Donovan expresses his approval of the bishop’s new methods, declaring that the Sanctified shall be sharpened into a blade that might “strike down all enemies of our faith.” Rumor abounds the two have reached an accord for Bishop Malveaux to serve as Seneschal Malveaux under a Prince Donovan.

---

Monday night, 4 January 2016, PM

GM: Becky Lynne receives Caroline at her sire’s Garden District haven. She listens patiently to the younger Ventrue’s story of the aid she has rendered in ensuring Sarah’s online comments over the Amelie were kept from the public domain. She pulls up her Solaris and taps into it for several minutes (“You’ll pardon my bein’ rude here”) before telling Caroline to consider one of the boons she owes her sire repaid. She then proceeds to discuss the circumstances under which the other Ventrue will sever ties with Sarah.

Caroline: Caroline readily excuses the delay, and thanks Becky Lynne for the repaid boon—it wasn’t something she’d have thought to bring to her attention normally: preserving another’s domain seems like it should be minimally troublesome efforts on behalf of another Venture. As to splitting with Sarah, she sees several options she night pursue towards that end, each with its advantages and disadvantages.

First, she might simply ghost Sarah, continue to avoid her, and work behind Sarah’s back with those trying to keep them in contact to keep her away until the teen leaves for college. The disadvantage is that it’s slow, it isn’t the hard break.

Second, she can be direct with Sarah. She can tell her off in rude and no uncertain terms: she has better things to do than spend her time on a brain damaged teenager, or in some similarly rude way. She might even ‘come onto’ heras a means of pushing her away and alienating her.

Third, she—or they—can manufacture external pressures on Sarah to force her away from Caroline. This isn’t difficult: the disowned Malveaux scion is in disgrace with her family. Much of her social standing has been significantly diminished. Association with Caroline (especially publicly) is ill-advised. This would be particularly effective if Sarah’s family also worked to push the narrative.

All three have advantages and disadvantages, both for Sarah and for Caroline. The harder Caroline’s alienation the more disruption to Caroline’s own plans (Sarah’s boyfriend’s family is significantly influential and owns the Giani Building, and Sarah may be making an enemy for ‘life’ of both) and to Sarah’s own life (she’s likely to face ostracization, repercussions, or retaliation if she becomes beligernate towards Caroline from others, while Caroline’s own belligerence could lead her down negative responses from the girl).

So, how aggressively does Gerousiastis Matheson wish for her to break with Sarah? Caroline will carry any costs on her own end—the cost of doing business—but she’d not damage Sarah’s standing as part of the elder’s domain without his direction.

GM: Becky Lynne replies that “unpleasantness” and sexual harassment—the former logically following the latter when Sarah turns down Caroline’s advances—is the ideal course of action for her younger clanmate to pursue. “The latter in particular is a very good idea of yours, Eiren Malveaux. It pairs with the existing narrative like beans with rice.” Becky Lynne and her sire “will take care of” further external pressures on Sarah to end their association. “You won’t need to fret about your haven. This shouldn’t take more than a few nights.”

“A good, clean break is best in all things, Eiren,” the shorter blonde finally nods. “You set the wound and move on. Leavin’ things messy just invites more messes down the line.”

Caroline: “As you wish, Questor,” Caroline agrees. “Let’s hope she doesn’t make things awkward by not declining.”

Caroline allows the thread with Sarah to play out, lessening her resistance to the younger girl’s attention with another meeting with the twins in which she lets her eyes linger just a bit too long on her, lets her hands linger just a moment too long on Sarah’s own when she corrects something, and in which she continues to insist, especially in the brief moments in which they’re physically closer, that being closer to Caroline is no good for Sarah.

It’s in the second follow up in a more relaxed environment in which Caroline sets her barb. The gathering is small, intimate. Caroline, the twins, Sarah, and a few others at the Devillers’ house—organized by the twins with Caroline ‘dropping by’ at the twins invitation—notionally killing two birds with one stone by coordinating with Cecilia at the same time for the wedding. Drinks are flowing, though none of the high society girls are there specifically to get drunk in the way that many of their male counterparts might. Still, it helps, that slight social lubrication, for Caroline’s purposes.

She continues her press on Sarah, hands that maintain contact a little too long when passing a drink. All the ways a man has ever made her uncomfortable, thinking he was ‘pursuing’ her when really he was hunting her. And the last, when Sarah sneaks off to the bathroom after her latest glass of wine. Excusing herself to follow. Catching Sarah alone in the vast house.

GM: Sarah doesn’t take long to pick up. To her credit, she doesn’t get flustered, only stops asking for drinks. When she sees Caroline by the bathroom, she actually looks relieved. “Caroline, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk in private.”

“You’re an amazing person. You saved my life, and probably my granddaddy’s too. I’ll never forget that. I’ll always, always be grateful to you. Any boy would be beyond lucky to have you. Or girl.”

“So it’s not you, Caroline, not at all… I’m just not into girls. You’re a wonderful, an amazing, person. And I’m sure you’re scared what your family would think, what they’d say, if they knew. Maybe I can help?”

Caroline: Caroline’s face goes through a range of emotions, but seems to settle on haughty annoyance. “How do you know?” she asks pushily, standing too close to Sarah. “I didn’t until I tried it.”

GM: “Maybe, but I have a boyfriend. I don’t want to hurt him,” Sarah offers placatingly.

Caroline: “Would he have to know?” she asks, one hand pushing a stray hair out of Sarah’s face, behind her ear.

GM: Sarah’s posture tenses at the contact. “I don’t want to hurt him, Caroline,” she repeats. “Please.”

Caroline: “What he doesn’t know wouldn’t hurt him,” Caroline repeats. “Aren’t you at least a little curious?”

GM: “It would hurt me,” Sarah insists. “Come on, let’s get back to the others. Yvette always has such funny videos.”

Caroline: Caroline doesn’t let up, “I wouldn’t hurt you.” The younger girl can feel Caroline’s false breath on her skin.

GM: “I’m sure you wouldn’t. But I’d hurt me. I’m sorry, Caroline. Come on, they’re missing us.” Sarah starts making her way back to the living room.

Caroline: Caroline’s arm bars the way, planted against the opposite wall. “After all of this, after I tried to push you away that’s what you want?” There’s suddenly venom in her voice.

GM: “I’m sorry, Caroline. I always wanted us to stay friends. I still do.” Sarah’s is quiet. She rests her hand on Caroline’s arm she gently tries to guide it away.

Caroline: Caroline’s arm is like iron. “I tried to make this easier,” she spits. “Tried to make it a clean break.” Her eyes burn with anger. “You were the one that came back to me.”

GM: “You’re starting to scare me. I just want to be friends.” Sarah’s tone isn’t getting softer, though, but firmer.

Caroline: “I don’t,” Caroline snarls. “But that doesn’t matter to you right? It’s about what you want.” She shakes her head, then catquick leans in, one hand catching the smaller girl’s head even as she closes the distance, her mouth closing over Sarah’s savagely, her tongue snaking out. She breaks away after a moment. “So you know what you missed. Keep away from me, you little snake.” She draws her way blocking arm back.

GM: “Gf-off-!” Caroline feels Sarah pushing against her as their lips meet, but it’s over with too fast for her struggles to grow too animated. Sarah’s chest heaves as she looks Caroline up and down. Color is rising to her cheeks.

“What… what happened to you?” she whispers.

Caroline: “This is who I’ve always been,” Caroline replies, licking her lips then wiping clean her smudged lipstick. “You’re the one who changed. Or maybe just woke up? Welcome to the real world, Sarah.”

GM: Her jaw sets. “I don’t believe that. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Caroline: Caroline laughs bitterly. “You failed.”

GM: She doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Are you lonely? How long have you been hiding this?”

Caroline: The laugh turns condescending. “I don’t need saving. Certainly not by someone who can’t save herself. And you had your chance besides. You don’t get to have second thoughts now.” Her hand comes up again, and pushes that pesky stray hair back. “You’re beautiful, Sarah, but I don’t need a tease, and I don’t want a friend.”

GM: Sarah reflexively steps back this time when Caroline reaches out to touch her. She pauses for a moment, then says, “I think you could. I’m not giving up on you, Caroline. I’ll see you same time next week with the twins.” She turns to head back to the others.

Caroline: “Is that so?” Caroline grins savagely, still in the other girl’s field of view, and reach’s up smear her lipstick and ruffle her hair again. “We’ll let’s go then.”

GM: Sarah looks at her, but then goes. The sound of peoples’ chatter is audible from the living room.

Caroline: Caroline follows the flushed girl with similarly smeared makeup with a grin back to the others.

GM: Sarah stops for a moment to fix her face in a hand mirror. She moves to chat up Yvonne and Yvette. Caroline gets curious looks.

Caroline: Caroline casts suggestive glances to Sarah at the curious looks, but departs before long.

GM: True to her word, a determined-looking Sarah shows up with Yvette and Yvonne for their next training session.

Caroline: Caroline is positively vicious towards her. She loudly belittles form, too forcefully corrects, and whenever the other girls aren’t looking takes the opportunity to grope her or brush up against her suggestively and whisper bitterness in her ear.

“Why are you here?”

“You like that, don’t you?”

“You keep coming back.”

GM: Sarah pushes and then swats away Caroline’s hands with a firm but quiet, “Stop that.”

Perhaps the twins notice. Perhaps they don’t. But they are clearly uncomfortable at Caroline’s viciousness towards their friend.

“‘Ey, let up, she’s lots better than me…” Yvonne protests.

Caroline: “Is she?” Caroline makes it a point to dismantle Sarah’s flaws in form. By the end of the night Caroline leans in close once more, whispering in her ear, “You’re wasting both of our time. Don’t come back.”

GM: The twins disagree that Sarah’s form is so terrible and are clearly uncomfortable at how the training session went. Sarah primly packs up her things at the end, though with perhaps more force than is strictly necessary.

“I’m coming back,” she glares. She keeps her voice a whisper. “But the next time you grope me, I’m not staying quiet. Stop that.”

She leaves with Yvonne, who tells her comforting things about how her form was really just fine. Yvette stays behind.

“What the ’ell were you being so mean to Sarah for?” she asks frankly.

Caroline: Caroline eyes the younger girl. “She can’t take a hint,” she admits after a long pause.

GM: “Over what? ‘Er form _wasn’t_ that bad, and you know it,” Yvette accuses.

Caroline: “That she should get away from me,” Caroline answers.

GM: “Why?” Yvette asks.

Caroline: “We had a falling out.”

GM: “Why?” she repeats.

Caroline: “It’s personal,” she responds, then sighs when it becomes clear that answer isn’t going to be sufficient for Yvette. “Does it matter? I told her to leave me alone and she keeps insisting on inserting herself.”

GM: “What the ’ell?” Yvette says. “Sarah’s nice, Caroline! You saved ’er life, she loves you!”

Caroline: “Does it matter?” Caroline asks. “I never said she was a bad person. I said I didn’t want her in my life.”

GM: “It does matter! We’re all friends and you want to, what, just shove ’er out?”

Caroline: “No,” Caroline replies bluntly. “You three are friends. You, your sisters, and I are friends. Sarah…” She frowns. “Sarah is something I can’t have, and that I’d rather not have waved in my face constantly.”

GM: “Why?” Yvette asks again, just as bluntly. “Why are you being so mean to ‘er? She loves you, she’d do anything to make you ’appy!”

Caroline: “No, she wouldn’t!” Caroline all but snarls. “Trust me when I say she won’t.”

GM: “Why?! Why are you so mad at ’er!” Yvette demands.

Caroline: “Because I can’t have her,” Caroline snaps.

GM: “Says ‘oo? ’Er family loves you too! Sarah’s grandpa ’ad ’is ’eart broken when ’is daughter died, ’e loves you for saving Sarah!”

Caroline: “Says her,” Caroline replies.

GM: “What are you talking about? Says Sarah? She’s trying to be nice!”

Caroline: “What she wants and what I want are not the same thing,” Caroline replies with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

GM: Yvette blinks.

That, at least, finally silences the teenager’s objection. A moment passes.

“Ah guess A’ll see you later,” she says roughly.

She closes the door with somewhat unnecessary force as she leaves.

Caroline: Caroline rubs her head after the last of her students leaves.

She’d thought, for a moment, Father Malveaux was alone in the unreasonableness of his demand.

---

Wednesday night, 6 January 2016, AM

Caroline: Caroline’s interest in Summer remains—and grows—as she reads through the girl’s journal. She castigates herself for letting the mage slip through her fingers—not following up on her ‘vampire’ and once more for letting someone take her out from under her.

She brings in a sketch artist to work with Green to get a description of the woman she saw, and begins quietly running the name ‘Dusk’ through ‘friendly’ Kindred channels. She does as promised to Angela and puts out Summer’s name and picture to her contacts and P.Is, with an emphasis on local groceries and bolt-holes: places she expects that she has to pop up eventually. She quietly offers an added reward for information leading to her location.

The Ventrue even devotes her own time to the matter. She’s known all-too much about such occult esoterica since her encounter with Abélia, but perhaps it’s enough to come up with possible countermeasures to Summer’s seeming ‘methods’ of hiding her tracks. Her own commitments unfortunately limit the time she can personally spend on the matter—no matter how interesting.

GM: Searching the name “Dusk” draws only blank looks from Wells, Tina, and Jocelyn. “Kind of a pretentious name though,” her lover remarks.

Ghouls to “Prince Guilbeau,” Questor Adler, and “Coco” inform Caroline that their domitors do not have time in their busy schedules to see her over a matter this trifling. They’re polite enough about it, next to McGinn’s ghoul, but the sentiment is the same.

Cecilia apologizes that she doesn’t know of any Kindred by that name. She advises against bringing the matter to her mother’s attention. “Maman could feel like you were taking her for granted, to ask about something this… well, in her eyes, small.”

The Hidden Clan, however, comes through where the others do not. Gus Elgin states that he can identify the face—in return for a boon owed. Sundown’s ghoul states that her master can also do the same, in return for a boon repaid.

Caroline: Caroline takes the many rejections in silence. Polite or not, it’s clear where things stand: she’s unimportant in the eyes of these Kindred.

She decides to hold off on cashing in the boon from Sundown for now. She’ll look into things on her own end first.

---

Monday evening, 11 January 2016

GM: Caroline’s landline gets a phone call from a reedy-voiced man who identifies himself as, “Lance Pertkin. I’m a P.I. Private eye. That’s what that means, if you didn’t know. You might not have. Some people don’t know and get it mixed up. Stupid of them. Maybe they’re not always stupid, but they are stupid there.”

He says he’s the former boyfriend of Jessica White, who was “killed, murdered by some voodoo freaks, fucks, a few months ago, if you didn’t hear. Didn’t know. She’s dead. Those fucks.”

He was going through some old things of his girlfriend’s, he continues, when he found an item on a to-do list that mentioned a Caroline, a medical examiner’s report, and “a few other details. Sketchy details. Not many details. I’m not a P.I. for nothing, but I wouldn’t have taken that as a case. Probably. Not, that is, probably not. They weren’t good details. They were very bad details.”

‘Bad’ details or not, Pertkin put together who the Caroline referenced by his former girlfriend was, as well as the report she was looking for. He dug up the details there.

“Girl with her eyes gouged out during Southern Decadence. Most of them, that’s not technically accurate. The optic nerve was still in, partly in, a Dr. Leah Crawford, the surgeon at Tulane, had to remove what was left to prevent infection. They weren’t gouged out either. They were cut out. Very unpleasant. Very upsetting for the family. Very upsetting for her.”

“Jessica wrote ‘medical examiner’s report.’ Well, a few things, you can’t look at a medical examiner’s report. For minors. You need parental consent, from the deceased minor, that is, their parents, to look at the report. It’s private information. Inconvenient, but a good thing. For people like you and me. When we’re looking for details and we don’t know the parents, of the deceased minor. It’s private, so that’s good. For them, I mean. It respects their privacy. But it’s not insurmountable. We can get permission, by asking them, but we have to find them. That’s what you have a P.I. for. Finding them so it’s not private, but in a good way. I mean, by asking permission. It’s good to ask permission, of the parents. So it all happens with consent.”

“The girl in question is named Brenda Allen, female, I said she’s a girl, Caucasian, twelve years old. At the time of her mutilation, her loss of sight. She’s thirteen now. Statements and phraseology, some yours, some by Dr. Neil Flynn, a resident doctor, I interviewed him, he treated her and implied she was dead, but she isn’t. She’s alive. She lost her eyes, but she is alive. She’s thirteen years old and she lives in South Sioux City, Nebraska, with her parents. Obviously, so do most girls her age, boys as well, but she might live with them a while. After turning 18, that is. Depends how she adjusts. I expect a lot of mental problems. Compounding the physical ones, she’s obviously without sight, and that’s significant.”

“Now, I can’t give you a medical examiner’s report, like was on Jessica’s list, because there isn’t one. There is no report. The girl is alive, so there never was a medical examiner’s report. There’d only be one of those if she was dead. That’s good. Not good for her, obviously, but—better. Better blind than dead.”

Pertkin passes along the phone number where the Allen family may be reached. He also provides email addresses, social media handles, and a home address in South Sioux City.

“It’s what Jessica wanted. For you to have this. It was on her list of things to do. I can’t give you a medical examiner’s report, because there never was one, but this is the closest thing. This is what she wanted to do, for you. And now it’s done. It’s months late, I don’t know if it still matters to you, but the important thing is Jessica wanted to do it, and now it’s done. Call me if there’s anything more you want to do. I want it to be done right, the way she, Jessica, would have wanted it. I’m very skilled at what I do. So let’s, let’s make sure that it’s done right. Goodbye, thanks. Bye.”

The phone message ends with a click.

Caroline: The call out of the blue months later digs up ugly memories of Jessica’s head in a box, killed by Caroline’s abject ignorance and the sheriff’s cruelty. The feelings it conjures are no less ugly and cruel on their own. She was never physically sadistic in life.

She’d almost forgotten the request, the girl, and her first ‘attacker’ on the night of Southern Decadence. Things that had seemed so important months ago that now seem almost meaningless. Does she really care anymore, especially with the secrets the coin revealed to her about her Embrace? She goes back and forth on it, and eventually decides it’s a wound she can leave unopened with the girl—and one she’s not willing to risk sending her people to investigate outside the city. She returns Pertkin’s call and thanks him for his effort on her behalf—and to cross off those last items Jessica wasn’t able to get to before her murder. She spends a couple minutes talking, if he’s so inclined, fondly about the deceased police officer and ends the call.

She places the notes from the message—the girl and her family, the doctor, all the contact info—in a folder and buries it in amid so many of its kind. Perhaps another time.

---

Thursday evening, 21 January 2016

Caroline: Amid their other shopping, Caroline brings up ‘shopping’ for ‘something else’ they can both use. As much as she enjoys their bloody nights together, they both know the dangers of them—not the least of which is the bond. The Ventrue genuinely enjoys the increasingly less subtle tug towards her lover it creates, but if they’re going to keep going as they have they need to find other ways to express themselves.

Random victims of the night have some appeal, but lining up their tastes with a sinner and enjoying victim in a significant way with more than sips for each of them is similarly a difficult product. She brings up the idea of introducing a ghoul into the mix, made for that purpose. Someone attractive enough for their tastes, that they can keep going throughout the night with their vitae if they so desire. Someone that, not incidentally, might also help fill in some of the holes that come with having only a single anemic ghoul available to Jocelyn.

Obviously a great deal would depend on who exactly they decided on to fill that roll, and they wouldn’t be an every time thing. Just an option they could add.

GM: Jocelyn thinks the idea of ghoul “birth control,” as she terms it, is interesting. She doesn’t seem to mind the thought of bringing in a third partner to their bloody evenings. They’d even talked about it in passing earlier.

She’s more reticent at the thought of keeping that ghoul for herself, though, and brings up (again) how seemingly all she’s managed to do with her previous ones is get them killed. Her sire won’t even loan her any anymore, calling it a “bad investment.” Besides, Meg does all the basic stuff she needs a ghoul to do: it’s still been years since the Toreador did her own laundry, vacuumed her own floors, ran her own errands, and so on.

Still, it becomes a matter of logistics when the pair consider Caroline’s ghouls. The Ventrue already has many mouths to feed each month, and hunting has been growing more onerous to meet their demands. Jocelyn also admits that none of Caroline’s current ghouls “are really ones I’d want to bring into bed, sorry,” which leaves only the Toreador as a domitor for this new possible ghoul.

And maybe things will be different this time around. Meg has lasted a while. Jocelyn says she’s willing to try the idea out.

Caroline: Caroline laughs in a genuine mixture of amusement and mortification at Jocelyn’s apology about bringing any of her ghouls into bed. “Oh God, no.”

She briefly mentally runs through her roster and simply shakes her head, tongue out, and shudders to clear the image from her mind and the bad taste it brings from her mouth.

“They’re many things, but desirable in that particular isn’t exactly one of them, and even if they were, none of them are the right flavor.”

---

Wednesday evening, 27 January 2016

Caroline: As Mardi Gras approaches Caroline remains mindful of Tina Baker, her interest in Lucas Gates, the murderer’s predilection for visits to New Orleans, and the ties to Becky Lynne. It’s something of a long shot, but it’s one that for the moment has relatively small costs associated with it, especially given how difficult it is to track a Kindred with no interest in power games traveling across the country.

She directs her attempts at tracking to focusing on the disappearances or deaths of those that match the demographic profile for Gates’ preferred victims: young, attractive, white, educated women. The good news is that such disappearances and deaths tend to generate far more media coverage than, for instance, the death of random immigrants or criminals. The bad news is it’s a massive drag net. She sorts through that by trying to organize them by date reported and geographic location, then mapping them visually to a literal map by color to try and identify any patterns or or series to deaths that might indicate a pattern of movement: i.e., deaths in sequence along a path. If she finds that she expands her interest along it, looking for anything that could more definitively tie it to Gates. A witness account, a person of interest described, a blurred image in a surveillance tape. Something.

GM: Lucas Gates has changed a great deal since 2004 in some ways. In other ways, he hasn’t changed at all.

Gates’ stint on the FBI’s Most Wanted seems to have engendered greater caution in the violent-tempered Brujah. Caroline already established that Gates more or less fell off the map after his violent confrontation with Tina’s and Becky Lynne’s coterie in 2004, and resurfaced in 2012 around Miami.

There are no longer any dead women directly linked to him. Caroline’s efforts do, however, turn up a higher than typical spike of Miami women from Gates’ preferred demographic who went missing in 2012 and were never found. Autumn speculates that Tina’s sire “learned to clean up.” Missing persons obviously generate less heat than murders do.

“Still kind of a slow learner, though. I mean, we pinned down he was Embraced in ‘78. That’s 26 years to finally learn maybe you don’t want to go leaving bodies everywhere.”

Caroline’s dragnet does not turn up any bodies since she last looked into Gates. But there are multiple missing persons who match his preferred demographic in Shreveport, Louisiana, over the past few months. Kathleen Cohee, 24, Jennifer Graham, 22, and Olivia Largent, 23, are all still fervently sought by friends and loved ones. It’s an unfortunate fact that young, attractive, white, and college-educated women rarely live socially isolated lives.

There are any number of reasons those women might have disappeared, of course. Caroline well knows by now that Lucas Gates’ brand of monstrosity is hardly unique. What appears to link him to those three Shreveport women is the fact that a fourth woman, Lisa Conway, 25, was murdered by a one Mark Chappell, 24, around the same time as the three’s disappearances. Chappell’s mugshot depicts an obese and acne-ridden young man who news stories state was a self-professed “incel” and active on several of that community’s online boards. He shared some college classes with Conway, but she never filed any reports of stalking or harassing behavior. There are no accounts of him even speaking to her. His apartment, though, was full of printed-out pictures from Conway’s Facebook album that Chappell masturbated to (and onto). Several more photoshopped images show her face plastered onto a BDSM porn model being led around on a collar and leash. No one expected it, though, when he bought a $100 HP22 from a pawn shop, followed Conway to the Moonbucks where she spent her lunch breaks, and put four .22 rounds into her head as she was leaving with a salted caramel mocha. Chappell was apprehended by police shortly after fleeing the scene, still clad in the same blood- and coffee-spattered black sweatshirt. He currently awaits trial from the parish jail.

It’s Autumn who thinks to go on the /r/incels subreddit where Chappell was active and interview other posters about his change in behavior. Some consider him to have gone too far, while others consider a Chappell “a martyr” or simply take bleak satisfaction from his murderous actions. Efforts to contribute to his legal defense fund have raised a grand total of $128. What most interviewees agree on, though, was that Chappell “didn’t seem like he had the balls” to actually kill someone. He was bitter, introverted, misogynistic, lacking in social graces, and a host of other unpleasant personal qualities, but that was it. It’d be easy to dismiss Chappell as just another maladjusted young white male lashing out at the world for denying him his perceived due—if not for the fact that one reddit poster, who met Chappell while in Shreveport, also met a “houseguest” his fellow incel had over. The description matches what Caroline has on Lucas Gates to a T.

“He was ‘scary as shit,’” Autumn says the poster described. “‘Something about him was just, completely wrong. He looked like the kind of guy who would shoot up Virginia Tech, and not even care if they were Chads or Stacies or Beckies.’’”

---

Sunday evening, 31 January 2016

Caroline: As information on Gates comes in, Caroline reaches out to Tina Baker again with the news: she has a location on Lucas Gates, and the name he’s using. If she’s interested, they should meet.

GM: Tina accepts and does so the very next night. The brunette arrives in jeans, a blouse, and knee-high brown leather boots.

Caroline: Once again the heiress receives the Brujah on the roof of the Giani Building. The unseasonable highs of late December have been long forgotten in favor of chillier nights in January, and tonight is no exception. Caroline has moved inside the deckhouse tonight, rather than out on the deck, and the glass doors to the deck are tightly shut, keeping in the warmth of the room.

She’s had a small coffee table and two matching chairs moved near to those glass doors though, and the lights are dimmed when the elevator doors open for the Brujah (escorted by Fuller), and is tapping away on a tablet. It’s dim enough that on the clear night, even with the lights of the city, Caroline can still faintly make out the stars. She reaches for a small plastic remote when the Brujah enters and dials the lights back up to full brightness, even as she darkens the tablet and rises gracefully to her feet to greet her and invites her to take a seat with her.

She explains that she’s been keeping an eye out for anything that might tip her off as to the locations or habits of Gates, and finally caught a break. Her last information has him in Shreveport, about three hundred miles away, using the name Adam Keller. He’s not changed his previous pattern of behavior, and continues to murder young, attractive, and successful young women, though he’s gotten better at hiding the mess.

If asked why she continued to investigate him after their previous meeting, Caroline replies wryly, “A dangerous and murderous Kindred with an affinity for young women that enjoys visiting New Orleans and previously clashed with a number of other Kindred from that demographic within the city? Honestly, Ms. Baker, I’m not certain that I shouldn’t have paid you the boon for tipping me off to him in the first place.”

GM: Tina assumes the seat across from Caroline and listens raptly, if stonily, to the Ventrue’s findings. She remains mostly quiet until Caroline gets to Gates’ latest victims. She asks for details. All of the details. It’s hard to read Kindred faces, at times, which do not flush red with embarrassment or anger. Caroline can only read partially incongruent expressions—and of course the eyes.

It’s only after the detail of Conway’s salted caramel mocha hitting the floor as the four .22 rounds penetrated her skull that Tina’s eyes give way to all-too familiar passenger’s: the Beast’s. The Brujah literally roars as she shoots to her feet and hurls the glass coffee table aside like it’s nothing—and falls upon the bearer of the that grisly news.

Caroline: Caroline, in control rather than in a rage, throws the Brujah using her own momentum past her as the brunette’s teeth snap in front of her face. There’s a moment of shock as she realizes just how damn strong the other woman is, before she’s turned around and coming back at Caroline, seemingly unfazed by the hard landing on the tiled floor.

It’s nothing like her previous fights. Tina’s raw strength is something totally different, especially combined with the Beast’s animalistic fury. Caroline turns, twists out of the way of the Brujah’s next lunge and tries to grab her arm, to twist it into a lock, but loses control as her opponent all but throws her off. The Ventrue lands with unearthly grace, but finds herself with her back against the wall. Gritting her teeth she stares down Tina as the Brujah gathers for another feral leap at her, and the two collide violently: one all snarling fangs, power, and brutal violence with almost discordantly matching speed and grace, the other exclusively grace and technique. Caroline digs her elbow into the Brujah’s throat, her fist planted in the wall behind her, as Tina’s fangs snap inches from her face. Her other arm works wildly to keep too-strong hands from finding purchase… and then the ghouls are there, and the notionally fair fight becomes far less so.

Brian isn’t tall, but he’s nothing but muscle, as solid as a rock. Muscle only further enhanced by Caroline’s potent vitae in his veins. Curtis is tall, and no slouch himself… especially also on the blood. Both are far more than comfortable with the kind of brute force grappling the frenzing vampire attacks with. Against three fighters, and locked in her frenzy, Tina doesn’t have a chance. She rages like a lion and twists like a serpent, but the three take her down like a pack of hyenas, never letting her bring her strength to bear. In moments it’s over. Caroline holds a broken and blood splattered table leg slick with Tina’s vitae over the torpid Brujah while the two ghouls gasp for breath after the ferocious struggle. There’s blood everywhere. Splattered across the glass windows. Dripped across the tiled floor. And of course splashed across Caroline and both ghouls.

The heiress throws away her improvised club and wipes the splatter from her face, then, after a half-second of pause she licks it off her fingers with a savagely satisfied grin that takes a moment to fade. Not unlikely a cat cleaning their claws. After checking to make certain neither ghoul is badly hurt Caroline has them gather up Tina and bring her downstairs to the ‘guest’ apartment Caroline has set up. She directs Widney to get the mess upstairs cleaned up and has the two other ghouls go clean themselves up as well with thanks for their timey efforts.

In the apartment she quickly strips and showers, washing Tina’s blood off and throwing her own splattered clothing in a trash bag she seals tightly, before changing into a new set of clothes. She picks out three different outfits from the ‘guest closet’ that she thinks might suit the Brujah. Finally, she handcuffs the torpid Brujah (hands in front), on the off chance that she loses control again.

Only when she’s done does she open her wrist and allow vitae to flow into Tina’s mouth, quickly withdrawing her wrist when she starts to stir.

GM: Tina’s eyes bat open. A palette of emotions runs over her face, from confusion to fear to sudden alarm. She forcefully throws out her arms from one another, and Caroline can already see the too-taut steel links bending out of shape.

“What’s going on?!”

Caroline: Caroline holds her hands out in front of her. “Relax! You flipped out earlier. I just wanted to make sure if it happened again when you woke up that I’d have a fighting chance. Just calm down and I’ll take those off. I thought it would be better if you didn’t come to in a room splattered with blood.”

GM: Tina looks at Caroline searchingly for a moment, then simultaneously lowers and extends her hands.

Caroline: The heiress lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and digs the small metal key out of her pocket. She reaches out to undo the cuffs as she gestures with her other hand, “I laid out some clean clothing if you’d like to change. There’s a bathroom down the hall if you want to clean yourself up. I’m sure you feel like hell.”

GM: “Not the first time I’ve woken up something like this way,” the Brujah grants. She rubs her wrists, then her split lip, shattered nose, and black eye start to fade into nothing as dead flesh knits, though a too-familiar hunger starts to edge into her eyes.

There’s a faltering step up, then that grows obviously less painful too after another moment. Tina looks down at her torn and bloody shirt and jeans. A frown and also too-familiar look of slow-dawning fear appears on her still-bloood-streaked face.

“Did I… hurt anyone?”

Caroline: “Not seriously,” Caroline replies as she watches the Brujah knit herself back together. “Sorry about the face, there wasn’t really a better option at the time though. You’re way stronger than you look. Faster too.”

GM: “Guys tend not to like that either, even if you don’t have bulldyke muscles.”

She rubs her neck as she looks over Caroline, then looks down to the Ventrue’s feet.

“Huh. You lost your shoes. Heels’d be a bitch to fight in.”

Caroline: “I don’t know, it seems like a perfectly serviceable face to be honest,” Caroline replies deadpan to the Brujah’s first remark.

“They were a bitch to fight in,” Caroline corrects, “It took a minute to kick them off when you were trying to eat my face. I really wish you’d’ worn less practical shoes yourself.” The heiress is barefoot now. “Learned that lesson though. For now at least.”

GM: Tina, for her part, is wearing a brown (and now red-streaked) pair of knee-high boots.

“Yeah, I’m not a big heel fan for that reason,” she answers as she looks up. “They leave you too helpless. Strapless ones might be more up your alley, though. Only a second to kick those off.”

Something stirs in her eyes. “Though even a second can count, in some fights.”

Caroline: “Sounds like you’ve had a lot of experience with that type of thing,” Caroline hazards. “You were definitely anything but helpless upstairs.”

GM: “I did martial arts when I was alive. The world isn’t safe.” She looks down at her bloody clothes again. “It got even less safe after dying.”

Caroline: “Really?” Caroline asks, “In what way have you found? I mean, obviously there’s hunters and the like—including asshole sires, and the further you go out from the city there’s all kinds of weirdness, but at least now you have some idea what’s out there, and have some of the tools to fight it.”

GM: Tina soberly shakes her head. “There’s always more, always worse out there. At least when you’re alive, there are… limits, I guess. Anyone with an internet connection can look up Auschwitz, or child porn, or any other awful thing you can think of. And I know how awful the world can be, and how big the gulf between knowledge and experience is. I’ve been raped.” Her face sets for a moment at that admission, but she goes on, “But all of that is, on some level, a known thing. You know it’s out there, and can even prepare for it, even if you haven’t experienced it.”

“But on the other side of the curtain… you can’t. You have to find it all out firsthand. And all of the monsters and awful things are worse. And for every new one you see, and think ‘this is as bad as it gets’, there’s always more. Always worse. And you never know what it’s going to be, when it’s coming, or just how bad the very worst, the bottom of that Pandora’s box, really is. I don’t think I’d want to know, either.” She pauses. “No, I know I don’t want to know.”

Tina looks down at her bloody clothes again. “So… yeah. I’m stronger and faster than just about anyone still alive. I can get up from a beating that’d leave me in ICU for god knows how long. But next to how much worse the worst of our world gets, whatever that worst might even be… I really don’t think that we’ve come out ahead.”

Caroline: If they were alive Caroline might try to reach out and physical comfort the Brujah with the admissions, but it just feels… wrong for what they are. Instead she bites her lower lip. “It’s bad,” she agrees. “Before, well, all this,” she gestures to herself. “Rene took me down into this place called the Dungeon. I guess it’s the place for a lot of the more sadistic types from among our kind. I don’t remember a lot, but what I do I wish I didn’t sometimes. Things so awful there aren’t words for it in any of the six languages I learned growing up. I’m glad we don’t dream, because I know I’d have nightmares about it every night.”

“But that was always there. Every day and every night it was there, and I was just going about in blissful ignorance. It was always there. The only change is that I know it’s there. And maybe I’d rather not see it, rather not have the memory of what was done to me there, and of what I saw done, but when I’m laying there when the sun’s coming up with nothing but my thoughts, I can’t honestly say that I’d want to go back to before. To being completely helpless and ignorant to even my own helplessness.”

“I thought I was safe. Thought I was the daughter of privilege, and tough enough besides that nothing could really hurt me. Really, I was just the happiest most privileged cow in the slaughterhouse. There’s a lot I don’t forgive my sire for. But there’s worse things than knowing, I think. And I’m not even a badass Brujah martial artist that can snap handcuffs.”

GM: “Well, it’d take me a little while to completely snap them. Actually faster just to have you use the keys,” Tina answers with a faint smirk.

“I think there’s a lot to be said for knowing what’s out there. Up to a point, maybe, but forewarned is forearmed. It’s just that… after you’re on the other side, you have a front row seat to all of the world’s real awfulness. When you’re alive, it’s possible you might get led into the slaughterhouse, but there’s a lot of sheep. You have fairly decent odds that you might not be the one.”

“But there’s a lot fewer wolves than sheep. And we all see each other.”

Caroline: The heiress nods, not disagreeing, “True, but I’ve found that not all the other wolves are bad.”

GM: “Not all, but a lot more than there are bad sheep.”

Caroline: “It is true, my social circle is way smaller than it was when I was still breathing.” Caroline admits with mock seriousness.

GM: “I guess it’s moot anyway. We’re wolves and… well, that’s what we now are.”

“But wolves can hunt in packs, at least. My old coterie was, is, there for each other in ways we wouldn’t have ever been as breathers.”

Caroline: The heiress arches an eyebrow, “Sounds like either I have the wrong kind of Kindred friends or you had the wrong kind of kine ones.”

GM: “Maybe both. You already heard me say my parents are assholes. But we were… well, I guess ‘memorable’ enough for the masked city to be talking about for a while. You ever hear of the Armstrong Five?”

Caroline: Caroline shakes her head, turning and sliding into a chair as their conversation continues, “I can’t say that I have.”

GM: Tina sits down on the living room’s sofa. She unzips her blood-stained boots and kicks them off. “I guess these are going in the trash.”

“There were five of us, anyway, like the name implies. Me, Lou Maddox, Jack McCandles, Ed Zuric, and Becky Lynne Adler. The prince didn’t want to spread around the details, but we all woke up in Louis Armstrong Park together the night after 2004’s Fat Tuesday. We didn’t have any idea who our sires were, or that we were even vampi…”

Tina’s face suddenly freezes as she looks at Caroline. “You collared me.”

Caroline: Caroline stares with rapt attention, and can’t quite keep the shock off her face at the reveal about Louis Armstrong Park, and their wakeup there, but shifts to a more guilty expression, “I’m sorry, I thought you realized when you woke-”

GM: “Of course I realized!” Tina interrupts. “I still shouldn’t have said that!”

Caroline: “Did you hear about where I woke up, after I was Embraced?” Caroline asks in turn, seriously.

GM: “No. Just that you’d been turned without permission and your sire was getting ashed.”

Caroline: “I woke up in Louis Armstrong Park, alone, with no idea what I was, or how I got there.”

GM: Tina stares at her. “You’re kidding.”

Caroline: The heiress shakes her head. “Not at all. I just about ripped this poor girl’s throat out when she stumbled across me.”

GM: Tina stares at her. Harder. “You’re fucking kidding me. We did too.”

Caroline: Caroline shakes her head. “She and her boyfriend were fooling around. I didn’t even think about it.” She stares at Tina like she’s seen a ghost.

GM: “You’re scrying me,” Tina answers disbelievingly. She pauses, then continues, asking as much as declaring, “you knew about us from somewhere.” Another pause and a shake of her head, “that’s too insane to be true!”

Caroline: “You can check the records. I carried her to the hospital after I realized what I’d done,” Caroline replies quietly. “I’d never heard of you as a group before. I’d assumed that Becky Lynne had been Embraced in privilege, on account of her sire and all that, and that you two just ended up with shared interests.”

GM: “Pull them up. Those records,” Tina says, warily. “I can wait.”

Caroline: Caroline pulls out her phone and sends a text to Widney to bring down the file from upstairs. “That’s unbelievable,” she murmurs while they wait.

GM: “Yeah, it is,” Tina simply repeats.

Caroline: “It was on the last night of Southern Decadence,” she continues.

GM: “Okay. I guess that better explains you finding someone to feed on,” the Brujah says, though the all-too mutual alarm in her eyes doesn’t fully die.

Widney, meanwhile, texts back an affirmative response. After a brief yet agonizingly too-long wait, the ghoul enters the living room carrying the requested box.

Caroline: Caroline takes the box from her at the door and sends her back on her way. She sets the box between herself and Tina. “Have a look. I picked up the tab for her medical expenses afterwards.” She bites her lip. “I felt bad. Didn’t want to ruin her life. I thought I’d gone insane or something.”

GM: “Becky Lynne wanted to do that too,” Tina says as she pages through the files. Her pace slow a bit as her eyes grow distant with memory. “She was just a kid. Only turned 18 a few weeks ago.”

Caroline: “But you didn’t,” Caroline fills in.

GM: “No,” Tina says quietly. “We just called 911 on her cellphone, back when everyone wasn’t carrying one of those, and took off. She’d wanted to use it to call her mom and dad.”

Caroline: “How the hell did you all end up there together?” Caroline asks.

GM: “It’s a long story.”

Caroline: “Does it involve something called ‘the Auction’?”

GM: Tina gives her a blank look.

Caroline: “Something I’d heard that might have been related to my Embrace,” Caroline answers. “I’d heard that Becky Lynne’s sire was involved somehow.”

GM: She continues to page through the box’s files. “What’s the Auction?”

Caroline: “I wish I knew. It came up with regard to Mr. Matheson and another Kindred named Raymond. I never found out much about it.”

GM: Tina finally pulls out the records concerning Lauren Peterson. She reads them over.

“Well,” she finally says, “these look legit. I’ve seen my share of medical records.”

Caroline: “From when you were a breather?” Caroline asks curiously.

GM: “Yeah. I double majored, I know, useless, in sports medicine.”

Caroline: “I mean, I was a pre-med that went law. I can’t really talk,” Caroline replies. She gives a wan smile. “I suffered through Organic Chemistry for nothing.”

GM: “Maybe not. Learning is learning, but having a degree doesn’t really matter on our side of things.”

Caroline: “Do you believe me now?” she asks, gesturing to the records. “I couldn’t read your mind even if I wanted to.”

GM: Tina pauses. “I need to run this past the others. What to do… isn’t, shouldn’t, be just my call to make.”

Caroline: Caroline bites her lip, but nods. “That’s fair, especially with the collar partly on. It’s a lot to ask.”

GM: “Yeah,” the Brujah answers. “I shouldn’t have told you as much as I did, even if that might have been for the best.” She frowns thoughtfully. “How did your juice bring me around, anyway? You got turned practically yesterday.”

Caroline: “What do you mean?” Caroline asks, frowning.

GM: “That’s not how it works. Someone’s blood needs to be a lot stronger than yours to bring you out of a dirt nap. And you said there wasn’t a stake.” Wariness starts to return to Tina’s eyes.

Caroline: Caroline shakes her head. “Another mystery I’m chasing about my Embrace, and what exactly my sire was up to. Keep that one between us though and I’ll keep everything else about tonight the same though.”

GM: Tina frowns again, but replies, “All right, sure. But that’s pretty strange. You should find some lick more in the know to ask about it.”

Caroline: “Usually those licks more in the know want to know more than you want to give them—if they’re willing to give you anything to trust at all,” Caroline replies warily.

GM: “Well, there’s some who specialize more than others. The Dragons aren’t that powerful and would probably know more. Or a younger Tremere, if you’re desperate enough to trust a warlock.”

Caroline: Caroline laughs bitterly. “Some secrets can wait. Besides, I don’t even think I know a Dragon.”

GM: “Lidia Kendall’s supposed to be one. There’s not many in the masked city here, admittedly. It’s Houston that’s supposed to have a lot.”

Caroline: “Next road trip I guess, whenever that happens,” Caroline replies. “I’ve heard that kind of stuff is super dangerous. And I’m pretty sure if I go hang out with her though it’ll get me off the Sanctified’s Christmas Card list, for like…. forever,” she laughs.

GM: Tina looks mildly weirded out by the Ventrue’s ‘casual’ tone, but answers, “What they don’t know doesn’t hurt them. The other clubs at least don’t have any real stake in the prince’s feud.”

Caroline: “Other than that when it comes to an end, their slice of the pie is going to grow?” Caroline nudges.

GM: “Sure, though that goes for any of them. Nature abhors a vacuum.”

Caroline: “What about you?” she asks.

GM: “What about me?” Tina asks back.

Caroline: “Do you have any skin in the great battle of our time? And also the last hundred years?”

GM: She shrugs. “My club’s nominally friends with yours, but past that, why should anyone? It’s all just the same three elders bickering for power. The only other licks with skin are ones who figure they’ll come out ahead supporting the winner—or who’ve bled and want to get even.”

Caroline: Caroline nods. “I can see that. Maybe I’m just more accustomed to that type of thing because of the political family. There’s been an ‘us’ and a ‘them’ my entire life.”

GM: “You’re also at the bottom of the pecking order here, unlike there. I’d think about how much skin you really have in that game.”

Caroline: “It also wasn’t exactly an offer at the time,” Caroline clarifies. “I think the prince wanted some kind of positive news since he knew he was going to execute a dozen and one Kindred. So here I am.”

GM: “Why did you wake up in Louis Armstrong?” Tina asks.

Caroline: “And other questions I never got to ask,” Caroline replies. “Maybe he knew about you all and thought it would be funny, or send some kind of message.”

GM: “I guess that’s not impossible, but it doesn’t seem likely. That was twelve years ago and he was new to town. The masked city forgot all about the five greenfangs abandoned together after Katrina.”

Caroline: Caroline shrugs. “I never thought anything of it—and no one ever saw fit to mention you all. Not even the seneschal when I was brought before him or Father Malveaux. I thought it was where he happened to dump me—or someone did.”

GM: “Saw fit to mention to you, maybe. Elders never tell the full truth.”

Caroline: If you only knew, Caroline thinks to herself.

---

Tuesday night, 9 February 2016, AM

GM: Mardi Gras approaches. Jocelyn tells Caroline how amazing it is. She has so many things she wants to do together. So many colorful licks show up. You can feed wherever you want. And the parties, and the costumes, and the…

None of it matters.

The night before Fat Tuesday, when Caroline is making her weekly report to Donovan, the sheriff casually picks up a stake. The next second, Caroline suddenly topples over backwards. The stake is rammed through her heart. Donovan impassively orders a ghoul to “store her with the others” and then goes back to reading a paper like she’s not even there.

The ghoul who answers is the same leering, dark-skinned man who slugged Caroline in the face months ago. He fondles the Ventrue’s breasts as he hauls her off to an empty room with several other staked Kindred, then unceremoniously dumps her on the floor.

Time passes. Caroline can’t say how long. All she can do is stare at a blank wall.

Finally, the ghoul approaches her, carries her staked body to the front entry hall, then removes the stake and expels her from the house without a word.

Caroline checks her phone.

It’s the night after Mardi Gras. There are anxious texts from Jocelyn about where she is.

Caroline: The experience is deeply traumatic for Caroline. The inexplicable assault. The powerlessness of it, both physically and socially. Again. Despite all that she’s achieved and learned, despite her victories against others, it all comes crashing down.

---

Monday night, 1 February 2016

GM: Caroline isn’t a stranger to the old Garden District house where Tina contacts Caroline to say they’ll meet Becky Lynne the next night. They meet in the same tastefully, if traditionally appointed sitting room where Matheson first struck her.

Caroline: And mind-raped her. And demanded she ‘give herself to him’. The room where she recorded it all, and that recording exploded her entire unlife, like a stick of dynamite shoved in a stuffed animal. She puts the negative thoughts out of her mind and leaves her ghouls behind in the two SUV’s that delivered her.

GM: Becky Lynne is there with Tina and better-disposed than she might have been, before Caroline’s assistance with Whitney Hancock’s business. She cites the “mighty odd peculiarities” in the circumstances of their Embraces, but is her usual pleasant self in letting Caroline approach the subject initially how she wills.

Caroline: Caroline is polite to her more senior (if even less so than she’d expected) Ventrue, more stiff and formal than she was around Tina alone. She agrees that it’s very bizarre to have had her dumped in the park just like they were. She’s had a million questions about her Embrace (don’t we all?), that she never got answered by René or anyone else, but until now that one was far lower on the list. She lets the Brujah or the other Ventrue come out and say it, but it’s plain she doesn’t think it’s a coincidence, and once it’s out in the open, suggests that barring something about the park she doesn’t know, that it means someone had a specific purpose in trying to emulate their own first awakening after their Embrace. Whether that purpose was political, social, or something else she can’t say.

She admits she still doesn’t know how she got to the park, despite her investigations into her Embrace, but is more than willing to share the events that followed it—maybe something else will stand out to them. She stops shy of asking them about the details of their own Embrace and awakening. It’s clear that she is very interested in their own Embrace, and all the associated details, but don’t want to bluntly ask the question and pry into their secrets.

GM: Tina and Becky Lynne are relatively open about some things, like the fact they don’t think it’s a coincidence where C was Embraced (or at least, left). They ask her at length about the events following her Embrace, but don’t seem able to draw many firm conclusions from those. The Kindred they’d really need to talk to is René, but that’s obviously off the table now.

Becky Lynne asks Caroline what she knows about her sire’s associations and relationships. She specifically brings up the Ordo Dracul and asks if René had any ties to them—or if he’s spent much time in either Houston or Charleston.

She finally thanks Caroline for her cooperation and volunteers that the full story behind the Armstrong Five’s Embraces is not a matter of public record, but it too was no accident, and they too did not remember the circumstances that led to their being in the park together—at first. They were able to regain those memories over time through a number of ways, the first of which was simply revisiting Louis Armstrong. She and/or other members of the Five could go there with Caroline to guide and assist her in this.

Tina, Caroline pegs, looks inclined to bring up her unusually powerful blood—and that she seems to think there is a strong potential link between that oddity and the circumstances of their Embraces.

Caroline: Caroline is willing to return if they think that might help. The thought hadn’t occurred to her, and she’d expected any forensic evidence (where she tends to focus) would be long washed away by the time the matter was of significant interest to her (and she had any time to worry about it). If she goes back, she’d rather do it with one or more of the Armstrongs, given where it is.

Caroline shares what little she knows about René. He traveled frequently, so it’s entirely possible he spent time in Houston and Charleston, but almost all of her info on him is second hand. That he took her to the Dungeon to torture her on the night of her Embrace.

GM: Becky Lynne answers that not all evidence is forensic—and other varieties may linger for much longer.

Both Kindred stop when they hear about the Dungeon. Becky Lynne asks if she remembers anything of that place.

Caroline: Caroline admits that she does remember parts of the Dungeon—far more than she’d ever wanted—though mostly what was being done to her than anything actionable.

GM: Becky Lynne thinks details might help if she can stomach sharing them.

Caroline: Caroline’s body language clearly says that she does not want to talk about it.

GM: Becky Lynne doesn’t push her, and in fact suggests they speak of other things.

Caroline: Regality and poise seem to melt away as Caroline reflects on those memories, and she’s silent for a long moment before finally insisting (unconvincingly) that it’s fine. She’s not some fragile kine that can’t talk about unpleasant things. Mostly she, she repeats, she remembers things done to her. Tortures that started recognizable and continued into things there aren’t words for. Rape of the body, mind and spirit. She remembers a voice. She remembers wanting to die. Her white dress turned red and dripping with blood. Her voice is hollow, almost lifeless as she recounts things, but she doesn’t speak for long. She looks down and finds her hand shaking, and finally agrees that perhaps it’s better that they move onto other things.

GM: Tina and Becky Lynne prove a sympathetic audience. Neither vampire touches her, but they offer what comfort they can. They say she was brave. Baker says she’s been sexually victimized, too.

Caroline: Caroline appreciates the sympathy, to an extent. It’s better treatment than she’s gotten from many Kindred.

But mostly, it was her own pride that got her talking. She didn’t want to seem like she couldn’t talk about it. Like she needed sympathy. Like she was fragile. She insists she’s fine, even though she’s not really close to it over literally getting tortured past death and suddenly remembering it later.

She tries to continue to lean on Tina to not share the matter of her blood without Becky catching on.

GM: Tina eventually shakes her head and says this is simply too consequential not to bring up. She relays the circumstances of her frenzy and Caroline’s blood reviving her. Becky Lynne is very interested to hear this, and remarks that “You were certainly correct there, Miss Baker. That is not how it normally works—at all.”

This is germane to them, however, for one key reason: the Ordo Dracul was involved in the circumstances of their Embraces. The two Kindred appear reluctant to go into further details at this point, but state that “many of the normal rules” stop applying where the Dragons are involved.

Becky Lynne takes out her phone and says she’s “sending a few things” to her brother and sire, who may be able to help them more. She and Tina both ask if Caroline knows anything more regarding the unusually potent efficacy of her blood. This could well be why she was Embraced (or simply left) where she was.

Caroline: Caroline is not thrilled when Tina spills the beans. She cites already having enough targets on her back as a sireless, and krewe-less neonate in the divided city. Her meaningful glance to Becky Lynne also no doubt alludes to her lack of particular affection within her clan as well, though she doesn’t say as much.

She’d rather not be a point of interest for some other unknown party. Plenty of neonates have disappeared of late as it is, and it’s not as though anyone would care if she vanished tomorrow. She admits to knowing very little about the Ordo Dracul, beyond that they don’t (to her knowledge) have a big presence in the city.

Caroline tries to dodge the broad question about her blood by weaving obfuscation with truths. She admits that various disciplines have come quite easily to her—at least so far as she can tell in comparison to her peers in the blood, but she hasn’t exactly had much basis for comparison. She repeats that she only spoke with her sire a single time, but that she doesn’t think he intended to Embrace her. He showed no affection for her in that meeting, and in fact threatened to destroy her.

GM: Becky Lynne corrects Caroline that is not how the Blood works—but seems at least to buy that Caroline doesn’t know how it works either, and inclined to further pursue the Ordo Dracul lead.

She says she’ll work out a time for the Armstrongs to all visit the park with Caroline.

Caroline: Caroline is a little peeved to have given up big pieces of her story and had Baker leak some details she’d wanted more private, for essentially a ‘catcha later’’. Still, she is too polite to show it, especially to Becky Lynne. She expresses gratitude over their willingness to help.

Caroline leaves Tina with a sealed dossier on the remaining information she has on the Brujah’s sire as her meeting with the two Invictus ends. “There’s a fair bit in there I’ll leave you to peruse at your leisure,” she tells the older vampire.

GM: Tina is grateful for the information and says she’ll “owe you one” for this.

Caroline: Caroline’s pleased enough by that resolution. Who knows what may come of the Armstrongs, but a boon is a boon.

---

Wednesday night, 10 February 2016, PM

GM: Autumn is able to track down Lauren Peterson relatively easily. She is no longer enrolled in Tulane University or a resident of New Orleans, having transferred to Furman University in Greenville, South Carolina. Autumn interviews her over the phone. She was upset by the attack and no longer felt safe in the city. She doesn’t remember much about the events leading up to it. She’d had a lot to drink and the whole thing happened a while ago—she takes a couple moments just to remember the name of the guy she was with. She does remember that it was a mistake to go off alone with him, though. She should’ve stayed together with her friends. She doesn’t know what got into her that she didn’t. Or maybe she shouldn’t have gone to Decadence, or New Orleans, at all. Autumn represented herself as a party to the anonymous benefactor who paid her bills, and Lauren was very grateful. When she asked why this was coming up now, Autumn said her boss had simply been “thinking about her” and “wanted to be sure she was all right.” Lauren was touched and said thanks again, thanks so much for everything, but didn’t inquire as to who her benefactor was.

“You want, I could fly out to Greenville and bring her back if we want to grill her deep, but I dunno what licks that city has,” Autumn says. “Doesn’t feel to me like there’s much of a Masquerade breach here though. It’s been half a year. I get the sense she’s moved on with her life.”

Caroline: Caroline demurs on bringing back Lauren. They can leave the girl be.

GM: The planned meeting with the Armstrongs has “hit a bit of a snag,” in the words of the plump-faced ghoul who Becky Lynne has sent to treat with Caroline before. The Baron’s heralds, unfortunately, have refused the Sanctified Ventrue permission to enter their master’s domain. It was always a 50/50 proposition that Caroline’s elder clanmate would be able to negotiate that. The ghoul doesn’t mention the possibility of trespassing within a regent’s territory after being refused permission: somehow, Caroline has a hard time seeing Becky Lynne doing something like that. The ghoul cheerfully tells the younger Ventrue not to give up hope, however, as her mistress “can be mighty persuasive” and will “do her best to work the Baron’s people” to see if she can make them come around.

---

Wednesday night, 10 February 2016, PM

Caroline: Following her meeting with Becky Lynne and Tina, Caroline coordinates with them to reconvene at Louis Armstrong Park to continue their investigation into the many parallels between her Embrace and their own. Before doing so, she has Autumn follow up with her first victim—inquiring subtly—or less so and then mesmerizing away her memories—about the events that led her and her paramour of the night to the park where she was injured. Her first approach is as a party to the anonymous benefactor that paid for her medical bills. She also takes the opportunity to doctor any memories as needed if Autumn discovers any lasting incongruent memories associated with Caroline’s attack on her that night. That ‘report’ is among others she brings with her to the meeting, along with several ghouls.

She relates what she knows of René’s side of the story—that he took her into the Dungeon to kill her—and believed that he had when he left her. She relates some of her own: that someone drugged her and her mortal companion the night of her Embrace, that she was attacked by thugs and ‘rescued’ by René. That she awoke within the park to find two victims wandering her way. How she nearly killed one, and left the other behind as she tried to save the first. She relates again that she does remember things about the Dungeon, but incomplete memories. Her investigations into that night showed a way into madness, and she broke the mind of the other she knew was there—the now-executed Emmett.

Until recently she knew nothing of the ‘Armstrong Five’, but thinks the ‘coincidences’ of their Embrace are too significant to be simple coincidence. Someone either intended to mirror the Armstrongs, or to send a message.

---

Thursday night, 11 February 2016, PM

GM: Caroline reads in her news feed that Emmett Delacroix was the first man executed by the state of Louisiana in several years. She knows all-too well the cause of that delay: a 1993 law makes it illegal for the state to execute inmates by any means other than lethal injection, and there was a years-running dispute with the supplies of the necessary drugs. So for quite a while, Louisiana physically lacked the means to execute its death row inmates, even ones who waived their appeals. Noelle Cherry, as Senate minority leader, managed to build a bipartisan initiative to abolish capital punishment on the grounds that it wasted taxpayer money to house inmates in the more expensive death row when they couldn’t be executed anyway.

No legislation came of it, obviously. The Senate judiciary committee and Caroline’s father, back when he was majority leader, spent over a year slogging through non-conclusive negotiations with assorted pharma companies before finally opening more promising-looking talks with Magadon Incorporated. After her father was elected to federal office, his successor as majority leader, Maxen Flores, pledged to continue his work. Flores then opened negotiations with Weide GmbH, a rival of Magadon’s, which led to even longer delays. The senator maintains that playing the two companies against each other let the state get a better deal when they finally awarded the contract to Magadon.

All those years of negotiations have finally paid off. Emmett Delacroix is the first man to die under the needle in four years. His last meal was a nutella crepe. His last words were, “I deserve to die. But I’m no judge of anything, so don’t take my word for it.”

Caroline: The news leaves Caroline feeling cold. Another death she’s responsible for, if indirectly, and one that plagues her conscience (or at least what’s left of it) more than most. She doesn’t remember everything of her time in the Dungeon, but she remembers now that he was there too. She remembers him losing his legs, remembers the monster eating them as he screamed. Remembers him watching her suffer, and watching him suffer in turn. Remembers the relief and following shame when they went to go cut on him for a time instead of her and she had to listen to his screams. They shared a moment together at what she can only imagine was the absolute worst point in their lives. A moment when she wasn’t Caroline Malveaux and he wasn’t Emmett Delacroix. A moment when they were both nothing but victims in ways that still tear at her sanity to think about.

Mostly she remembers his cries and screams when she invaded his mind, when she forced him to relive it again. When she became the torturer and he became her victim. The Emmett she remembers was objectively a bad person, but he wasn’t that terrible a one. He didn’t deserve what happened to him in the Dungeon, and he didn’t deserve to be forced to relive it in the horrific way she forced him to, when she was groping around in the dark for answers. It’s a bitter lesson in unintended, or at least unconsidered, consequences of single-minded pursuit one’s own desires, and she regrets it in hindsight. Caroline hopes that the broken man found some peace in death. She certainly hasn’t.

Caroline makes it a point to visit St. Patrick’s Cathedral despite her excommunication to include him in her prayers. It’s ann empty gesture in the face of an uncaring God that certainly has no time for the words of a monster like her, but one she finds the time for.

GM: Her cousin Adam is not. The serene stained-glass visage of Christ pulling St. Peter from the sea silently stares down at her.

It’s a peace she can but hope Emmett will also receive.

---

Sunday night, 14 February 2016, PM

GM: Donovan is ordained as a priest by Bishop Malveaux. Father Donovan will enjoy a number of privileges he previously did not as deacon, including receiving confession from the tenants of his domain. Rumor abounds that the bishop is tutoring the priest-sheriff in theban sorcery, further adding to his puissant reputation.

The Storyvilles are among those Sanctified who espouse their support for Vidal’s would-be successor. Jocelyn encourages Caroline to do the same. “He’s the only Sanctified ‘running’ and the frontrunner… I know you haven’t gotten along, but with the way things look… all I’m saying is, it could make things easier on you.”

Caroline: Only in the short term, Caroline bitterly thinks.

---

Tuesday evening, 16 February 2016

GM: It’s not too much later that Caroline receives another piece of news regarding an old acquaintance.

Yvette sends Caroline an enigmatic text about “getting even for my sisters and Sarah, Hannah too” with a link to her friends-only Instagram account. The page contains a video showing a starved and emaciated figure, with limbs as thin as sticks, chained to a hospital bed. There’s thick mittens over their hands, a black hood over their head, and a brown-stained diaper around their pelvis. They look male: the chest beneath their hospital gown is mostly flat. A feeding tube hooked to a nutrient bag snakes up underneath the figure’s hood.

The video plays at a choppy fast-forwarded speed: the room goes from light to dark and dark to light more times than Caroline can count. It slows down at multiple points, though, where the chained-up figure thrashes and screams. They are ghastly, horrified and strangely muffled sounds concurrent with their worst thrashings. Sometimes there are broken sobs, incoherent wails, furious screams, and insane garbling that doesn’t make any sense. Sometimes it sounds like the figure is crying. Sometimes they try to tear off their hood, but it’s a futile effort with their chained and mittened hands.

Nurses appear during some of the figure’s most violent episodes to inject their stick-thin arms with a sedative. Contrary to how such drugs are depicted on TV, it takes several minutes before the figure goes completely limp. Nurses pull off the figure’s hood when this happens, revealing a bulky, helmet-like contraption with a bite-preventing guard that goes over their mouth. Amelie Savard’s gaunt, haggard, and too-pale face is underneath when they take it off. Nurses inspect the young woman’s head for a few moments, then fit the helmet and hood back on. They also change her fouled diaper and inspect her body for bedsores around once a day. Sometimes they don’t bother and runny brown stool leaks over the sheets. The invariably different nurse who has to change them looks annoyed. Amelie’s hood and helmet come off less often, usually concurrent with sponge baths, and only after she has been sedated.

The video appears to play out over the course of several weeks. For 24 hours a day, Amelie is kept chained to her bed in a state of complete sensory deprivation and social isolation, and left to stew in her own excrement. Her struggles grow weaker as her screams and cries taper off into low moans. Nurses check her pulse, but seem satisfied by what vital signs they detect.

Yvette includes a single caption below the video:

Suffering :)

Caroline: The heiress is taken aback by the savagery of Amelie’s fate. She remembers a very different image of the mannish and stocky ‘girl’. The two visions are almost impossible to reconcile with each other. Both are disturbing in their own ways, but this one is far more so. Disgusting, even. This half-living creature is more ghoulish than any of her own ‘ghouls’. Caroline’s disgust is only amplified by Amelie’s too-human needs and the way they are so crudely on display. The feeding tube. The vile brown sludge she produces. It’s revolting, almost nauseating.

She chokes back her disgust. What does she care about Amelie? The girl irritated her during their brief meeting. Even if she weren’t simply kine, she’s kine that Caroline has no ties to, no affection for. There’s even some justice to what Yvette is doing. Isn’t Amelie a sinner? Isn’t this the very path that Caroline has been put upon as a member of the Sanctified? To punish the wicked? She’d never thought to do so in such a thoroughly wicked way, but what was it Abélia said, “my daughter Yvette would never hesitate to take up a weapon”? She almost wonders if there’s a lesson here for her.

There certainly is one for Yvette. Caroline doesn’t critique her decision to take her revenge on Amelie, but she does offer a critique on the decision to put it on social media, even a private account. Such things are never as private as they might appear to a teenage girl. Caroline suggests an alternative: a private server where these things could be hosted with true security. She could even have such a thing set up and maintained for Yvette.

GM: Yvette says that sounds like a great idea and she’d “definitely appreciate it.” She already got in trouble with her family over posting some other pictures of Amelie (“tamer ones, where I literally ’ad ’im licking mah boots,” she describes with a smirk) on a public blog, but she’s not sure where else she’s supposed to post her stuff. “Ah mean, gmail’s just owned bah another company, no? Ah want to ’ave somewhere I can share it.”

As long as her friends can watch Amelie suffer along with her, though, she’s happy.

---

Previous, by Narrative: Story Eleven, Celia III
Next, by Narrative: Story Eleven, Celia IV

Previous, by Character: Story Eleven, Caroline III
Next, by Character: Story Eleven, Adelais I, Caroline V, Isa I, Jon III, Rocco I

“Have you been a good girl this year, or are you on Santa’s naughty list?”
Nico Cimpreon

---

Saturday evening, 2 January, 2010

GM: One upshot to the kids moving back to their father’s, at least, is that Emily and Diana can move to a smaller two-bedroom apartment to save further on money. Both women are very, very sad that Celia doesn’t want to move in with them. Her one-woman loft salon is doing well, and she has big plans for Flawless, but she’s hardly rolling in cash right now. They try everything to convince her. Emily wants her best friend as a roommate. Diana wants to have her daughter close. She wants to cook Celia’s meals, do her laundry, and see her off to work. “Obviously not forever, sweetie! I completely understand you wantin’ to have your own place as an independent adult. Just… money is a lil’ tight, now that I can’t work, so why not do this until the settlement pays out and your business gets big?”

Mélissaire doesn’t need to tell Celia that living with two breathers is out of the question. It’s not even a question of Kindred society’s rules. There’s no apparent way to do it and still conceal the truth.

And money isn’t as tight for Celia as her family believes, either. Her material needs in her present state are few. Savoy seems happy to float her for whatever she needs until she “finds her feet.” Veronica and Pietro show her that it’s laughably easy to part kine from their money. Her mortal family doesn’t know the half of her actual finances.

In the end, Emily and Diana can’t force her to live with them. But they do appreciate how Celia “convinces” their old landlord to let them break lease early so they can move into the smaller place, seemingly as a peace offering.

Viv, meanwhile, proceeds ahead with the insurance settlement. She says it will be very helpful if the company doesn’t think the women will be inclined to buckle for an early payout. The longer this process looks like it will take, even out of court, the higher their attorneys’ fees will climb. “There’s a whole cost-benefit analysis their legal team will do. These people aren’t motivated by ego, just the bottom line.”

It’s not long before Lucy’s birth that the insurance company’s seven-figure settlement pays out. It’s like winning the lottery. Celia’s heavily pregnant mom nervously laughs that, “I don’t even know how to spend this much money!”

If she wants to, she can splurge on an expensive and spacious property. The neighborhoods where she wants to live don’t lack for high-end real estate. Celia’s mom thinks about buying or renting a big house and then buying a smaller condo once the older kids are moved out. But Emily raises that maybe the privileged Flores kids can stand to live in a little less comfort, and there are so many taxes associated with selling a house, while renting is just money down the drain. Why not just get something you’ll be comfortable in once the nest is empty, but has room for guests?

“Or a guy,” Emily brings up with Celia.

Celia: “Or a guy,” Celia agrees.

GM: So Mom agrees to that logic. She buys a house up front. It’s harder to sway her into buying something in the Quarter. She’s worried about crime reports and really, really wants to buy something in the Garden District, or at least the Lower Garden District. “It’s just so, so pretty there. It’d be in walking distance of work, school, and church for me and Lucy.”

Pete says the Garden District is Vidal’s personal territory. Horrible idea if Celia wants to regularly see her family. The Lower Garden District isn’t much better, with a swath of the prince’s territory still between them and Celia.

So she pushes. And eventually Mom folds on that too. Like everything. Quarter it is.

Celia: Celia doesn’t feel bad about it. She gets to see her family.

GM: She’s done much worse things to feel bad over.

Celia’s mom is budget-conscious with the settlement money: her ~40k salary at McGehee is livable but not luxurious. Maxen is paying child support for their first five kids.

So Diana buys a smaller house up front, with a decent chunk of the settlement money. Smaller, but she wants smaller, both for an emptier-nested future and “So there’ll be no mortgage. Own it full and in the clear.”

With that significant expense marked off, she budgets out another quarter-million remaining settlement money to the expenses of raising Lucy from diapers to 18, which Maxen is obviously not helping to pay for.

Another chunk of the settlement gets budgeted out for Lucy’s college fund. “I don’t ever want my baby to go into debt,” Celia’s mom declares resolutely. “Just never, not like I did.”

Another chunk gets budgeted out to buy Lucy her first car.

Celia: Celia swears to hire her mother a goddamned accountant. Or financial advisor. Or something.

She isn’t seriously sticking the money under a mattress?

GM: Celia’s mom clarifies that the money is going into savings accounts and a variety of low-risk investments. “So that my money will go to work for me.” She is simply establishing a budget plan for how to eventually spend it.

Celia: Oh. That’s all right.

But she should still tell her kids to actually work, or something.

GM: Emily agrees. She’s going to work at Celia’s business, after all, until she’s a doctor.

Speaking of Celia’s business, another chunk gets budgeted out for “my remaining lifetime’s worth of spa visits,” as her mom declares with a happy smile. Assuming weekly visits, plus monthly hair styling, comes out to 97k after tips (which Diana insists on paying despite Celia saying tips are optional for her momma). Habits add up, even with the substantial discount Diana will be getting to only pay product fees rather than full service fees.

“What if I just pay you an even $100,000 right now, sweetie? Would you find it more helpful to have that right now, when you’re getting things of the ground, or to have a customer you can count on for maybe 40 years?” her mom asks.

Celia: Celia takes the $100,000. She’s found someone to invest for her, after spending part of it on that new room she needs once she realizes her Kindred clients need their own space. She tells her mom it’s a “free service for life” kind of thing.

GM: The bulk of the spa’s funding, after all, has already been taken care of. Savoy provided that with a very large and interest-free loan. He laughs off the idea of anything like service for life. Mélissaire pays the full service fee and tips generously whenever she comes in. “All” Celia’s grandsire expects in return is that she will be “amenable” to any particular uses he has for the spa down the line.

The first use is when he asks her to administer slow-acting poison to a client who needs to die, slowly and without suspicion. That sort of thing.

Mélissaire recommends the place to all her girls.

Celia: She doesn’t have an issue with that. It’s administered without question. She doesn’t pry or ask needless questions; when Lord Savoy asks her to jump, she does so. Backwards and in heels, even.

GM: Unaware of such shadowy benefactors, Celia’s mom is delighted to feel like she’s an integral part of her daughter’s business getting off the ground.

What’s left of the settlement money, after being budgeted out or actually spent on the house, raising Lucy, Lucy’s college fund, Lucy’s car, Flawless’ start-up funds, and a 100k retirement fund for the almost-40-year-old Diana, comes out to around 150k left.

“I’m honestly not sure what to budget out the rest on, sweetie,” Celia’s mom says thoughtfully. “I’ve offered to pay for med school for Emily, but she just says she won’t be a freeloader—like she’s any such thing! Maybe a trust fund for Lucy, like you and your siblings had?”

Celia: “You could,” Celia tells her, “and if you go that route I’d recommend talking to someone who knows more about it than I do. But, if the worst were to happen, it would protect Lucy from being taken advantage of by creditors or probate court from her… aunts and uncles, or eventual cousins, who think it unfair that your ‘grandchild’ gets a payout when they do not.”

Celia doesn’t want to think about her mother dying, but there’s no doubt in her mind that, if she passes away, Maxen or her siblings would come sniffing after the money, house, retirement fund, everything.

The more she thinks about it, the better of an idea it becomes. She even offers to help her mother find someone to speak to about it and serve the role of trustee.

Someone who isn’t Paul.

GM: “What about Viv?” Celia’s mom asks. “She’s a lawyer, obviously, and why we have this money in the first place, so she’s certainly done right by us before.”

“What about your mom?” Emily suggests instead, once the conversation comes to include her. “She’s also a lawyer, obviously, and not the kind of lady who’s easily pushed around. And this might be a way of extending an olive branch, to show you trust her in that role.”

“Oh, that’s thoughtful, sweetie, but I really think Viv would be a better idea, unless Celia has somebody else in mind,” their mom says.

Celia: “Honestly, Mom, if the whole point of it is to keep Lucy safe, then we already know Grandmother would go up against Maxen. You can also make them co-trustees, or have Viv be a successor trustee in case something happens to Grandmother.”

GM: Diana’s lips draw into a thin line. “She can be a co-trustee, but you can ask her to do it.”

Celia: “I figured you’d want to protect the child that Maxen can’t get to,” Celia says with a shake of her head. “Can’t bully Judge Underwood.”

GM: “Hrm,” is all her mom replies.

“So much for that olive branch,” Emily says.

---

Wednesday evening, 6 January 2010

GM: Judge Underwood looks fairly nonplussed at the request to serve as Lucy’s co-trustee when Celia passes it along. They’re meeting at her house in the Lower Garden District rather than her courtroom office, this time.

“Your mother is a small and petty woman,” she declares as she serves Celia iced tea that she can’t drink.

Celia: “She is,” Celia had agreed, choking down the tea. “She made strides, and Maxen’s kidnapping put her right back to where the thinks she belongs. I’m hoping that, with time, she will find herself again.”

GM: “Your statement presupposes there is something further within herself to find.”

“For good or ill, adversity shows who we are.”

Celia: “She told me you pushed for my abortion, when I was just a clump of cells.” There is no judgment in her voice, no hurt or pain or sadness. Just cool, even facts. “That it was Maxen who fought to prevent that. I think, on some level, she has never gotten over that, so when he reduced her to nothing, to someone not worth fighting for, that is who she became.”

GM: Celia’s grandmother does not say anything for several moments.

“Your mother had been accepted into the Royal Ballet School,” she finally replies. “Children can wait. Dreams cannot.”

Celia’s mom hadn’t told her that. Just that she’d been accepted into “some schools” and wanted to dance in London or New York.

“I did not approve of your mother’s dream, but nevertheless found it preferable to her becoming an incubator out of high school. Unborn children cannot miss lives they have not experienced.”

Celia: “You had the right idea, then. I would have told her to do the same.”

GM: “I am grateful you have the maturity and perspective to recognize that fact. My advice for your mother to abort her pregnancy is not in any way an indictment against your personal worth. You were, as you say, a clump of cells, endowed with personhood in only the most philosophical of senses.”

“It is also not your fault that your mother chose to give up a promising career in her field. Your father enabled that decision, but it was, in the end, hers alone.”

Celia: “I cannot be blamed for choices that people made before I was born,” Celia agrees, remembering the words that Pete had said to her in the car that first night.

GM: “I also hope you have considered whether becoming a parent at 20 years of age is conductive to your own dreams and professional aspirations, or so very different a personal choice from your mother’s.”

Celia: “She spends more time with my mom than she does with me,” is all Celia says to that.

GM: Celia’s grandmother does not press the matter further. For good or ill, the child has been born.

“I will serve as a trustee for your daughter’s trust, in any case. I will also be 80 years old by the time Lucy is 18, assuming I am still alive then, so it would behoove you to find a second and younger co-trustee.”

Celia: “Mom wants to use Viv.”

GM: Celia’s grandmother has to ask who that is before indicating her approval of the choice. Vivan Carney is an attorney they have a preexisting relationship with and who’s done good work for them.

“I also would not mind seeing my great-granddaughter occasionally,” Payton dryly remarks as the pair conclude their business.

Celia: Celia does not need to feign her smile. She says she’ll be happy to bring the little one by.

“Your daughter is the one who keeps her schedule, though. Perhaps a reconciliation is in order.”

GM: “I have many objections to your mother’s personal decisions, but I have none to her company, especially when that goes hand in hand with your daughter’s.”

Celia: Celia relays the sentiments to her mother the next time they speak.

“I would like for Lucy to know her grandmother, since she does not have a father. Your mother also asked me to pass along that she misses her daughter.” She hadn’t said so in as many words, but the meaning was clear.

GM: Celia’s mother is nursing and cooing at Lucy, who’s now a chubby little baby with wispy blonde hair.

Her happy expression turns immediately taciturn.

“The only thing she misses about me is not being able to tell me off for ‘how foolish’ ballet is. She’s happier spending time with your aunt.”

Celia: “She told me you were accepted into the Royal Ballet School. She was proud of you.”

GM: Celia’s mother closes her eyes. “I wish she hadn’t told you that. You already blame yourself.”

Celia: Celia’s gaze hardens. “You will not keep this child from the only family she knows. Emily is without. You are all I have. Maxen will never put his hands on her. That leaves your mother. Stop being selfish.”

GM: At Celia’s look, her mom averts her gaze back to Lucy.

“She wouldn’t even attend my performances, you know,” she quietly says over the infant’s suckling. “Your dad and I invited her all the time. She always said she had ‘more important’ things to do, even though she’d have gotten to sit next to you and your brothers and sisters, and spend time with you there.”

“Even when I made principal dancer. Even when I was the Sugar Plum Fairy in the Christmas shows. She didn’t come to a single one.”

Celia: “She messed up. Are you going to hold that against her forever? Are you going to prevent your daughter from being in her life?”

Celia touches a hand to Lucy’s head. Her skin is so lifelike, now. So warm and vibrant. The infant doesn’t even recoil at her touch like Pete says babies normally do.

“She was born for a terrible reason. Maybe she can be what mends that broken fence, Mom. One day it will be too late to make amends.”

“You’re not a little girl anymore. You don’t need her approval. You never did. So don’t let what she thought of you be what keeps you going. Don’t hold onto resentment. It just eats away at you until there’s nothing left.”

GM: “It is too late for some things, sweetie. I won’t ever be the Sugar Plum Fairy again. It’s what I’d always, always wanted, ever since I was a little girl, and those moments on the stage, with the celesta playing, that just divine little sound, were some of the happiest of my life.” Her mom’s face is pained.

“I wanted her to be a part of that. That was me, that was who I was. And she just treated it all with… contempt. Just total, complete contempt. She didn’t even say ‘sorry, can’t make it’ when your dad and I invited her. She just didn’t even reply. That was how little respect she had for me. How little love she had for me. Those shows were me. And it’s too late now if she wants to see any. We can’t even sit and look at pictures of them, of me and Naomi and all the cast in our costumes, from that scrapbook I’d kept for years, or listen to that beautiful music box Mr. Guarini got for me, or look at my awards, because your dad threw all of that away! Just all of it! It’s too late for even that!”

Lucy starts crying as her mother’s voice reaches a near-yell.

Diana immediately starts rocking the child back and forth while quietly shushing her.

Celia: “That’s his fault, Mom. That’s his fault that he did that. That he took that from you. She didn’t show up. She messed up. You still have the memories, don’t you? Why would you deny that to Lucy, who will never get any of her own? Grandma is past sixty. She’ll be eighty by the time Lucy is eighteen. What do you think Lucy is going to say when she’s a young adult and she learns you kept her family from her?”

“Do you want her to be as hateful as you’re being? You’re hurt. I get it. She messed up. So be the bigger person.”

GM: “I’ll tell her I kept her away from someone who didn’t have any love in her heart,” Diana says as she switches Lucy to another nipple. The infant starts suckling again promptly enough. “Just like I am with her father. That’s love, to shield her from that kind of person.”

Celia: “And yet when he raped you, beat you, and put you back into the hospital, she was there for your children.”

GM: “She couldn’t humiliate them like she wanted to humiliate me.”

“After that first time, when your dad put me in the hospital. After… after we weren’t talking. I asked for her to come. She did.”

“I was never lower, Celia, just never lower. I needed someone. I was just, just naked in a blizzard.”

“She didn’t hug me. She didn’t comfort me. She didn’t grieve with me. She just lectured. Said how she’d seen this coming. About how this was all my fault. How I’d made so many bad decisions.”

“But also how this was a good thing, because now I could finally move on to a real career, because I was only 30 and I was still young.”

Celia’s mom doesn’t yell this time. She just cups a hand over Lucy’s ears, as if to shield the infant from hearing something obscene.

“She told me it was good, how I couldn’t dance.”

Celia: Celia just gives her mother a tired look.

GM: Diana lets that hang, then finally sighs at her daughter’s non-response.

“But you know, if she could just say sorry for that and everything else, just apologize for once in her life, maybe, I don’t know, that would be a start to showing she won’t be a bad influence on Lucy.”

Celia: “I’m done playing mediary. You’re both adults. Figure it out.”

GM: And that swiftly seems like the end of that, at least for then.

The trust fund is set up. A use is found for the remaining settlement money. Payton and Viv are co-trustees.

Sometimes you can’t fix the past, but you can plan for the future.

---

Tuesday night, 21 December 2010, PM

Celia: True to form, the Evergreen has been transformed for Lord Savoy’s holiday party. Rather than the typical decor or the Christmas explosion that has taken over much of the city, stepping into the Evergreen transports the guests back in time. Low couches and pillows dot the floor for seating, and off to one side a table has been set with a feast fit for kings—or at least the ghouls that will be treated as kings on a night when rules go out the window and society flips on its head. Gauzy drapings hang from white column pillars, roping off private sections and turning a segment of the large area into secluded alcoves for clandestine trysts or other fun. The center of the room, though, holds the main attraction. No one is quite sure how he pulled it off, but two pits have been dug into the very floor of the Evergreen itself. One has been filled with water and bubbles merrily, steam wafting from the top of it. Attendants stand by with scrubs and towels in smaller sectioned-off areas to rub down the licks or ghoul who choose to use the tub. The other pit is ten feet deep, its bottom piled high with sand. Rough stairs descend into the pit to allow for easy travel in and out, and “viewing boxes” have been cut into the walls themselves to allow for a closer look at the action. Right now it sits empty while Kindred guests mingle, some decked out in togas or synthesis garb, others in their modern-day clothing. Various vessels offer themselves to the present licks, their blood spiked by spirits and other party drugs.

Savoy and Mélissaire appear atop the stage, the former lifting his hands to draw attention to himself. A hush falls over the room, expectant.

“Good evening one and all!” he calls, hands slowly lowering to his side. “Thank you for your attendance this evening. The winter solstice, the longest night of the year, has long been celebrated around the world to honor the gods and rising sun.” Some few Kindred hiss, and Savoy chuckles. Beside him, Mel smiles. “Precisely. Tonight we celebrate Saturnalia as the Greeks and Romans of old. Eat, drink, gamble, cavort—slaves and masters alike! I’d say no base desire is to forbidden to you, but we all know there’s no such thing as ‘forbidden’ in the Quarter, now don’t we?" He grins as laughter goes up from the gathered Kindred. "But first, the opening ceremony! OXR, would you care to crown our Saturnalia’s king?”

A spotlight appears from above, centered on the black Kindred that appears beside Savoy in a puff of smoke. Dark hair curls around her face, framing her kohl-rimmed eyes and red, red lips. A similarly colored robe hangs from her shoulders. She pauses for one long moment to let the assorted licks get a look, then opens her mouth and croons into the microphone in her hands. Seconds later the steady beat of a drum joins her voice, followed by a soft piano. The sound starts light. For all that Andromeda Brooks is known to be a punk artist, the velveteen purr that pours forth from her lips serves her just as well singing the story of Lucia of Syracuse.

Across the room, the doors open. Tyrell waves a hand and smoke pours forth from the open door, heralding the approach of the girl from the story. From deep within the shifting smog Jade emerges, clad in a long, flowing white gown that leaves her shoulders bare. It’s cinched at the waist with a red sash that trails between her legs as she walks, her bare feet making not a whisper of sound upon the floor. On her head is perched a wreath that flickers with each step, “candles” to light her way. And in her hands…

Blood. A silver goblet filled to the brim. The heady aroma makes people stop and stare as she winds her way through the congregation. On stage, Andromeda sings about Lucia bringing nourishment to the people. Her words encourage people to approach, and anyone who does is offered a sip from the chalice. Licks take a knee and let her pour it into their mouth, or cover her hands with theirs and lift it to their lips. Everyone who desires a sip is gifted the blood from her chalice, until at long last she comes to a halt in front of where Nico, Roxandra, and Lord Savoy have gathered near the stage. Jade offers the final drink to her grandsire; he takes the chalice from her, freeing her arms to be gathered by Nico and Roxandra. They drag her backwards and denounce her as a heretic. They say she’ll pay for her sins. Andromeda’s song changes, the music sharpening to something harder. No longer the smooth beat of the drum but unsteady, frantic. She sings about a virgin sacrifice, the death of Lucia of Syracuse, the stories and traditions woven together in such a way that leaves no doubt as to what will happen next.

Roxy and Nico drag Jade to a stone altar. They bind her at wrist and ankle, and each of them heft a wickedly curved blade in their hands. They make cuts along her arms, her blood slowly dripping from the wounds. Jade hisses, fangs lengthening in her mouth, but the steel cuffs hold her tight.

“Who will rule tonight?” they ask in unison.

“Who will blood the virgin—”

“And who will bring her back?”

A hulking Brujah steps forward, clad in a leather vest that only serves to accent the slabs of muscles on his chest and abdomen. He accepts the knife from Nico and stands over Jade, glancing at the two krewe members.

“Carve her,” Roxy whispers to him. The Brujah nods, plunging the knife into Jade’s abdomen. She howls and thrashes at her bindings. The white shift turns red when the knife comes out.

“Blood for blood,” Nico says, offering the chalice. The Brujah bites into his wrist and drips it into the chalice, then bends to slurp the blood from Jade’s body.

“Put your chosen vessel in the pit. If, upon waking, the virgin chooses yours to sup from, you will be crowned king.”

The Brujah moves off.

A parade of Kindred follow after him, everyone from Gui—with a cocky smile—to Pietro to a handful of nobodies. They each bleed into the chalice and carve Jade with teeth or knife to take their drink. Some sip directly from her flesh, making her writhe atop the altar, while others use it as a means to inflict pain upon the pretty neonate for past slights. The white gown becomes saturated in her blood by the time Veronica saunters forward and rips out her childe’s throat. She shrugs at Roxandra when the Gangrel bares her teeth, says something about “that’s how the story goes,” and tosses her vessel into the pit with a careless shove.

Jade lies still upon the table, her body sinking into the deep sleep of torpor. Still they come to claim her blood, until Nico finally puts a halt to it.

“Dry,” he announces. He produces a stake from his robe and plunges it unceremoniously into Jade’s chest. He and Roxandra untie her. Nico scoops her into his arms and Roxandra follows with the chalice when he deposits her in the pit, laying her gently upon the sand. He tilts her head back to pour a small measure of blood into her mouth. Her eyes open instantly. Her face can’t move, but the fangs in her mouth tell them what they need to know: the Beast has her in its grasp. Roxandra evacuates the pit, Nico at her heels with the chalice in his hands, still half full.

“Remove the stake,” he says to another vessel. The man’s eyes glaze over and he nods, taking the stairs one at a time, then moves unsteadily across the sand until he kneels before Jade. His fingers close around the wooden stake in her chest, yanking it free.

Immediately Jade jumps to her feet, ignoring the man in front of her in favor of an obese woman doing her best to avoid notice. She launches herself at the woman and they go down in a tangle of limbs, Jade’s fangs sinking into the woman’s throat. She rips it out in a spray of blood that has the Kindred attendees murmuring and jostling one another, inching forward as if to get in on the action. The other vessels in the pit scream and make a dash toward the stairs, but they’re snatched up and snacked on by the licks closest to them, passed along the audience while Jade finishes her meal. The red haze recedes from her vision. Blood stains the front of her, splattered across her face, her chest, her neck. It weighs down the curls in her hair, turning it into a sodden mess. She looks up to see Gui smiling at her.

“King of Saturnalia,” he declares in a lazy drawl. “My first order—a bath for our not-virgin.” The Ventrue takes her hand when she ascends the steps, leading her across the floor to the bath. He smirks at Nico when he strips her from the saturated gown and shucks his own clothing, descending into the water.

“You were a lovely virgin,” Gui murmurs in her ear, pulling her bodily onto his lap. His hands stroke down her front and sides in the guise of washing, fingers lingering over her breasts, stomach, and hips. Jade leans back against his chest, eyes closed while he works.

“They all watched me murder her,” she says after a moment, voice quiet. She doesn’t sound particularly upset about the death of the woman, but the witnesses. “Isn’t that… bad?”

“It happens every year. Didn’t they warn you?”

“No,” Jade admits. Then, hesitantly, “I thought losing it like that at an event is poor form.”

Gui laughs. He gives her rear a squeeze.

“Ordinarily, yes. Tonight, though, the rules go out the window. Tonight you will see plenty of Beasts running rampant, limited to the pit. Tonight ghouls will be treated as equals and dine with us. Tonight you’ll see licks duke it out, fuck it out, rage it out. There are no rules tonight, save that all must stay within the walls. And my rules,” he adds.

“Yes,” Jade murmurs, “King of Saturnalia. What does that entail?”

“Ruling. My word is law. If I tell you to do something you have to do it.”

“Even Lord Savoy?”

“Especially Lord Savoy.” She can hear his smile. He nips at her neck and she giggles, tilting her head to the side. “But it’s a double-edged sword. Fine line to walk between entertainment and impudence. It’s mostly just silly things. Telling people to do what they’re already good at. I could tell your sire to sing, or Silvestri to steal something, or your paramour to fuck you. Or I could make you be my arm candy all night, make him watch.” His hand cups her breast, thumb flicking across her nipple. Jade squirms. She rolls her neck to the side, nuzzling his cheek with her lips.

“Don’t be cruel to him.”

“And why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re a brighter king than that. Happy subjects are loyal subjects.”

“Smart and pretty,” Gui says again. “Go on then, find your lover and a corner. And Jade,” he wraps a hand around her wrist as she rises, pulling her to a halt, “when you’re tired of him I’d be happy to show you a good time.”

True to his word, Gui serves as a magnanimous king. He presides over the Gladiator Games—single combat in the pit until one lick cries uncle or is knocked into torpor, upon which they are woken by a drink from Lord Savoy—and indeed has Veronica regale them with a set to give Andi a break. The hulking Brujah who had first stabbed Jade wins the bracketed Gladiator Games and claims a pair of Caitiff as his prize. Their snarling fills the air even after they excuse themselves to a private alcove. More people pair off after that, licks and ghouls intermingling with no thought as to who belongs to whom. Jade sees Alana bent over by one of Gui’s security thugs, then later riding Nico’s herald with her head thrown back. Alan pins Clem’s adolescent form against the wall while he worships her with a tongue between her legs. She smirks, half-lidded eyes pronouncing her smugness to the room.

The Kindred become more rowdy the more they drink from the provided vessels. Some have been fed alcohol, others smoke joints or take tabs of ecstasy, and it shows: ordinarily orgies, the party has devolved into a frantic need, partners coupling and moving on and coupling again. Some fuck, others fight, still others allow themselves to be chained to the altar and abused by any who wish to inflict pain. Groups of three, four, or five share each other. Jade never manages to make it back to Gui for the promised good time, but she does tumble with Nico, then Roxandra, then Tyrell and Andi, and finally the five of them all together in a pulsing, throbbing mess of desire. She thinks she’s spent until she sees the hulking Brujah eye her from across the room, and when he draws near and pulls her into his arms she doesn’t even think to protest. He apologizes for the gut shot before sinking his fangs into her shoulder. Her nails rake down his back. When it’s over she shyly tells him that she’d been impressed with his prowess in the arena, and he smirks and throws her over his shoulder to give her an impromptu lesson in brawling that ends with his knee on her back and her arms yanked behind her, throat exposed for his fangs. He takes her again. When he’s done drinking his fill he flips her over and lets her drink from him, then tells her he’d be happy to go again sometime. She’s whisked away by Pietro before she can respond, dunked into the water, then bent over the edge of the pool so the thief can drink from the supple flesh of her lower lips. Then he’s gone, his laughter lingering in her ear.

Nico slings his arms around her from behind and pulls her back into the hot water, both of them flushed and sated from their hours of play.

“Guess you’re not a virgin anymore,” he says, idly tracing a hand up and down her side.

“Mmm,” Jade hums in agreement, “does that mean you don’t like me anymore?”

“Yes,” he says, effecting a sigh. “I only like licks in white.”

“Pity. I suppose I’ll need to find someone else with whom to while away my evenings. Maybe that Brujah—did you get his name?”

“Who, Teddy? No, no. He won’t do at all. I heard,” he stage-whispers, “that he fucked a Caitiff.”

“His name is Teddy?”

“Like the bear.”

“Huh. Well, I suppose I’m stuck with you, in that case.”

“I think I’ll manage,” he says with a smile.

---

Friday night, 24 December 2010, PM

Celia: Jade had thought that maybe they’d cancel Elysium Primo considering the holiday. Savoy had thrown a solstice party three nights prior that had, in her humble opinion, been the best party ever. She’s not sure how he plans to top it next year or in the months between now and then, and she doesn’t think it’s possible, but she’s hardly going to turn down an invitation if he attempts to outdo himself.

Yet here they all are, listening to Gus Elgin give a few opening words about the piece, the holiday, the history. They came out in their “Elysium Best,” be it floor-length gowns or frocks or just their nicest jeans to listen and mingle on this holiday eve. The primogen and elders take up the prime spots, closest to the master of Elysium and art both. Jade can barely see from where she’s at with the other nobodies.

Following the revelry of Lord Savoy’s party, this week’s Elysium is downright dull. Jade is glad she doesn’t need to shift her weight or yawn at all; it’s proving more difficult than she imagined to keep her attention on the droning of the Nosferatu, but at least she doesn’t need to be rude about it. Some of the Quarter’s residents didn’t even bother to show up this evening, perhaps knowing anything that took place tonight wouldn’t top what they’d already been to. Jade wonders if she should have sat this out as well.

The sermon is mercifully brief this evening. Elgin dismisses them with a few final words. The Kindred attendees disperse, cutting off into smaller groups to discuss the art or each other, and some walk the halls in pairs or alone. Jade plays nice with the harpies and their hanger-ons for a few moments before excusing herself at the earliest possible convenience to see the rest of the exhibits.

She walks alone, her thoughts muddled by what she could be doing this evening instead of mingling with the Kindred of the city. She had left her mother’s house at ten to get ready with the promise to stop by tomorrow evening—she’d lied and said she’s spending the day with Randy’s family—and she wishes, not for the first time, that she did have a family to spend the holiday with. A real family, one she doesn’t need to lie to about why she’s not around during the day, why she can’t come over to watch Lucy “open” presents on Christmas morning (at this age it’s more watching Diana open them for her), why she’s just not around anymore. It’s easy to pretend she isn’t dead when she can spend her evenings with them, when they can laugh and smile and be a family, but every time her alarm goes off on her phone that tells her to “get to bed or else” she knows the lie for what it is. She has them, at least, and maybe that should be enough. But the guilt… the guilt gnaws at her. She knows that some of the older licks have long since stopped celebrating, that to most of them it doesn’t mean anything, but to her, still freshly dead, the holiday is just a reminder of a life she no longer has and the tales she needs to spin to keep her mask from slipping.

Last Christmas she’d still been new to all of this. She’d accepted an invitation from her grandsire for a quiet night in and he’d left her mostly alone with her thoughts. No business on Christmas, he had said, and she didn’t know if it was because of her or because he never does business on Christmas, but she’d appreciated the sentiment all the same. Preston hadn’t been there. Just the two of them. He’d spoken enough for the both of them, telling stories while she listened like a literal grandchild at his knee, and when she’d excused herself to the restroom he hadn’t pointed out that their kind don’t use restrooms anymore, and hadn’t said anything about the red around her eyes when she came back.

She brushes the thought from her mind and continues down the hall, her eyes on the artwork around her. She hadn’t been listening to Elgin, but she thinks there’s some sort of holiday theme going on with these paintings. Renditions of Jesus, Mary, Joseph. The wise men. The angel. The birth of Christ.

She’s standing in front of a particularly realistic carving of the nativity scene, her thoughts inward even while her eyes gaze upon the white marble, when Nico finds her. He slides towards her with all the smooth confidence of someone who is used to getting exactly what he wants, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Beneath that he wears a suit, but even for Elysium he won’t change his habits.

She kind of likes that about him.


“What’s on your Christmas list, Miss Kalani?” he asks once he’s drawn near. Difficult to be melancholy around him, she muses, turning to him with a smile.

“The usual,” she drawls. “A Ferrari, a yacht, diamond necklace, world peace.”

“Tall order,” Nico observes. “Have you been a good girl this year, or are you on Santa’s naughty list?”

She can’t help but think of a very similar conversation she’d had with Pietro when they’d met at Saints and Sinners. Jade takes a step toward him and he reaches out, resting a hand at the small of her back. She leans in to whisper in his ear.

“If I say naughty, are you going to spank me?”

“Such a mind, Miss Kalani,” he murmurs. His finger taps against her spine, sending a shiver all the way up. “Maybe, if you ask nicely, I’ll forgive you for such filthy thoughts.”

“Did you bring me a present, Mr. Cimpreon?”

“It’s on your bed.”

Her eyes glitter.

“What is it?”

“That would be telling, dear. You’ll have to wait and see once this is over.” He pulls away, winking. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“You’re such a tease,” Jade mutters. Nico whistles, hands in his pockets as he strolls off.

Jade watches him go, a fond smile on her lips. He turns the corner and her eyes move past him to the Brujah Anarch standing near the Calbido. Her smile dies as quickly as a rose touched by frost. She turns away before he can see her looking and moves in the opposite direction. She doesn’t want anything to do with Roderick Durant tonight.

She isn’t fast enough. He’s just behind her a moment later, keeping pace with her while she walks through the museum’s halls. Her heels click against the marble floors with every step that she takes. Neither one of them says a word. Not for long minutes while he trails after her, pretending that he’s not following her, until finally they’ve reached a secluded area. Relatively secluded, anyway; she knows that nowhere in Elysium are they ever truly alone She stops in front of a painting, hoping that he won’t turn the corner, that it was mere happenstance that made him take the same path as her.


“Miss Kalani,” he says a moment later, sliding up beside her. He smiles and her heart threatens to break all over again. “How are you this evening?”

“Mr. Durant.” She keeps her voice cold, not even turning to look at him. “I’m well. If you’ll excuse me—” She starts to move past him. He reaches out, touching her arm.

“Jade—”

“Don’t.” She turns to him. “Don’t. There’s nothing here. There’s nothing left. We’re not friends. We were never friends. I was just your one-night stand that turned into a clingy girlfriend with a crazy family. You’re an elder’s pet. As privileged in death as you were in life. Bully for you. Enjoy it.”

“Damnit, Jade—”

“Stop it.” She lifts her gaze. He can see it then, the red that rims her eyes and threatens to spill down her cheeks. “Please. Just leave me alone.”

His jaw tightens. This time when she turns to go he doesn’t stop her.

Art blurs around her. She blinks back the bloody tears that will give her away, wipes the emotions off her face. It won’t do for someone to wonder who or what has gotten under her skin this evening. She pauses in an out of the way area to pull herself together, standing in front of another piece of art. Something she can’t make heads or tails of, some abstract sculpture with smooth edges and square cutouts. She doesn’t know what it has to do with the theme—or even what the theme was. Christmas, she thinks idly. Or maybe Jesus.

She doesn’t know when he appeared beside her. One moment she is alone, lost in thought, the next she is aware of him some few feet away. Not close enough to touch. Not close enough to speak without raising her voice. He scrutinizes another piece of art with those stormy eyes of his. No one looking at them would even know that they were aware of each other’s existence. She’s so far beneath him that of course he doesn’t register her as being present.


A moment later he’s in her head, his presence a permeating chill that sweeps through her. Hard, cold, insistent, he forces his way into her mind, an icy pick cutting through a field of red roses. She puts up no resistance, no struggle, simply welcomes him with silence. And silent he is. There are no thoughts that leap from his mind to hers, no orders, no questions. Just a steady presence in her brain, a steel trap around her own. Utterly still. A blanket of darkness that she can sink into and know that the claws who rip and shred so many others have been tucked away. The world around her fades out; she loses herself in that sea of black.

It’s… nice, honestly. Not the physical affection she craves from him, but something like affection all the same. Acknowledgment. For long moments she is content to simply stare at the vague sculpture and feel him around her, floating on her little piece of ice. Then she tests the waters. She searches for the tether that links their minds, the little cord from her brain to his, and sends a pulse of emotion down the line. Not happiness, but something similar. Contentedness, maybe. Safety. Affection. Gratitude. She sees it as a string of lights that flare a dusky pink before dimming.

The answering pulse contains no words or images, just quiet acceptance.

Emboldened, Jade sends another. His face, as viewed at eight. A heart in his hands. His face again, half-shadowed as he whisks her away from a hallway filled with blood. A thrum of pleasure. Wind against her face, her dress dancing with the breeze, his arms holding her aloft. Longing. Him. Not an image of him but the idea of him. Strong, silent, cold. Demanding. Intoxicating. She drowns in his sea, happy to have her breath stolen away.

Another pulse echoes down the line from him. Questioning? Hesitant? She isn’t sure. She doesn’t recognize it, not on him.

Shyly, she sends a third. The two of them at a party, speaking in low tones in a corner. She’s in a red dress, he has his arm around her waist. He says something and she smiles, looking up. Her eyes catch sight of a sprig of mistletoe above them and she laughs, pointing. He favors her with a smile that she has never seen in life or unlife. It’s hard to picture, that smile, just a gentle lifting of his eyes rather than a movement across his lips. A surge of affection follows after.

Christmas wishes.

She lets go of the image. The tether in between them fades back to black, once more a simple sea of ink. No breeze, no light; emptiness all around, as devoid of any sort of anything as the home in which he lives. She floats in the ebon sea, her sire all around her. Silent and still. Moments pass in nebulous quiescence. Finally, a cool breeze swirls past her, lifting the hem of her dress and brushing the curls from her face.

In real life, Jade shivers.

The mental tendrils of her sire slowly retreat from her mind. A moment later he’s gone.

---

Previous, by Narrative: Story Eleven, Amelie I
Next, by Narrative: Story Eleven, Caroline IV

Previous, by Character: Story Eleven, Celia II
Next, by Character: Story Eleven, Celia IV

“I’ve… had a very bad day.”
Amelie Savard

---

Day ? Month ? Year ?

GM: Pain.

It surges through bone and blood—and beyond.

Fire courses through her veins. Her throat burns like she’s swallowed a torch. She tries to breathe. She can’t. She’s suffocating. Drowning. Burning. Pain assails her from all sides. It hammers her into slag, like a worthless proto-sword being beaten against a hot forge.

But this time. Different.

Just away. Right in front of her.

Water.

Relief.

Amelie: Waking to pain. It feels as though it’s become rote.

But this time it’s a juxtaposed pain for the blacksmith. Burning. Fire. Amelie chokes on carbon within and without. Her bones boil to charcoal, her marrow feels as though it’s steaming, softness wrapped in hard steel.

Water. Not relief, but temperance. Hardening. Crystalization. Semi-permanence.

She doesn’t scream, there is no throat to carry the sound. She just steps into the quench, her only thoughts those that have come to mind a million times. Water or oil. Steam or fire. A sigh of relief or a battle with the dragon.

GM: Any smith who quenches their sword in oil must blow the fire out, like dragons fighting over whose breath wins.

Only one can win.

One must lose.

Cool relief crashes through her. Molecules freeze in place. Burning metal becomes carbon-bearing steel. Bliss floods her veins, hot and rapturous. Like she’s gorged herself until her stomach was swollen and bloated after days without eating. Like she’s fucked her brains out after a lifetime as an unhappy virgin. Her great work is complete. She is complete.

The pain is gone.

A man’s savaged, gore-streaked corpse stares blankly up at her.

Amelie: She is complete.

She, the sword. The weapon forged from other’s cruelty.

She freezes as the chunk of meat beneath her comes into view.

Did… she hurt him, too? Another thug who tried to force himself on her?

She slowly looks herself and her surroundings over, trying to parse together what’s happening.

GM: The body underneath Amelie is a black male in maybe his early 40s. He has a slightly tubby face, with a wide nose, short beard, and short hair. He wears blue latex gloves and a white lab coat that’s streaked with violent red spatters.


His jugular has been been completely torn out, as if by a wolf’s or wild dog’s teeth. The man’s pudgy face is frozen in a mask of shock, agony, and terror. A growing pool of red slowly seeps across the linoleum floor. A broken pair of rectangular-shaped eyeglasses rest a short distance away.

Amelie takes in their surroundings.


She is straddling the corpse’s chest at the foot of a gurney, next to an open steel vault. She’s naked.

An overhead clock mechanically ticks away.

Amelie: Everything happens at once. Her frozen body feels almost giddy, like it’s never been more awake. Her mind feels sharp as ever as she methodically ticks through each new sight in quick succession.

Neck. Morgue. Blood.

She looks down at her body and shudders at what she sees. Her ribs are visible against her skin like a Holocaust survivor’s. The rest of her is bruised and ripped up like nothing she’s ever seen.

Memories flits through her head. A dark shape biting her neck and grinding against her body as it drains her. Is that what did this? Did the thing’s bite carry an… infection? But that was… she doesn’t even know how long ago that was. No. Whatever happened to her happened later. Probably.

Amelie doesn’t know what she’s feeling. Her whole body shudders as she starts to hyperventilate. She distantly wonders if it’s a purely psychological reaction and she only wants to feel cold.

She stops breathing and doesn’t waste another moment as she tries to stand. She needs something to cover herself. She needs a sink, and clothes, and time. Her eyes glance up at the clock.

GM: Amelie rises without impediment. The clock’s black hands rest at approximately 9 PM. Its thinnest red hand impartially ticks forward.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t know what it means to her. Whatever she is now. Whatever the rules really are for…

She moves her jaw around, smacks her lips and tastes it. It. What can only be the ‘relief’ she felt. What couldn’t have been water.

Oh god.

The demon. It was there before and after she passed out, if that’s what she even did. Did that… thing make her this? At the cost of this man’s life?

Her face twists as emotions finally roil up through the shock. Despair. Guilt. Horror. This man is dead, for her ‘relief’, when she could have just stood there and burned. Maybe it would have been better if she were ashes.

She tries her best to keep it all down, kneels beside the man and closes his eyes and jaw. She looks at the wound. Made with her teeth.

“O my God, I love Thee above all things with my whole heart and soul, because Thou art all good and worthy of all love. I love my neighbor as myself for love of Thee. I forgive all who have injured me, and I ask pardon for all whom I have injured.”

It’s not enough. It never will be, especially given what she needs to do next. She turns him over just enough to look for his wallet, and stifles a sob.

GM: The dead man’s eyes stare at Amelie as blankly as before while she opens his coat and rummages through his pants. His leather wallet has a few IDs, credit cards, spare cash, and photo of a hijab-wearing woman with dusky skin.

Amelie: Wife? Girlfriend? Amelie shudders to think.

She quickly removes one of the gloves from his hands and pulls it over her own. She gently rests the photo on the man’s chest, underneath his coat, while she takes his cash and keys with her gloved hand.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t know Muslim rites,” she pleads, as if hoping he’ll spring up and scream at her. She puts back everything else and rushes to find a sink.

GM: Amelie gets her wish.

The corpse’s eyes snap open.

It springs to its feet.

And screams.

Blood pours and runs from its savaged neck.

It all happens in a second. The mangled, soul-piercing cry. The hellishly lost, crazed look from the ’corpse’s’ bulging and vein-shot eyes. The door slamming open. The flash of white, red-smeared coat. Footsteps hammering against floor.

Amelie: Amelie jumps like a gun went off next to her ear, but lets the man run by. Her heart rises and sinks at the same time. She’s glad he’s alive. She’s fearful for the help he may go and find.

She quickly searches the room for amenities. She needs to wash up, find clean gloves, and a change of clothes. Even a lab coat will work.

GM: The room has a sink. Someone has left a white lab coat on the nearby counter. Amelie spies no further amenities.

A muted shattering noise abruptly pierces the too-brief silence.

Amelie: Amelie has no idea what the sound might be, but she doesn’t waste any time. She turns the sink’s faucet and washes her hands and face as fast as she can, wiping her face with her arms.

She pulls on the coat, stuffs the wad of cash in a pocket, and takes off through the door. Whoever finds the scene can think whatever they want. She just needs to get out.

GM: A deserted hallway stretches before her in two directions. Right. Left.

Bloody foot-shaped prints, that rivet her gaze like a magnet, go left.

Amelie: Amelie grits her teeth. The panicked man would go towards the nearest exit. Or to a guard station. She has time. She has his keys. Maybe she can clean this up.

The thought strikes her as strange as she yanks her eyes from the bloody prints. She turns right instead, away from what she hopes will be a good distraction for her getaway.

GM: Several windows along the corridor overlook a barren-looking yard encircled by a black metal fence. Past that is roadway and darkened cityscape interrupted by the odd passing car. Points of light silently flash before disappearing back into the gloom.

Amelie: Amelie keeps running but keeps the windows in mind. She looks for a stairwell, fire escape, or some other exit from the hall. If bad comes to worse, she’ll need something to break the window.

GM: A flight of stairs leads down to another empty and darkened hallway.

Distant footsteps sound against floor.

Amelie: Amelie quickly shifts and opens the nearest door just to peek inside. A janitor’s closet would be perfect, but anywhere that puts a door between her and people works for her.

GM: The room on the other side has a carpeted floor, couch, cloth chair, and low table with a kleenex box. Bookshelves loom behind the furniture.

Amelie: It’s better than nothing. Amelie steps in and closes the door as quietly as she can. She grabs the heaviest book she can find off the shelf, along with the kleenex box. She pulls out the latter’s tissues, stuffs them in a coat pocket, and approaches the light switch.

GM: She finds it already off.

Amelie: She fits the box’s opening over the cover plate and wedges the cardboard just enough so that when she lets go, it still hangs there covering the switch plat. It’s a weak attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

She crouches underneath the table, makes her thin body as small as she can, and rests on the balls of her feet as she watches for lights under the door. And waits.

GM: Time passes.

Silence reigns.

Then, lights flashing beneath the door.

There for a moment.

Gone the next.

Amelie: Amelie quietly watches from her darkened hiding spot as the lights pass. She counts to 20 before she gets out from under the table and listens by the door for movement.

GM: She strains her ears. None is audible.

Amelie: Amelie slowly cracks the door open to check the hall.

GM: It stretches before her, a dark and empty passageway into an equally dark and uncertain future.

Amelie: Amelie steps out from behind the door and quickly makes her way towards the stairwell. She only dares to use the balls of her feet and the tips of her fingers as she scrambles up the steps on all fours. She doesn’t stop until she gets all the way to the roof access at the top. Medical buildings keep a lot of their maintenance units on roofs, especially air conditioners.

GM: It’s hard not to feel like an animal as she frantically bounds up the stairwell on her hands and knees. A ravenous, forlorn, hunted creature, skulking desperately out of sight. Perhaps a bystander might ask why she is doing this, but more likely they would scream. There is only the pounding, id-driven urge to flee. To find safety.

Amelie bounds up the stairs. On the second flight up, the door flies open. A flashlight shines in her face.

“Hey!” yells the uniformed man holding it.

Then he crumples to the floor.

Amelie’s eyes and nose are clogged with blood. Her lab coat is stuck to her skin like she’s been sweating in it. Her hand clutches a fistful of hair. She’s standing on a corpse with its head facing the wrong way and its throat torn out. Her mouth burns hot with coppery-smelling bliss.

Amelie: Everything is wrong. Amelie stares down. Blood everywhere. All she can smell, taste, and for a moment all she can see. It’s salty. Warm. Like the surface of a perfect melty hot pretzel, sliding down her throat in a perfect ecstasy she’s never been allowed to experience before. Sex in all its far-away romance for a virgin soul, never having gone through the sheer disappointment of reality. A reality she is absent from for the barest of moments before her eyes focus on the scene below her.

There she stands on a corpse, holding him by the hair like she’s twisted him, like a doll she’s been disappointed with.

It’s not supposed to be like this, it’s not like it was with me. Am I not a vampire? A demon? Monster?

She remembers laying in that bed, watching that door and hoping her grunting attracted the monster she felt on the other side. She wished for it to take her away. She remembers the other—same?—vampire being so gentle, a sickening sensual grinding, almost intimate. And here stands Amelie, letting the corpse she’s just ripped apart thump back onto the floor as she lets it go, her mind swimming.

She’s stuck like this, lower than a man, lower than a pretty woman, and now lower than a monster who dry-humps unconscious girls in their beds. She remembers Tantsy telling her she would die. The LaLaurie house, the… wherever the hell was with Emmett, she was destined for a quick circling a drain into a dark dark pipe. She remembers the realization that old hag was likely right. It’s what drove her to seek dangerous people like Sal and Boxcars. She wanted to be ready to face the dark. Now she is the dark, worse than that long-haired parasite. She isn’t surprised, she just wishes that her death didn’t have to mean others’ deaths. Doesn’t have to mean. She doesn’t know if she’s really a vampire, what the rules are, if she can live without hurting people like it did. All the questions and academia don’t give her any comfort.

There are no words, whatever cruel fate has left empathy in this body rips at her from the inside. She can’t force it down this time. Her body shudders and seizes even just in a psychological remembrance of a sob as her legs fail her and she falls to one knee. She brings her fists down, impotently beating on the man’s chest, pulling at his shirt, trying to will him to stand up. To be okay. Her face presses into his chest, not knowing if she’s trying to comfort him, or seeking some kind of comfort from the residual heat of a human being who once had hopes and dreams. Both options feel insane, but she needs them both. Just for a moment. Just to replace the feeling she’s never gotten, to cry into a father’s chest and have him tell her things will be okay.

But something cold tells her to move. Something cold and logical, a machine that’s kept her alive until now. Amelie wants to ignore it, to have someone come from behind her and put a bullet in her brain. But she doubts it would kill her. She would just hurt that person afterwards. She needs to protect him, too. She lets out one last desperate scream into the dead man’s chest before she grabs him with both hands, tosses him down the stairwell, and rises to her feet. She runs as fast as her legs will carry her. Up wards. She feels light as she runs, fast, faster, too fast! She can feel everything start to move far too fast, but her feet know exactly where to step, barely making contact with every few stairs as she blurs up the staircase, too scared to encounter another person.

GM: Amelie pushes and heaves at the corpse. Limp bodies weight a lot, and her arms are emaciated sticks of their former “bulging” selves that Yvette mocked her for. In the end, it’s gravity that literally does the heavy lifting, and the corpse rolls forward with a crash. Amelie’s last glimpse of the dead man is his wide-open eyes and gaping mouth rolling over a step as if kissing it.

Then, noise.

Shouts.

“Hey! Up there!”

“Come out with your hands up!”

Footsteps rapidly thump up the stairs from below.

Then. Another crash. Noises. A surprised yell.

“OH FUCK!”

“JESUS!”

Amelie: Hearing the yells, she doesn’t stop to obey. She thinks back to the cop in the French Quarter, how she should have tried to lose him. She doesn’t want to make the same mistake twice. Amelie runs up the stairs, eyes wide as whatever has taken her body since her ‘infection’ takes hold. Its like her bones are hollow, like her whole being is vibrating all at once. Her legs move too quickly to take every step, so she does every two. Three. Four. Her body moves fast enough to remind her of her face ice skating, screaming in fear as she moves too fast to stop. But she does. Her legs still know who’s boss, and at the very top of the stairwell, she pushes the door open.

Back outside. Finally.

Now that she’s up on the roof, she quickly looks around the dark city and tries to get her bearings.

GM: She’s on the highest point for a while around. A tangle of freeway viaducts and expressways loom ahead. Everywhere else is parking lots, low buildings, and onrushing cars, their headlamps spearing beams of light through the gloom.




Thumping footsteps pound against the stairs after her.

Amelie: Amelie eyes the ground and feels a split second of vertigo. She knows she went up more stairs than just the one, basements being so rare in New Orleans. But that’s all the hesitation she allows. She keeps running, straight off the building, hoping her body still remembers how to roll when landing.

GM: She hits the soil with a thud.

Amelie: Her body feels the thud, and remembers its motions, weaken the legs, fall forward with the momentum, take it on the shoulder, and roll. Amelie springs back onto her feet in mere moments and sprints the yard towards the fence, aiming for the nearest car park.

GM: Her bare feet pound against dry soil. The unmistakable tang of blood draws her head like a magnet. Droplets are haphazardly scattered by the building along with shards of broken glass. One of the second-story windows is broken.

She pulls herself over the black iron fence and lands with an audible smack against concrete.

Amelie: It’s a dizzying scent. She instantly remembers the sound of shattering glass from the mortician, the trail of blood leading to him bleeding even more. She can’t though. She can’t go back to collect the soaked shards. She pulls herself over the fence as fast as she can, and slams into the concrete. Picking herself back up fast and once again taking off running. Away from the freeways and people’s eyes as much as possible, she heads into the maze of parked cars and just keeps running, one hand holding the blood-soaked lab coat closed around her naked body.

GM: The several rows of cars obscure her, but remain far from an impenetrable maze. The night is dark and cool against the sounds of onrushing traffic.

Amelie: It doesn’t need to be impenetrable. Amelie keeps her legs moving as fast as she can, away from the traffic as much as she can. She keeps her eyes open as she can, looking for street signs, company advertisements on the side of buildings or warehouses. The dark night and cool air feels incredible after so long. Stuck in a hospital, trapped in the underworld, imprisoned in OPP. She finally feels the rush of air past her face. Her legs moving.

GM: Street signs say she is on Earhart Boulevard, an apparently long and flat stretch of concrete interspersed with cars. A taller and thicker complex of buildings across the road is labeled Booker T. Washington High School.

Amelie: Amelie sees the complex of buildings as a better means of hiding and escaping than a parking lot, stopping only long enough to wait for a break in the traffic before she makes a break for the high school

GM: She crosses without incident. The buildings look drab and sterile, more like a factory complex—or Orleans Parish Prison—than a high school. One of the windows has a bullet hole. The school looks like a far cry from McGehee.

Amelie: Amelie runs around the side of the building that gives her the most cover from the road, trying doors for something that’s unlocked this late at night.

GM: The school is locked up tight. This doesn’t feel like a safe neighborhood.

Amelie: Amelie makes peace with it pretty damn quick, turning and keeping running. She passes the school and keeps heading away from the morgue, keeping her eyes out for street signs, trying to get a cardinal direction. Before the police get on this way.

GM: She passes rows of houses and parked cars. They’re smaller, shoddier-looking structures than her old neighborhood in the Garden District, but their lights are warm and inviting against the winter night as Amelie skulks outside, barefoot and blood-stained, like an unwanted ghost. She passes a Boys & Girls Club before seeing a street sign that reads S. Dorgendis St.

Amelie: Amelie feels like a ghost. She briefly wonders if perhaps she IS dead. Maybe Emmett a figment of her imagination and this is how the dead see the underworld. But it’s a short thought as she spots the S on the street sign. South is the way to the waterfront no matter where you are in New Orleans, if she remembers the map of the city well enough. Still, she takes it on faith and heads where she thinks is south, breaking into another full sprint.

GM: Amelie follows the south-labeled street signs. Cars drive by in the dark. She wonders if any the drivers can make out her bloody appearance, away from their headlights, but none stop. Running soon feels unnecessary.

She passes dilapidated buildings with broken windows and vandalized exteriors. A dirty-faced old woman bundled up in equally dirty, tattered coats ambles past with a junking-filled shopping cart, muttering nonsense to herself. She pays no heed to Amelie, whose bare feet hurt. She nearly steps on a discarded needle.

She remembers Oscar talking about how “rough neighborhoods can be righ’ nex by the not-so-rough ones” on that long-ago limo ride from the airport. The elderly driver’s words prove true. Property values abruptly climb as she spots restaurants and coffee house alongside better-maintained homes. There are patrols, too. White cars bearing the word “POLICE” and blue crescent badges. Amelie melds into the shadows like the ghost she is when they draw near. When anyone passing her on the streets draws near.

She eventually reaches a street sign whose name she recognizes: St. Charles Avenue. Following that east will lead directly into the French Quarter.

She does so, trying to avoid the increasingly frequent police patrols in the nice neighborhoods. A low roar warns her to get off the street before a green-colored old car barrels past. She wonders if it’s the same one she rode to Tantsy’s.

Tall and proud Southern live oaks create an almost roof-like canopy overhead. Classical statues and colorful flower beds dot the well-maintained yards of Colonial-, Victorian-, and Greek Revival-style old homes.

Amelie has walked this route before. Skated it, too. Her aunt’s home is only a few minutes away.

Amelie: Oscar. She remembers him so fondly, but with the state she’s in now, she wonders if maybe his words were an omen about the evils of New Orleans. The horror and rot in the woodwork. Lots to love in-fucking-deed.

What hits her more as she proceeds through the sudden shift are the routes she remembers skating and walking, the familiar corners. Somehow her instincts have brought her to where she lived a few scant months. Aunt Christina. She wonders for a moment if her aunt is even aware she’s dead, or if her knowledge ends with her being in a coma. Maybe she thinks she’s all alone in the world. Like Amelie has felt too many times.

She quickly turns, however. It’s dangerous for her aunt to see her like this, as a monster who can’t control herself around real people. This is for her safety too, and soon enough she’ll come back and let Christina know her niece is okay.

Amelie keeps her heading southward, hurrying along to try and get to the shipping yards. She can follow them along the river without many people being present and cross before she hits the French Quarter.

GM: Amelie soon passes another familiar sight.


It’s her first time seeing McGehee at night. The school’s graceful campus looks like another several peacefully sleeping homes in the rich neighborhood.

It’s not hard to think back to all of the bad and good times there. Ms. Perry’s history lectures. The way the history teacher smirked when she talked about Jean Lafitte and other “bad boys,” and how impressed she was by Amelie’s knowledge. Mrs. Flores’ dance classes. The former ballerina might have “ragged on” Amelie to play the lady more often, but she was still so warm and friendly. Her other classes were more mixed bags, either because of the teachers or subject matter. Off-tangent Mr. Thurston, pissy Ms. Ward, sleepy Mrs. Laurent, drinking Mr. French.

It’s hard to think of any real friends she made there. Maybe Hannah, dead according to Yvette. Miranda, who she only got to meet twice. Maybe Megan, if she didn’t know about the malicious prank her peers were all playing.

Amelie: Amelie’s expression sinks further when she sees her old school, and all that come to mind are wasted opportunities. Hopes this place gave for stepping stones to higher education. Now she just wishes she could burn it to the ground. Find all those girls and show them horrors they can’t imagine.

She spots the place she last spoke with Miranda as well. She feels a pain in her chest for the preteen still trapped there with queen bees pulling her every which way and making her suffer. She still wishes she could have been friends with her and eased her burden. Been the person she herself needed as a girl.

She doesn’t spend more than a few moments staring before moving on and quickening her pace. She doesn’t want to be reminded of everything she has lost. She doesn’t want to look back and feel horrible stabs of grief and anger. She needs to go south.

GM: Amelie’s path once again takes her away from her former life.

The Port of New Orleans isn’t as ornate as the rest of the Garden District. It looks largely the same as any other city’s port, with lots of gray concrete and multicolored shipping containers. A chain-link fence, passing security guards, and the odd passing car keeps Amelie from disappearing into that maze, but she follows the water east.

She passes an industrial white building with potted plants labeled ‘Mardi Gras World’, where carnival floats are made. The twin cantilever bridges of the Crescent City connection loom ahead.


It soon becomes apparent to Amelie that there is no dedicated lane for cyclists or pedestrians. The closest is a slim section of road past the white line, where passing cars don’t drive—but well within their headlights.

Amelie: Amelie walks along the fence the whole way along the waterfront, clutching hard to the coat around her. Seeing ‘Mardi Gras World’ stings. She remembers her excitement at Caroline Malveux’s offer of working with them, hoping that things are… okay with her. She doesn’t know how to feel about Caroline. Father Malveaux is a good man, her judge uncle or something was a horrible prick, and Vera Malveux? Maybe her face got like that for punching down. But Caroline, she hopes is okay.

The bridge doesn’t leave Amelie much cover, but she finds herself without a fence between her and the river, at least after Mardi Gras World. She walks through the parking lot of the Post of New Orleans building and to the water, looking if there are any small boats left moored. For maintenance, she would think.

GM: None are apparent tonight.

Amelie: There doesn’t seem to be much choice. She’s not dumb enough to try swimming in the river. All rivers are killers. The bridge doesn’t leave her with much cover, but her blessing is the nature of the bridge. Traffic travels in both directions, but on ‘different bridges’, while a fence and a large gap lead down into the water between them. She picks the one the cars will come at her back in, and starts her walk of shame across. Barefoot, aching, humiliated with her naked body just under the dried blood of this lab coat. She wonders if it might be a better idea to simply swim across.

GM: Amelie’s bare feet are worn and dirty after so much walking, but don’t feel as sore as perhaps they ought as she treads along the concrete. Her white coat stands out against the headlights of so many passing vehicles. The now-dried bloodstains stand out even more.

Car after car after car passes. Amelie hears the occasional honk.

She’s perhaps halfway over the bridge when a white vehicle with the words ‘Louisiana State Police’ emblazoned on its side in red letters appears in her peripheral vision.

Amelie: Amelie keeps her pace when the cop car, wiping her mouth a bit and keeping her pace. Five minutes in and five minutes to go, she knows she can clear the bridge in under a minute if she runs, but she can’t outrun a car.

She just hopes they move on and ignore her. No more deaths need to happen today.

GM: The car’s sirens start wailing.

Amelie: Amelie pauses, looks over her shoulder at the car, and stops moving.

GM: The car pulls to a horizontal stop, blocking the maximum amount of traffic. Two men get out. They look like the Mounties from Amelie’s home, down to the same style of hat, except their uniforms are navy blue. One officer stays close to where he is and makes stopping motions towards traffic as angry honks go up from approaching cars. The second officer approaches Amelie.


He looks over the bloodstained lab coat covering her naked body.

“Pedestrians aren’t allowed on this bridge, sir. Why don’t we give you a lift the rest of the way?” he asks in a tone that doesn’t sound like it’s asking.

Amelie: “There was a shoulder here, I apologize. I’m just trying to get to Algiers. I’ve… had a very bad day,” Amelie tries to explain. “I don’t want blood all over your car. If I promise to jog, can you just… let me cross? Just this once?”

She makes no movements to get away from the officer.

GM: “Please follow me to the patrol vehicle, sir,” states the trooper.

Amelie: Amelie bites her tongue for a moment and tries stay calm. The cop isn’t making her angry, but he is making her worried. She needs to be careful with herself.

“It’s ‘miss.’ Am I being detained, officer?”

GM: “You are being detained, miss,” the cop answers.

An increasing number of angry honks are going up from the choked-off traffic.

Amelie: “I need your badge number and name for my lawyer, then. Unless you’re willing to do things the easy way, just for five minutes until I vanish into the ghetto other side of this bridge.”

She still has that cash in her pocket.

GM: “You can have those once you’re in the car, miss. Let’s stop holding up traffic,” the cop states.

Amelie: Amelie feels like her heart should be pounding in her chest, just like every other moment she sizes someone up for a fight. Her eyes lock onto the trooper’s as though a duel is about to start, like she’s already going to fight for her life so soon after freeing herself.

But it feels different now. Still. Painfully still, like all she ever has to focus on is her target. No more counting breaths, no more being careful about blinking. Everything falls away as her eyes dig into the trooper with a clarity she’s never felt before. She sees only him, everything black past his profile as she feels the strangeness of her new body take her over. Amelie digs for answers in his eyes like every fencer she ever has, and finds more.

GM: It’s not a fencer’s hunch. It’s something deeper, a glimpse of sinew instead of skin. Answers bleed into her head as suddenly, easily, and naturally as blood leaking from a struck opponent’s flank.

Blood coats Amelie from head to toe. It slides off her head, hands, everywhere, in great rippling sheaths. The man’s eyes linger upon a discarded, red-crusted lab coat. He is yet ignorant of her other crimes.

Amelie: Amelie’s hand comes up to her head as the visions overtake her, flashes that tell her more than she should know. It’s this body again, that of a monster, now her mind goes with it. Just like Emmett, whispering things into her skull. But her shaking hands dig into her breast pocket, taking out the wad of bills from the mortician.

“Money. I have money. You can have all of it, just for five minutes of me getting off this bridge. This is New Orleans, take the easy way, yeah? No precinct paperwork, just a wretch wandering away from the French Quarter.”

GM: The trooper guffaws, pulls some zip cuffs off his belt, and grabs at Amelie’s hands.

“You’re under arrest.”

Amelie: Amelie pulls away and quickly backs up towards the edge of the bridge.

“I’ll jump! Get back, or I’ll just jump! All you had to do was let me go, I was going AWAY from from the French Quarter!”

GM: The trooper curses as Amelie darts away from his grasp. “All right, bitch, we did this the easy way! Hey, Bill!”

The other state trooper looks over, sees what’s going on, and comes at Amelie from her flank.

Amelie: Amelie feels like silk, just as fast as she once was, stepping just where she needs to without touching either of the troopers. While they fumble her like the Saints fumble footballs, Amelie braces and… lets go.

She got a good look at the underside as she walked: the X-pattern construction. She swings her legs as she falls and grips the steel support beams as hard as she can, trying to get quietly into the bridge’s undercarriage.

GM: There’s a stomach-flipping sensation of vertigo as Amelie plummets off the side of the bridge. It feels like a hundred years passes between the split second that happens and the moment Amelie seizes the steel supports. All of her senses feel as if they have been honed to a knife’s edge—one that could just as easily slip and cut her.

The contours of the bridge"s x-shaped supports are visible to her as plainly as day, down to individual nicks and scuffs. She can hear the roar of the Mississippi so many hundreds of feet below. Falling into its muddy, midnight-black waters would be like striking cement from this height. She can smell the industrial-strength, chemically-saturated polluted run-off that makes the river a triply foolish destination in which to swim.

She also hears noises and exclamations from the state troopers and perhaps other witnesses above. Voices rapidly fire numbered codes and “overs” into what can only be police radios.

The journey across the bridge’s underside is grueling. Amelie doesn’t once feel sore or tired, but her stick-like limbs appear woefully insufficient for the task before them. At any moment, it seems as if she could fall and plunge into the fast-moving, concrete-hard waters below.

It feels like a lot longer than five minutes have passed by the time she draws close to the other side—and can make out the glow of flashing red and blue sirens from overhead.

Amelie: Amelie wonders if the sudden vertigo signals the real and true end to her life, if her hands and arms are going to fail her and she’s going to plummet to the river below. She knows all about the Mississippi, which is a hundred times more dangerous than the St. Laurent. If she somehow survives the fall, she won’t survive being swept out to sea.

But she doesn’t fall. She feels the familiar slide of iron against her hands, and grips with all her being, pulling herself up all in the same motion to bring herself in between the cement of the bridge and the beam structure holding it up. Amelie crawls like a worm through her natural element, her thin pathetic arms threatening her every second, but never making good on the threat. There is no tiredness, no shaking, no lactic acid telling her body how long her body can go on. The worm feels like she wants to throw up, denied the familiar feeling she knows in her mind should be present. But that too is denied as a possibility. It’s monstrous.

Amelie still doesn’t stop. She can’t afford to give them more time to organize if they know where she is. She keeps climbing until she’s over land, and keeps going. Peeking quietly ahead, past the first cement pillar on the shore, she spots a shift in the structure, almost a platform she can walk to keep going. She heads towards that, hoping to find a safe place to drop down.

GM: Amelie can distantly make out several cop cars parked close to the water. Tiny ant-sized dots of light crawl across the bank like bugs. A blue and white police boat cruises the Mississippi, searchlight sweeping the dark current.

Amelie: Amelie freezes for a moment, scoping out the scene. They think she’s fallen into the water, even a boat searching for her corpse as cops scrounge the bank. The monster they’re searching for feels a small moment of panic in her chest, before her plan forms. She continues climbing, planning to go right over their heads and past the search for her corpse. She knows with them looking at the water, she only needs to get away from the shore and climb down a ways away from them, and she’s home free in Algiers point. She keeps moving, eyes darting from the beams to the flashlights, trying to keep anything from drawing their attention.

GM: The police are clearly not searching the underside of the bridge. At least not yet.

That fact appears Amelie’s saving grace as she descends the stairwell connecting it to the ground and climbs over the surrounding fence.

Amelie: Amelie jumps from the stairwell over the barbed wire, squeezing her hands in each other. She knows even in her peak, that climb would be grueling, horrible, and have made her cry in effort and frustration at how pain might slow her down. But here she stands, staring at her own body, just imagining how it might now be capable of a whole day of uninterrupted work in the forge. She feels a sharp spike of disgust at the fantasy and turns quickly north.

Within her sight after just a block and a half is a sign. All Saints Church. Amelie heads towards it right away. Maybe there’s a clothing donation box if she pushes on the doors and they open this late.

GM: The church’s doors do not budge when Amelie pulls them. No one from within answers any calls. No lights are visible. The days when a church’s doors were always open for poor sinners to seek refuge appear well and truly over.

As Amelie considers this fact, a distant gunshot pierces the night.

Amelie: Amelie feels saddened by that fact. She wishes she could get inside at least to rest. But the gunshot draws all attention away. She knows Algiers is violence-ridden, but it’s one of the reasons she came here. She starts off in the direction of the gunshot, looking for a more active area. Streetwalkers, gangbangers, someone who’ll take her wad of cash and give her something to cover this awful yet wonderful new body.

GM: Amelie wanders the night.

Most of the homes by the Crescent City Connection appear middle to lower middle class. New enough. Maintained enough. As Amelie’s path takes her away from the soaring overhead bridge, she encounters increasing signs of vandalism and urban neglect. Boards over broken windows. Graffiti ranging from gang tags to crudely-etched genitalia. Trash littering the streets.

She passes a street sign labeled Whitney Street. Perhaps it’s named for Sarah’s family. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence.

One of the areas closer to the Crescent Connection looks nicer, though it’s hard to make out much past the six-foot wall that cordons it off from the rest of the neighborhood. There’s a sign that labels it Algiers Point. Armed and uniformed men patrol the boundaries.

Amelie skulks away. Another ghost in a shadowland of forsaken souls.

Amelie: Amelie worries less and less about the police as she puts distance between her and the shore, more and more preoccupied with concerns about the time she’s spending wandering. She doesn’t know what she is or what she needs. Her body feels like a weapon with blades in every direction, but what chips her? The sun? Garlic? Crosses? Stakes through the heart feel as though they’d be bad news no matter what she is.

But at least the view is getting rougher. Amelie knows she can likely get what she needs here. She can hide in the floorboards of shitty houses if she has a claw hammer. Train tracks that haven’t been used for decades and that wall with all the armed assholes could be useful too.

The most vile thing here is Whitney Street. She remembers Warren Whitney’s little secret and wonders how she might be able to use it against him now that she’s dead to them.

GM: The night stretches. Then she hears it. Pounding, violent lyrics in Spanish.

“Su cartel ya lo conocen
le llaman La Vecindad
Los contrarios por envidia
lo han querido asesinar
pero el ‘8’ no está solo
su gente sabe trozar”

("His cartel is well-known
it’s called La Vecindad
His jealous enemies
want to take him out
but “8” isn’t alone
his people are killers, too")

The noise comes from the open windows of a black ’85 Buick. Steadily rolling towards her.

Amelie: All her thoughts get put on hold when she sees the Buick, slowing her pace and giving the car a casually nod as she steps closer to the sidewalk. She hopes they’ll stop to talk with her, maybe she can use some of this cash to get a t-shirt or a lead on a place she can steal some clothes.

GM: The car opens.

The man holding it is a 20-something Latino with a shaved head and dead expression. He wears a wifebeater with dark stains that shows off his bulging biceps, ripped chest, and full-sleeve tattoos of a skull-faced woman with chains for her hair. A gold cross glints from around his neck. The knuckles gripping his firearm are thick and scarred.


Amelie can hear the blood pounding and pulsing through his veins, too. It’s thick and powerful and aggressive—more than either of those state troopers’ was, or anyone else’s she’s seen since starting this grim new existence, except maybe that coroner whose impossible screams were so raw and hoarse after she ripped out his throat. The blood from the car doesn’t smell as fresh, but there is so very much of it. Amelie can already feel two sharp points pressing against her lower set of teeth.

The car’s rear door opens. Another man gets out. He’s a stocky figure with closely-shorn hair, dark glasses, another wifebeater, and a gold dollar sign on a necklace. He’s also pointing a gun towards Amelie’s head as he holds the Buick’s door open. There’s two further figures inside, one in the front and back sections of the vehicle.

The smell of blood is cloyingly, overpoweringly strong from the back. It’s not completely fresh, she can tell that at a whiff. It still tantalizes her senses like a day-old all-you-can-eat buffet would would tease a starving woman—or tender hands caressing her loins after days of stress and tension. It’s been so very, very long since she last ate. It’s been even longer since she got off. Smelling that tantalizing aroma, it’s like she could do both at once.

The gun-hefting man in the front seat says only two words.

“Get in.”

Amelie: Amelie feels all the words she prepared in Spanish fall away from that smell. She feels like the car itself has come to feed her, rescue her from the tiny gnawing that’s been starting to scratch at the back of her head. The gun barely phases her in the state she’s in, looking the man of men pull up. She hates to admit it, but the satin wrap of that perfect blend of smells and the sight of a man with arms that big make her swoon to touch him. Grab him by the wrist and take him. He’s not even her type.

The points do little to dissuade her, her eyes still locked on the killer in the car’s while her hand gently probes against these new additions to her anatomy. They ache for him, too. Curiosity even in arousal, hunger, need, whatever this feeling is, it seems. But his words start a strange part of the girl that she’s rarely felt since fumbling around in high school, flirting. She wants to… eat, this person. She knows it. He looks so dangerous, it’s fine to let him lead for now, and then get him off guard later, right? Just a bit. She’ll only take a little.

“Lo que digas guapo. Tú tienes el arma.”

(“Whatever you say, handsome. You have the gun.”)

Amelie looks the stockier man over and worries for him a moment, as well, hoping he doesn’t box her in with that disgusting gun pointed in her face.

She finally gets into the car, looking for the source of that smell, like a possum into a trap. With plans to spring from it and get into the larder later.

GM: Amelie hears an ominous click from the gun as the man standing outside the car shoves it directly against her temple.

“Keep that shit to yourself, maricón!” he shouts disgustedly.

Amelie: Amelie pauses as he shoves it up against her head. She knows he’s in danger, and she goes through the motion of a small calming breath before she speaks.

“Jodido como soy, sigo siendo una mujer. Enfríalo.”

(“Fucked up ugly as I look, I’m still a woman. Cool it.”)

She pulls away from the gun, sliding into the back seat to take a look at her interrupted look-see for the scent of blood.

GM: The man seizes Amelie by the throat as she tries to move away, smashing the back of her skull against the car’s door.

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t resist. She feels her head hit the car door and grits her teeth, feeling her new fangs pressing hard against her gums. She doesn’t look at him and strains her eyes to look into the car instead. Not because she feels she must act cowed to the gangbanger. Amelie feels something else, something that confuses and scares her. It’s not the bottled up animosity that turned on Big Dawg. She cannot place it, and as she swallows it down she doesn’t feel it go away. Not completely. She stays quiet and waits for the cholo to shove her into the car or let her go.

GM: Amelie feels rough hands pulling open the rim of her lab coat. The gun’s cold tip brushes against her loins.

“You one of those maricóns who cut off your dick?” the tanned-skinned man leers in English, staring at Amelie’s snatch. “Because that thing don’t look like a pussy to me, maricón. You couldn’t pay me to stick my dick in that slimehole. Probably spiders in there. Where are your tits? Huh?”

He pulls off Amelie’s bloody coat and throws it on the ground. His gun traces her bruised, emaciated chest and withered breasts. Rain steadily falls and patters.

“Where? Where are your tits?” he asks exaggeratedly, to the now-accompanying laughter of his fellows.

Amelie: Amelie looks down at her body as the soaked coat falls away. She misses it. She misses the thickness of her shoulders and the power in her arms. She misses the tone and coil forged from years of tears and bleeding calluses.

But here is this man now, mocking a skeleton, a body more at home decades ago, a gaunt Jew-like victim staring at a cackling Aryan cunt she wishes would just die. But Amelie knows she doesn’t have to wish. She remembers the security guard’s broken neck, she remembers her own quench, the visions that came to her while screaming and burning coming back to remind her. She is forged in horror just like this.

The tiny Holocaust look-alike stares the man right in the eye, and feels a will allow itself to be pushed out like a weapon. To subjugate the lesser man. She takes all humiliations she has suffered and shows them that feeling, and shows them it’s their turn.

Amelie stands up straight, shoulders back, turning ever so slightly to the side with her left foot front. It’s a pose she knows well, practiced to tears, a dignified squaring up of two paper tigers circling each other. But she’s the weapon now, her face twisting into a half-feral snarl, showing the man her teeth, and two long sharp fangs more than capable of ripping his throat out. She’s seen it. And she lets him hear it, an inhuman throaty growl more suited to a creature than a woman. Amelie is both. She pushes out in a few certain words as her eyes bore holes in the cholo asshole’s glazed oafish orbs, hissed and jabbered more than spoken. This tiny little holocaust woman’s will, honed to a keen edge, lashes out at the man.

“Show some respect.”

GM: The man half-flinches, half-staggers back several steps from Amelie like he’s been stabbed, his face suddenly white as a sheet. “Que m-m-mie-?!” he starts, in what’s becoming a satisfyingly familiar response from toughs who think to push her around. (“What the f-f-fu?!”)

Yet so too is the follow-up becoming increasingly familiar to Amelie. The car’s doors fly open as the other two men burst out, violence in their eyes.

Amelie: Amelie feels her steps following him as he backs up, but she realizes he mistake a moment later. She sees she forgot about the two other men in her bid to make the third in front of her cow to her. That strong handsome cholo now stepping from the car to gun her down. Familiar and satisfying as it is to see the man bend to her, she feels the fool for forgetting what comes next. She remembers dying the last time this has happened, and sees a second death coming for her.

Fear. Oh sweet fear.

She feels her body turn to silk once again, a sharp duck down too fast for her to realize how unnatural it looks, like a grotesque spider with missing limbs. She grabs the bloody lab coat and kicks off the Buick, a kickstart at a sprint line, she takes off. It’s different this time though. Faster. So much faster, even than her trip up the stairs of her death-place. She takes off into and through a yard, into the back, all in the same blink of an eye. She holds the coat, listening intently for her armed pursuit incoming.

GM: Amelie makes out swears and exclamations in Spanish just under the sound of a moving car. The music has been killed.

The night is otherwise quiet and still.

The two sharp points jutting against her lower set of teeth have not gone away.

Amelie: Amelie doesn’t count herself out of danger yet. She makes her way to the back of the yard and lets herself out through whatever gate is presented to her, hopping the fence if need be, and starting off into a jog east-ways. She knows it’s time to stop fucking around, starting to look for businesses nearby or people out walking this late. Maybe she can find a drug dealer that’ll point her to a thrift store she can burgle.

GM: Amelie wanders darkened streets and once-forbidden paths. Sometimes she makes out faint noises at the edge of her hearing, or sees a shadow flicker in her peripheral vision. Nothing is there when she turns her head.

Eventually, a steady rain starts to fall. The low patter-patter-patter of water against pavement is her sole companion as hair plasters against her head. Her red-crusted lab coat is drenched. Perhaps soon, or perhaps eventually. The night feels timeless. She doesn’t feel cold, even when rain drops spatter over her bare and now-grimy feet, which have walked more miles tonight than she can count.

Bereft of such basic sensations as cold and exhaustion, this entire experience feels almost unreal. Like it’s happening to some stranger in a morbid video she can’t look away from or turn off. Some strange part of her actually feels hope at the sounds of gunshots, wailing police sirens, and the splash of rainwater under cars’ turning wheels, even if those same sounds send her fleeing away into the shadows. The individuals responsible for them will make poor victims.

The night stretches out before her. Long, dark, and wet.

Perhaps prison, and the streets, aren’t really so different from McGehee. People spit on her no matter what she does, and make her suffer worse if she complains. Perhaps it’s her fate to be a ghost. Forever outcast. Forever outside. Forever alone.

Alone, but for the dull hunger burning in her gullet.

Amelie: Amelie keeps walking. Moving. It’s all she’s ever done and it’s all she’s ever been good at: moving on when people slap her in the back of the head and laugh when she yowls in pain. But this place keeps her jumping at every shadow. She finds more concern for those dark shadows than the thugs in the car. She shrinks back from every shadow that doesn’t meet her eyes and every sound that isn’t recognizable.

The rain feels like a blessing at first when it covers the sounds and makes static to hide the shapes. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Amelie washes her face and skin, slicking her thick black hair back, even stopping a time or two to try wringing the coat out. Look presentable. Look meek. Look lovable.

Her comfort in the rain doesn’t last long. It creeps in, the strange and alien feeling of complete zero. Perfect room temperature, skin and air blurring together. She almost misses the goosebumps and uncomfortable warmth on her cheeks and forehead. But small sounds are her comfort. She follows the sounds of gunshots, pauses to listen to passing police siren, and eventually just starts wandering residential areas. She looks into cars and trying to find any traces of clothing, or if anyone has been unlucky enough to leave a cellphone on their seats.

Even as she searches, she is alone wondering if this dull burning is the kind that goes away. Or if God has abandoned her to a Buddhist punishment, and she is a “hungry ghost.” An ancient creature born of great need, cursed to an unending life of seeking food, only to never be able to truly eat enough to sate the hunger of a bloated stomach of famine.

Amelie knows very few houses have garages, peeking up fences and hoping the rain covers both the sight of her, and the sound if she finds what she is looking for. Either a damned 24 hour 7-11 or a car with something good in it.

GM: The rain falls and plunks as Amelie walks.

So many houses look vacant and decaying, bereft of signs of human touch or habitation. Pickings look slim.

Amelie steps over another discarded needle amidst so much other trash. A feverish moan drifts from one of the nearby houses’ boarded-up, graffiti-tagged windows.

She wanders until she sees neon.


Amelie: Amelie starts to wonder who lives in this part of town, or if anyone does at all. All these buildings can’t be empty, can they?

The monster’s thoughts get pushed even further away when she sees the needle and hears the moan. This is a ghost town. All that dark nothing crossing the freeway, that’s here. It hurts to see this side of New Orleans.

GM: It’s then, as she stands in the vacant Circle-K convenience store and gas station lot, that the detail occurs to Amelie.

She hasn’t seen any cars, anywhere, since crossing the Mississippi.

Except for the Buick.

Amelie: Amelie seeing the neon lights of the gas station make her quicken her pace, but the realization stops her in her tracks.

It worries her that the only car she has seen has been one that tried to pull her in.

But she hurries forward to the gas station, taking the cash out her breast pocket to count it, and see how much she has to bribe her way to a phone, or a spare uniform.

GM: Amelie counts $84. A dollar less than she stole off the coroner.

Amelie: It’s a good amount of money, at least after the conversion rate. Amelie steps towards the gas station and tries the doors.

GM: They soundlessly slide open.

The surroundings are banal. They brim with lime-flavored Matador Beef Jerky, Cheetos, Pringles, Cocoa-Cola, Dr. Pepper, and other packaged and bottled brand names. There’s a small selection of dairy and meat products that come in plastic cups and boxes instead of bags.


The red-shirted clerk stares blankly ahead from behind the counter. She rests a single clenched fist on its surface.


Her other hand rests unseen beneath.

Amelie: Amelie takes a quick look around, seeing the desk. She keeps one hand on her chest, to keep the lab coat drawn, and the other up to her side to show she means the cashier no harm, showing the money in the same hand.

“I look like hell, sorry about that,” she starts as she approaches. “You probably don’t sell clothes… but you wouldn’t happen to have any extra uniforms in the back?”

Amelie shows the woman three slightly damp $20 bills.

“In and out, just can’t use the ferry looking like this in the morning. Got plenty of money here for your trouble.”

GM: The woman looks at Amelie and the three twenties with empty eyes, then smiles. She raises the knife she’s holding behind her back and slashes her own throat. Red sprays and leaks gruesomely. Her fist doesn’t unclench until she crashes to the floor, gurgling with laughter, leaving a single blood-flecked dollar bill on the counter.

She does not once cry out.

Amelie: Amelie jerks her hands back, not looking for another cats-eye scar in her other hand. Her hands clamp over her mouth in abject horror watching this woman… eviscerate herself! Dozens of panicked thoughts race through her mind all at once.

Did she do this? Drive this poor woman insane? No, that doesn’t explain the bill. She doesn’t know how it came out of her pocket, assuming it dropped during the scuffle earlier. So then why has this woman come into possession of it!? Why is she laughing!?

Amelie can only see one vague answer: whether this is real or if she has gone insane on top of being turned into a monster.

“DEMON! LEAVE ME ALONE! WH-WHY KEEP TORTURING ME!?”

She hurries to the counter, quickly looking over the counter for the woman, to jump over and stop the bleeding if she can.

Her hands smear into the blood on the counter, and all her senses rubber band to the present. Slick, warm, and cooling so terribly fast, a new panic rises up in her for a moment. Like another deli wrapper has hit the ground and she needs to rush to—Amelie’s conscious catches up with her sheer thirst this time, her tongue already nearly against her chin, her hand drooling the liquid ambrosia. She is disgusting.

Amelie slams her fist into the counter, grabbing a display on the counter and sending it flying. Angry at herself for even pausing as she hoists herself up onto the counter, to see if the woman can be saved.

GM: The woman’s neck has no pulse. She smiles up at the ceiling with empty eyes.

An increasingly large red pool is spreading across the floor. It smells like ambrosia.

Amelie: It smells like ambrosia. She’s been too long without any kind of real comfort, too many things turn off searching for it. She slides off the counter into the pool, feeling it coat her as she kneels in it, her face soon joining them as she slides her tongue through the cooling lifeblood.

The dignity of just using her tongue goes out the moment the smell of copper hits the intersection of her olfactory senses. She dives into it, slurping and scooping. Her mouth devolving into a blood spattered dustpan of what used to be a human life. But she needs it too much to pull herself away.

GM: The woman’s blood is savory, warm, and filling, like chicken soup that’s been sitting out just long enough not to scald Amelie’s tongue. Everything is bright and well-lit. And warm. It’s almost comforting against the cold, dark, rainy night outside.

The spreading pool of blood has by now seeped against Amelie’s knees.

Amelie: It’s more than that. It’s her mother’s post-thanksgiving soup. That big dumb pot she used her husband’s forge to simmer, turkey bones, meat, carrots, celery, always too much onion. It has its own taste, but the feeling that fills her when she swallows it down does nothing but evoke the kind of bliss only a memory so tender can. And perverts it while it’s at it.

She drinks what feels like, but she wonders is her fill, and looks down at the pool. Her hands. The woman’s face down in the floor. She still doesn’t even know if this is real. She feels her heart slowly start to rip in half as she stares into the dead meat’s eyes. Two deaths in a single night she’s had to watch. She only prays that one of them isn’t truly real, or at least that she isn’t directly responsible.

Amelie quickly brings herself up on her knees and looks around for the controls to lock the front doors, she’s yet to see a gas station without them.

GM: Amelie locates the control system easily enough.

It’s as she’s walking over to punch the keypad that she also spots the same Hispanic men from earlier, and several others, striding up to the gas station’s front doors.

Amelie: Amelie feels a surge of fear and panic, trapped behind this counter with a bunch of the fucking cholos coming down onto the door. It pushes her just fast enough to surge forward and click the keypad by the register, the door’s magnetic locks soundlessly charged with electricity, locking the doors and barring their entry. She keeps her head down under the desk and prays, hands clasped together.

But she feels strange again, something different from the sudden bursts of speed, the same thing as with the police. Amelie feels as though she’s going crazy, before she finds that same unnatural focus extending from herself and towards the gang-bangers who have become her predators.

GM: Drawn guns trained at her flash through Amelie’s mind’s eye.

Amelie: Amelie sees their guns too clearly, even if she’s just insane. It’s the snapping twig she needs to make a break for it. She runs with all her might, clawing at the cabinets and corners to launch herself through a set of doors into the employee area, quickly checking if the door has a bolt before moving onto the next door, looking for the maintenance ladder up onto the roof, or a back door.

GM: Amelie tugs the door to the employees-only area.

It’s stuck.

Something smells from behind it.

Something rotten.

Then, there’s the explosive roar of gunshots. Shattering glass. Flying debris.

“We know you’re in there, maricón!” shouts a man’s voice over the tromp of heavy footsteps and crunching glass.

“Where are your tits!” laughs another advancing voice.

Amelie: Amelie’s nose picks up the stench the moment the door moves, pulling on it hard. It’s sweet rot, a flash of the demon going through her mind. She feels a horrible danger from both sides, the door and the front of the store.

But one’s louder.

The gangbangers shoot the glass in like a fucking SWAT raid, and she can hear them cackling and approaching like a pack of hyenas.

She wonder if she has a handle on it yet, the phenomenon at the bridge. She’s done it a few times now! She grits her teeth and feels the focus pump from her chest down into her arms, and PULLS, feeling the jammed door fly open with her. But the danger makes her think twice about running in. She opens the door and follows it, instead of in, she goes behind the door, the tiny form hidden in the shadow behind the open thing. She hopes two dangers cancel each other out.

GM: Amelie heaves with her stick-like limbs, and for just a moment, she feels as strong as her old self again.

The door bursts open with a crack.

The stench doesn’t waft out.

It pours out.

Wet. Acrid. Rotten. So, so rotten. Like a waterlogged corpse fished from the Mississippi after days treading polluted muddy water. Something that scalds nostrils like bleach scalds fingers. Something that hurts frail human senses for daring to overextend themselves.

“Wh…”

The sound of men voiding their stomachs and strangled cries of, “SANTA MIERDA-!” fill Amelie’s ears—and then the explosive roar of gunfire in close quarters, and the faint ‘tink’ of ammunition casings hitting floor.

There’s several resounding crashes, exploding shrapnel, and a scream—hideously contorted, barely human—wet splatters, more crashes, shouts, gunfire—

“Muere maldito! ¡MUERE MUERE MUERE! ¡¡¡¡MORIR!!!!”

Something feels like it’s ripping Amelie apart from the inside, roaring in her ears to run—

And she runs.

Screams. Gunfire. Noise. Pain.

The red haze is gone as abruptly as it descended. Amelie is crouched behind a decaying and boarded-up house. Her back hurts. She can feel the night air and pattering rain drops against her skin where she couldn’t before.

In the distance, past the steadily falling rain, she can make out furious and indistinct voices in Spanish.

Amelie: Amelie feels a sudden burst of clarity back into the real world like being dumped into a bath of ice-water. She immediately pops her head up and scans around the back of the house, towards the street. She tries to get her bearings: Where the cholos are. Where the gas station is. Why she feels the air where she hasn’t been before.

She feels like a rat scurrying around and trying its best to survive while a gaggle of cats try to skin and eat her alive. Everything is top priority, too much and too important. She feels…wired.

Her mind races with agony and ideas on how she’s going to get out of here, and she realizes it immediately. She wants their fucking car. She can use it to cruise back over the bridge and get to another neighborhood. She can lick her wounds when the cholos can’t find her.

Amelie relives it all over again. Being stuck in this city in the dark, things giving chase, getting lost, all in this ridiculous fucking coat and coated in blood. She decides it’s enough, that’s she’s taking that fucking car and getting the fuck out of here.

Grabbing the side of the decrepit house she launches herself arms and legs around the corner, keeping low to the ground as she can as she makes a mad sprint for their car, ready to hop in while they bark and yell and drive away with their ride.

GM: The rain and the night seem to work in Amelie’s favor as she silently creeps towards the parked vehicle. She can see the gangsters’ outlines past the windows. Several are waving their guns and all but screaming at one another. A few are shaking and look unsteady on their feet.

Amelie tugs on the still-running car’s door.

It’s locked.

Amelie: Amelie carefully looks up and into the car, checking through the window for the keys and if the drivers door is locked.

GM: The driver’s door is unlocked. Meanwhile, the shouting among the gangsters subsides as two take off back towards the gas station.

The remaining ones start walking towards the car.

They freeze.

“MIERDA!!!!!!”

“¡No jodas mi paseo!”

More cursing sounds. Gunfire explodes through rainy night air as the gangsters run around the car from both sides and pump lead into Amelie.

By some insane stroke of providence, the first man’s gun clicks uselessly in his hands as he pulls the trigger. The second gunshot misses Amelie completely, but elicits a howl of pain and aromatic release of blood from the man it discharges into. He staggers beneath the shot, sending the punch he throws at Amelie into the car’s metal flank. His raw, bellowed screams sound like a demon’s.

Amelie: Amelie watches the scene unfold, too late to back away or run before the the thugs come around the side of the car. She feels it in almost slow motion, that this is the moment her fortune has finally hit the ground. That is, before it suddenly soars. One gun jammed, another firing into the driver from before, but not enough to stop a heavy thudding slam into the side of the car. She feels as though she’s stood still while a house fell around her, leaving her in the only place not savaged by the collapse.

She has a chance, now. She needs to fight back! She turns to the cholo who just shot his own driver, rears up, and lets out a feral roaring hiss in his face. Mouth open wide, face stained red, her new fangs on prominent display and still drooling leftovers from her blood soaked mouth. She tries it again. She wants to bend him to her will. Break him, order him!

“You shot him! You will die for it if I don’t kill you first!! Escape!!!”

GM: The haggard-faced and wild-eyed man looks like he’s been through hell. Like he’s still in hell. At Amelie’s bared fangs and howled threat, his face blanches—and then hardens into steel, hot and furious.

“MORIR, VAMPIRO!!! MORIR!!!!!”

His gun discharges into Amelie’s roaring face at near point-blank range.

The shot takes her right in the throat, sending her staggering back as blood sprays through the falling rain. Getting shot doesn’t hurt as badly as she thought it might, though. It feels more like a solid punch.

Swords are better might be Amelie’s last conscious thought as one of the gangsters screams, “Te tengo jefe!” and maneuvers behind her.

Then the red haze descends.

Darkness follows.

---

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