Joe Carter

[Wired*Nun]

[Starter - what does Joe do when he wakes?]

[TreyKincaide]

Joe wakes from deadly fever dreams startled. His ear ring echoes of explosions and dead soldiers. He's up on his feet before he realizes he's in no cage. The bitter blackened wounds pulse and throb.

Joe wakes up angry. Joe always wakes up angry.

He pulls his dirty, tattered jack around him as the evening's first round of shakes run their course.

I'm closer baby. Just a little bit farther now.

Joe wrenches the door open with a little more force than needed, but this is a Brujah house and they're probably used to stuff being broken. He instinctively hides his battle scars in a house of predators and gruffly asks for Stacks.

"You got Nosferatu contacts or do I need to go find Morgan and ask why the hell he and the Tremere up and vanished while we were storming the fort?"

[Wired*Nun]

The kine give Joe a wide berth as he blunders down the hallway looking for Stacks. He finds the other man sitting on a leopard-print sofa with a cell phone in one hand, the ample chest of a breather doll in the other. He lifts that hand to hold up an index finger in Joe's direction, finishing up the call. "Aaiiite."

He stands, shoving the woman off his lap onto the floor. She smiles as if she likes that treatment, rolling to her feet with an athletic grace. Joe's thirsty again; his body burns with the need to stitch together his rent flesh. Stacks steps forward to clasp hands with Joe, as if they were arm-wrestling the in the air, if he follows the gesture.

"Lookin' good, my wiggah. Yeah, we got a meet, real soon. Safe passage. They freakin, bruh." Stacks smiles, laughs, presumably at the discomfiture of the Nos. "Whateva it is, they can't handle. Friend in need, and allat."

He lets go of Joe's hand. "Fuck them suits, fuck allavem. Ain' one of them worth a damn when it counts. Don't care 'bout no faggot beatnik. We gonna lick up the lowdown, locate this thing, then drop the hammer. Aaiitte?"

[TreyKincaide]

There's a camaradie between blooded men.

"Aaitte," Joe grunts. "We going strapped?" The Gangrel wrings his hands angrily, "Finally ran up against something these couldn't take down. Looks like we need to be packing auto to jack this motha in the teeth."

I like it this way. No suits. No Tremere. Just me bringing the pain.

Joe's eyes settle on the doll. He licks his lips and shakes it away, "When do we bounce?"

[Wired*Nun]

"Not yet. This is a recon, an a confab. Once we talk to the uglies, locate this thing, then we go in heavy." His eyes darken. "We all go in. Doc was good people, for a breather. Your...your little girl, too."

Stacks reaches for the woman, hooded eyes never leaving Joe's. He grabs her arm, shoves her at Carter. "Go on, man, do your thing. This is Lisa. She fix you right up."

Lisa turns the shove into an embrace, molding herself to Joe's body. Her smile is genuine, like her lust. The craving seizes him as she lifts the inside of her elbow to his mouth. The veins throb under the thin skin, and it's all he can see.

[TreyKincaide]

Joe plunges his fangs through her tender skin and drinks deeply. Lisa's heart beat becomes deafening. Joe gnashes against his hunger and draws back. He licks the wound and is wracked by guilt as he sees his daughter's face on Lisa's body.

He steps back in self loathing before seizing his composure. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks," he grunts.

Another night's rest.

Joe looks at Stacks, "We go in. It doesn't come out. I gotcha."

[Wired*Nun]

"Any time, baby," Lisa breathes. She sways over to Stacks, who stands a couple of steps away with his back turned, and whispers something in his ear. He grunts at her, then shoves her away gently and slaps her backside lightly.

He turns around at Joe's words.

"Yeah. Let's make the meet."

A half hour later they pull into a Metro DC water substation, by the simple expedient of knocking the lock off the gate with a hammer. Stacks pulls the Escalade between the low blockhouse buildings where it's not easily seen, after closing the gate and hanging the lock and chain so it looks undisturbed.

"My guy spoda be 'roun here somewhere..."

A dim figure detatches itself from a doorway where they noticed nothing a moment before, moving silently over to the two men standing by their vehicle. Its face is in darkness, and the clothes are worn and shabby things of former quality, not noticably dirty. The hood of the old black cashmere coat is up, and the voice that emanates from it is low, male, breathy.

"What up, my nig?"

Stacks grunts. "Don' mock me, Amos," he says good-naturedly. "I'm ghetto, I ain't stupid."

The figure chuckles, then the two men clasp hands.

"This is Joe," Stacks goes on, hooking a thumb Carter's direction. "Friend of his was one of the...victims of that mess."

Stacks goes on to describe the events of yesterday as he experienced them. "...and then it went into the storm drain. One of those big ones kids fall down inta."

Amos turns away, pacing for a moment, muttering. "Lost three retainers last night. Eaten, down to the shoes. The thing doesn't like shoes." A dry chuckle again. "They shot at it. Shot it, probably, found the shell casings. It went deep down, under the water. It's hard to go in the water, you know? Can't track it, too dangerous to follow it...have to just keep vigilant, be ready."

Stacks look at Joe, as if to see if he has anything to say.

[TreyKincaide]

Joe grunts not really feeling sorry for the Nosferatu's sewer rats. He shoves his hands into his pockets, "Be ready? Bullets don't stop it. Claws don't cut it. I 'spect fire won't do much."

"Problem is that we don't know what the hell it is or how to kill the damn thing short of ripping it's fucking head off. And that didn't work too good the last time."

"Lupines go full metal jacket. Don't run neither. They don't work this way. Damned if I know what does. My money says that a lick's behind it all. But makes no sense going after the Doc. Unless he was a better liar than I give him credit for, he was about as clueless as the rest of us."

Carter growls with frustration. He forces his anger into a tight little ball in his gut. Think like a hunter. It's not an animal. But then Joe, no one's better at hunting men. "I hate this conspiracy bullshit."

He shakes his head, "So, we can't track it. Only choice is to get out ahead of it. Figure who the next target is and be there with some krypto-nite to shove down its fucking throat. Cut its strings and turn it against its handler."

[Wired*Nun]

"Yeah...or sucker it out somehow," Stacks grunts.

The Nos responds, musingly. "But why did it go after the good Doctor? He was a willworker by all accounts, and a philanthropist of sorts. Did he have enemies? Does this thing eat breathers with supernatural qualities? Are we kindred not on its list of appetites? What could we use as bait?"

"Another mumbo-jumbo?"

The Nos' voice smiles, even while his face remains hidden. "Yesss...."

[TreyKincaide]

Joe clenches his jaw. Using breathers wasn't his style. Fury ebbs and just disgust for the 'wrongness' of the whole thing settles in its place. "Apparently the Doc's...mumbo-jumbo...wasn't up to snuff," he grunts. "Where we going to find another magic man?"

It ate your ghouls, but it murdered my daughter. It's being controlled, and I don't know if just killing it and not its master's enough to quench my hunger.

[Wired*Nun]

"Huh," grunts Stacks. "Amos kin find out anything, if his Elders want him to."

"Yessss...almost anything not deliberately hidden. The willworkers are amazingly careless...but we would have to find one that few would miss or mourn...that may take some time."

Stacks looks sidelong at Carter before returning his attention to Amos. "That whole s'nario gonna be tricky...you's always too damn tricky for yer own good." He slams one fist into another in frustration. "Tell you what, when you got somethin', you call me. We'll go organize the muscle."

"All right...oh, by the way, the suits might have a witness of some kind. I hear. Some old breather woman. But you didn't hear it from me."

Amos fades into the darkness, leaving less than a memory.

"Hunnnhh...witness...I need to talk to my boss...get some leverage to have a talk with this...witness..."

[TreyKincaide]

Joe shakes his head angrily as he stalks back to the car. He slams the door, "Useless. Not any better than dealing with the Tremere. Two faced bastards. All of 'em."

"Shawna wouldn't like it. Not like this. I'm going to let them piss on her memory with their manipulative bullshit."

A bit of the old soldier's pride runs roughshod over the junkie animal, "Look, I know I owe you. I'll get you back if I'm not dead. I won't stir up any more shit on your turf, but if this is how it's going down, I want no part of it. I'll go back to doing things my way."

"If you need to talk to someone, drop me off at the next subway term. I'll just find one of the suits and make it awfully painful for them if they don't tell me who this kine is."

[Wired*Nun]

Stacks frowns. "Bruh, you ain't out in the burbs no more. This is DC. It's all p'litical. You want to twist arms, go talk to Morgan [Art Morgan, the Gangrel Primogen in DC] and get some top cover. Like I'm doin'. Or just stick with me, you'll get yer chance."

He starts the Escalade, rolls it out to the gate. "But it's your call, man. Open the gate, yo?" He drives through the gate when Carter opens it, picking him up after he closes it.

The drive in silence for a few minutes before he pulls up near a Metro. "Ain' no subway, neither. This ain't New Yawk. Metro is the closest thing...but you're better off with taxis." He pulls out a roll of bills, holds it out to Joe. "Here's some scratch. Naw, don' worry about it. Money's easy. Somebody got your back, that's hard."

"Up to you."

[TreyKincaide]

Joe takes a deep breath into his shriveled lungs. He props one arm on the door and runs his eyes as his gut throbs. He leans back on the head rest, "Nah man. I'm cool. Drive."

He rides in silence for a couple blocks, "Sorry. You've been straight up, and I've been shitting on your hospitality. One vampire cess pit blends into the next after awhile. Haven't had to deal with decent folks--including blood--for a grip. I thought I could keep my shit together long enough to get this over 'n done with on my own. But I can't."

"The rat's plan to use some poor schmuck like the doc don't settle with me. Only people that aren't missed in any outfit are the grunts at the bottom. Or those who don't get down on their knees for those in power." Like you. Like me.

Joe stares out the window watching the colored lights go by wondering, hoping that it'd all be over soon.

[Wired*Nun]

Stacks stares at Joe curiously. "Pers'nally, I don' care if some cheap trick gets offed; what did they ever do for us? But I hear ya; can't let the Beast take over." He suddenly changes tone, like a stage actor, to something faux-British. "That way lies madness!" He laughs, but his gaze is haunted even as he turns it to look forward. He puts the SUV in gear and drives. "And all's queer but me and thee..."

A Shakespearian-trained Brujah...there's more to this guy than meets the eye.

"I got a idea...a favor from you. You hearda Art Morgan, right? I think we should ask him to talk to the doggies...maybe they know something about this lizard...can you arrange that? Some bat-signal or something?"

[TreyKincaide]

"S'not even that man. It's just when you start figuring that folks are disposable, you aren't much different than the licks in charge. I prefer to only dispose of those that crossed me...or get in my way."

"Yeah, sure. I can find Art. His van can always be found where the best drugs are. Since he vanished last night after pawning the beatnik off on us, he might be amendable."

[Wired*Nun]

" 'Cause that thing was breathin', an' maybe the doggies know about it, bein' all natural an' all. Hell, I read horror books, 'long time ago...if werewolves are real, why not a were-alligator? Or sumpin. Though this one was smart enough to run off when it started getting gangbanged. No rage there...coldblooded, yo."

He rounds a corner, and the streets start looking more familiar, getting into the edge of Georgetown. "So where he at, you think?" he asks rhetorically.

They pull up to a group of loiterers, at the same time Stacks cranks up some rap in the Escalade. He slides on his sunglasses, and rolls down his window. "Yo yo yo, what up my nigs? Simmy, c'mere." He waves to a bored-looking breather with a 'fro-comb stuck in his hair and his pants around his knees.

They converse in nearly impenetrable street dialect for a moment, then he rolls the window back up and drives away. "The magic bus is a couple streets over, he say." Three turns later they find themselves in an alley similar to the one he last saw Art's VW microbus in; not the same, but it might as well be. At least three ways out, plus a fire escape above the vehicle and a loose manhole cover nearby. Art was never a fool, even if he played one on TV.

Stacks parks the SUV close to the wall, blocking his own exit door. "Go talk to him, man, I wait for ya here, aiite?" He shuts off the vehicle lights, leaving the alley in semidarkness.

There is movement near the microbus; someone peeking out from behind it. The side door is open, indicating business is being done.

[TreyKincaide]

"All right," Joe grunts as his boots his the pavement. The grizzled vet, never a fool, puts his back to building wall a goodly distance away and waits for the elder hippy to finish his deal in privacy. Even among savages, manners still count. Especially among savages.

As Joe tends to do when he's not preoccupied, he drifts off into memories of the past that persist in intruding on the present. Wracked by withdrawl, he sets his mind on the hole in his gut to ward off the wailing ghosts of the long dead.

At least the pain's something keep me here.

Joe perks up his senses ready to make for one of those exits should shit go south. Only after Morgan's ready for him does his stroll up.

[Wired*Nun]

Art waves Joe over as a couple of dim figures slouch away toward the far alley mouth. He slides his butt into the open side door and onto the seat, waving Joe toward the opposite bench. He looks tired; exhausted, even. He stinks, too, which is saying something for Joe to notice over his own ragged ass.

"Man, I figgured you'd show up soon. Spent all day chasing that thing, ain't slept. You look fresh," he says with a half smile. "The bruh can come over, if he wanna, it's cool."

[TreyKincaide]

Can't tell if it's better than the patchouli.

"Fresh. Yeah. Like a private's boxers fresh in the suck," Joe motions back to the Brujah. "Dude lemme have a bite to take the edge off. Provided I can find a couple meals, I should be okay in a few days."

"Wanted to know if you'd parley with the Lupines."

[Wired*Nun]

Art smiles, suddenly feral, focused. "Yeah, that's what somebody always wants. That's okay...gives me an edge. They never know how far the garou will go for me...and that's how I like it. You askin' for yourself, your buddies...or did somebody ask you to ask?"

Stacks steps up at that moment, saying, "I asked. Nobody else."

Art give him a lazy wave. "Hey, Tobias. Been a while. Okay, for you gents, I'll look into it."

Stacks goes on, "Yeah, I was wonderin' if this thing could be some kinda were-lizard. If there is such a thing. Maybe the doggies know."

Art looks thoughful. "Maybe...though I got another angle. Might not matter either way. I just got word from a friend of a friend. You guys want to back a play of mine?"

The request is so unexpected that Stacks drops his jaw. Although Art is well known for his unofficial "archons" that he commissions to accomplish certain tasks, he is almost legendary for working alone on everything.

"You ever want to see the inside of the Chantry?"

Stranger and stranger...

[TreyKincaide]

Although he's accustomed to Morgan's antics Carter's jaw drops, "The Chantry?" He tries to recover from his surprise. "You know I got your back, man, but...damn. That's...just...damn."

"Screw it. If it gets me closer to Shawna's killer, I'd even walk right into the middle of Lupine happy hunting ground."

[Wired*Nun]

"Good. I don't think they'll cause me too much pain, but they'll squawk, and the more backup I got, the better. And our bloodmage brethren are too secretive as it is; I think there are others that will give me cover, after the fact. We just have to be the bold risk-takers we are." He gives a tight, fake cheshire smile, squinting his eyes, catlike.

Stacks takes a step back. "Unh. Aaite." Joe can tell he's playing off a sudden uneasiness. "Lemme..." he pulls out his cell phone.

"No." Art puts out a hand. "This is just us. There will be witnesses, we're going in the front door; no need to get anyone else involved until the last minute. Let's go...we'll take mine." He gestures toward the microbus.

Stacks looks back at his Escalade. "Oh, man...someone gonna strip my wheels in this neighborhood."

"Gimme the keys," says Art. Stacks hands them over. Art tosses the keys down the alleyway away from the Escalade. They are lost in the darkness, but they don't fall to the ground. They just...disappear.

"It'll be taken care of."

Stacks looks at him as if he's gone mad, then shakes his head in bafflement, taking a deep breath for a theatrical sigh. "Aaaiiite."

Joe has an inkling of what just happened; he'd seen Garou appear out of thin air before, and disappear into it as well. He knew they had some kind of alternate dimension they could access, that they called the Umbra. Maybe Art could do it too...or maybe there were unseen friends watching.

They pile in to the VW. Its engine clatters to life, sounding like an anemic lawnmower, but it propels them down the street well enough, and out into the traffic. Art is an oddly timid driver, or maybe he just doesn't want cop trouble. He sticks to speed limits, only changes lanes when he has to, and doesn't run any yellows.

Joe sees Stacks looking back a couple times. He catches Joe looking at him, shakes his head. "Thought I saw..." he trails off. Snorts with muffled laughter.

[TreyKincaide]

"Don't worry. Best way to get through it is to play out the trip. Not fight it." Joe gets comfortable in stripped down bucket seat. "'Sides we're with Morgan. Only kindred I'd even consider storming the fort with."

He shakes his head nursing his side, "He's not kidding when he says we got back up, so let's revel in the one time we'll ever get to roll up and put the wizards in their place. Cause they have long memories, and life'll get more interesting from here on out."

[Wired*Nun]

"Yeah..." Stacks mumbles, looking out the window at the damp streets and bundled breathers. "I'd feel better if I'da gotten my own backup...hope peeps is watchin' the front door. Don' like these hand-wavers..." he trails off.

I guess everyone's got something to be afraid of, if it comes right down to it.


"He's not kidding when he says we got back up, so let's revel in the one time we'll ever get to roll up and put the wizards in their place. Cause they have long memories, and life'll get more interesting from here on out."


Morgan flashes Joe that tight smile again as he rounds a corner, then reaches into a beat-up plastic cooler and pulls out a two-liter soda bottle. The wrapping has been stripped off and the streetlights reveal its deep crimson tint. He hands it to Joe.

It's warm...just a tad under body temperature.

"Drink up, dude," Morgan says, putting the doper personna back on for a moment. "It'll fix you right up. But keep it together, it's really good shit."

He pulls another bottle out, screws the top off and starts drinking in measured swallows as he drives.

Stacks stares at him for a moment as he does it, then shruggs and goes back to looking at the passing streets.

[TreyKincaide]

Joe handles the two-liter with a grunt. He almost wonders if the cagey old dog knows blood magic as he takes a long slow draw of vitae. Joe's been on the road long enough to know that blood doesn't stay warm or pallatable outside the human body for any length of time, but then he also doesn't make a habit of not falling in line when older Gangrel say jump. He might not have a taste for authority, but old instincts die hard and there's no question that Morgan was the alpha dog in this little impromptu pack.

He does his best to restrain himself and not suck the bottle down he takes a good look at Stacks. The soldier finds himself empathizing with the Brujah; he too was afraid of the Tremere.

"That's some powerful shit," Joe coughs breaking the silence and the lingering foreboding that arises before any sortie that's bound to SNAFU. "Not to pry or nothing, but how does an educated man like you end up banging?"

[Wired*Nun]

The vitae explodes in his mouth like moonshine burning as it goes down. It's like nothing he's ever tasted. Must be juiced? Hits him like all the speedball he's ever taken, rolled into one. He feels his cravings vanish like smoke, replaced by strength, speed, power. His wounds...itch, crawl with fire, the scars and bruises of the aggravated injuries smoothing to perfection.

Morgan is staring at him as it washes over and through him; he repeats in a warning tone, "Keep it together, man."

The shock subsides to a dull and pleasant throb, a song of potency promising everything he ever dreamed of and more. His head is clear and he can think for the first time in a while.

But he's been in and out of the jade curtain enough to know that the feeling won't last; that getting well is just getting sick again later. Just because this is the best shit ever doesn't mean it's going to be enough.

A tiny voice of hope whispers in his ear, wondering whether Morgan has given him something that will free him from the monkey forever...but his reason overrules that idea. Morgan is a dealer, for his own reasons, though the only thing he's ever seen him deal is hemp or other greens. Elders have their own wierd moralities and codes, and this was part of Art's. In the few hints he'd ever given, Joe got the impression that natural, unprocessed substances were all right in Art's book, but rocks and powders weren't. But he didn't see Morgan giving him some magic potion. Joe knew that Morgan believed in everyone dealing with his own demons, in the long run. A little relief didn't change that.

He finds himself surprised and disappointed when the bottle is empty. To pass the time he turns to Stacks.


"Not to pry or nothing, but how does an educated man like you end up banging?"


Stacks curls his lip in a smile. "How you end up on the street, man? E'vybody got their stories. My daddy was a slave; I was gonna be just as good as any free man. I knew Booker T, I went to Tuskeegee, majored in Drama and Theatre. I flew P-61s in Dubya Dubya Two. But you know what? Jim Crow is veeerrry comf'table in the Camarilla. He ain't never left. You hang around the suits, you see lots of color? So jus' like ev'ybody, I go where I don't have to fight my bru'hs along with everyone else. 'Sides...I di'nt choose my sire; I'm happy where I am, workin' it from the bottom up."

Stacks sounds a little bit like he's told this story before; a little bit like he's still trying to convince himself.

[TreyKincaide]

"Fair enough. Vietnam," Joe cuts himself off as clarity pierces the veil keeping away the ghosts. The Gangrel rubs his eyes realizing that clear and sobre or wracked with sickness he'll never be right in the head until he stomps out his ghosts.

"Not going to happen," he mutters aloud to himself. Kindred don't change except for the worse. Joe shakes himself and slaps some 'life' into his legs. "Can't say I'm as high minded, Stacks. I'm just not good at being told what to do. Haven't met who did me in. Certainly didn't do me any favor."

[Wired*Nun]

"Did you in or brought you back? Whatcha gonna do if you meet 'im?"

[TreyKincaide]

"Both," Joe grunts. "Was dragged from underneath a bridge one night. Bastard at least did me the favor of covering me with some dirt before the sun came out."

The old drop out leans his head back on the rest, "I'm not sure. Probably depends on my state of mind or lack thereof at the time. On how ready I am to die. They're out there, sometimes. Waiting. Watching. Keeping an eye on me. We've been hunting each other for 30 years, but I've never managed to get close enough to catch more than a passing scent..." he trails off glancing over at Morgan.

I'm still pretty sure he knows, but I've asked before. Last time I did, got my ass handed to me.

[Wired*Nun]

"Maybe he don't wanna be found...maybe he's waiting for you to get straight enough to handle the meet," Morgan says mildly from the driver's seat. He hands the bottle he'd been drinking from to Stacks, who takes a swig.

"Whoah...what the..." Stacks stared stares at Morgan. "Is that..."

"Yeah," replies Art.

"Good shit. Always wanted to try it." He laughs. "Good shit."

He turns off the main residential feeder onto the P-shaped split one-way street that leads into the Chantry's location. Only one road in or out... They pass neat, conservative brick walkups and townhouses, with well-tended gardens and newish, but unflashy cars parked outside. There is a regimentation that gives itself away subtly. An ordinary neighborhood would have its occasional battered jeep or work van parked somewhere; it would have RV trailers and at least one house with the clutter of children in the yard.

Here, there is none of that. Stepford houses...whole neighborhood must be Tremere and retainers.

Unseen eyes watch them, but Joe can feel their gaze. They pull up in front of the Chantry, a forbidding iron-fenced Victorian mansion that occupies the island in the P. Morgan leans out the window to talk to the box on the pole.

"Hey in there. It's Art Morgan. If you don't know my name, find someone who does. Buzz the gate, and let me in, immediately." His voice is even, but he's using that no-nonsense tone that means he's deadly serious.

A couple of indeterminate sounds come from the box, then the word, "Proceed." A moment later two men separate themselves from the shrubbery inside the fence, opening the gate by hand. Morgan drives them inside.

There's an unpleasant vibe in the air that Joe can feel, but it doesn't bother him much in his supercharged state. Must be something to keep the kine away and discomfit visitors...

Morgan parks in front of the door, behind what might be a Rolls Royce from the 40s. He leaves the keys in it as he slides out. "All right, boys, it's showtime."

He swaggers up to the front door, which opens before he gets there. An impassive man in a very old-fashioned butler getup stands aside to let them enter. Inside, a woman in a dark skirt-suit, looking for all the world like a female concentration camp guard, holds up a hand. "The others must wait outside. You - "

Her declaration is cut short as Morgan seizes her by the throat and shot-puts her across the room, to slam into the brick mantelpiece above the realistic electric fireplace. She makes mewing sounds as she writhes on the floor; her back looks broken.

Raising his voice, Morgan says, "UNLESS YOU WANT A WAR ON YOUR HANDS, I WANT TO SEE WHOEVER IS IN CHARGE, RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"

[TreyKincaide]

Amped up on magic juice, Carter's all business as the trio rolls up on the witchs' den. He keeps his eyes peeled for any signs of trouble. Well, more trouble than one pissed off elder Gangrel. He scans cool scans the yard and settles on the bulter. Even Joe's a bit surprised at Morgan's actions, but he tries his best not to show it. Instead he puts his back to Morgan and gets ready to dance if needs be.

Getting in was the easy part. Getting out might take a fucking miracle at this rate. Can't die here. Not 'til Shawna gets her due.

[Wired*Nun]

There is a sudden flurry of sound from within the mansion, the beeping of a quiet alarm, the thudding of footsteps. An odd chemical smell manifests itself, some kind of defense mechanism perhaps. Good thing I don't need to breathe...

"Doors," Morgan says, pointing left and right at the two side doors, then moves over toward the main double doors leading into the interior. "Try not to Final anyone," he says flatly. His eyes burn bright and his movements are unnaturally quick.

Stacks whips out his heavy silver chain from his waist, whirling it in a vertical arc, preparing, and moves toward the left door. That leaves the right side for Joe.

Two ghouls burst out of the double doors at a run; they are holding some kind of exotic-looking weapons, like something out of an old Buck Rogers serial, at the ready. Morgan snatches the things out of their hands in a blur, performing a kind of double-handed moulinet, bringing the butts of the weapons down on the joints of neck and skull of the two men. they drop like dead fish, boneless on the polished floor.

Another one opens the door in front of Joe, a bit more cautious. This one just has a small pistol, perhaps a 9mm, held at her waist; she is Kindred and doesn't look the physical type. Joe has the initiative, as she freezes when she sees him.

Stacks grabs a nearby heavy hutch and slides it over in front of his door, the better to slow anyone down.

[TreyKincaide]

And let slip the dogs of war...

Joe bares his fangs and hisses as his hands grow wicked sharp to show his quarry that he means business. His vitae burns as he surges forward feinting a rake and wrests the 9mm out of the woman's hand.

A strong direct offensive can be enough to end a fight before it starts. Back down, so I don't have to dust you.

http://www.online-roleplaying.com/forums/showpost.php?p=364890&postcount=47

[Wired*Nun]

The woman just looks startled and a kind of squeak escapes her lips as Joe snatches the pistol out of her hand. Reflexively she hisses and backs up cringing, her fangs dropping as she raises her hands like an animal. Joe feels like a dire wolf facing a pet cat; completely confident.

Some banging sounds come from behind Joe, then a loud voice rings out with great bearing and presence: "Stop this madness, all of you!" It's delivered nonethless in clipped tones, with a harsh accent.

The words buzz and echo in Joe's ears, snatching at his will, but the effect slides off of him like butter from a hot griddle. The vitae he consumed sings a song of power in his veins.

The woman in front of him drops to her knees in obeisance, moaning. There's no one else in the small antechamber behind her; she seems no threat.

Back in the main entrance hall, Morgan roars: "Shut up, Hans, before I tear this place apart!"

Joe can see a dapper, grey-haired Kindred standing on the balcony above the main double doors, Morgan looking up at him. Hans replies, "In a few more moments a hundred Tremere and retainers will descend upon this place; I strongly suggest you be elsewhere when they do."

Morgan laughs. "What, no cries of 'what's the meaning of this?' or 'you have no right!' You know why I'm here. And if I don't make a phone call within two hours, a hundred of my canine friends and a thousand Kinfolk are going to visit you and demand a reckoning. They know about your prisoner. They know you're in violation of the Treaty."

Hans sneers. "She was taken lawfully and is suspected of the murder of five Kindred. She must be questioned."

"Really? Here, and not by your Prince? I'll bet Marcus doesn't even know you have her yet...do you think he will back you up if what you do starts a war? Or will he hand you over to them to keep the peace?"

Hans' face freezes and he stiffens, his only movement the tapping of the tip of his middle fingers on the railing he clutches, as he thinks over Morgan's argument.

He eventually spits out words. "Very well. What do you want? We can't just let her go without being questioned, and she is proving...stubborn."

"The caerns agreed that I should handle it, at least until we talk again. So bring us to her, I want to talk to her myself. Tick tock!"

There is stealthy motion all around, that Joe can sense; reinforcements must be gathering, on the other sides of doors, outside the external windows perhaps, in other hidden places. He sees the door on the other side of the antechamber open a fraction, an eye pressed to the crack.

Hans finally replies, "Very well. Withdraw, all of you, but remain alert!" This last he calls out into the air, but loud enough to be heard beyond the first walls, at least.

[TreyKincaide]

Joe slides around the girl putting his back to the door to keep a better eye on added company. Keeping away from the window he draws close enough to the woman to use her as a shield or hostage if needs be. He settles back 'securely' letting Art run the show.

Not like I have much choice at this point.

He follows along picking words here and there. Joe's not quite the wolf friend that Art seems to be preferring to live and let live. Most of them didn't have much use for a down and out druggie anyway. Except for one night sharing an underpass over a barrel fire and a bottle of hooch, he's managed to stay off the radar during his travels.

Joe finds himself curious what kind of lupine would manage to let herself get captured rather than fight to the bloody end.

[Wired*Nun]

Down snaking paneled corridors the three are led, to an elevator leading downward. It makes Joe's skin crawl to be so boxed, but it's over soon enough, apparently at a basement sub-level, though the buttons are not marked.

They debouch into a laboratory complex of glass-paneled doors and acrid smells, flashing lights and staring faces. Joe can feel the animosity of the Tremere all around, a palpable opression that screams "get out!"

And he doesn't care. The vitae he drank sings in his veins, and he wants nothing more than to give in to rage, to rend the offending cowardly mumbo-jumbos, show them what they can do with their secrets and their closeted powers and their simpering animosities...

Soon they stand before a door steel, with three-inch-thick glass shot through with wires. There are gouges in the clear material nonethless, claw marks that start above his head and taper off to nothingness.

Inside, on a steel bunk, sits a pudgy old woman of medium height, her hair reddish streaked with grey, cascading over her head as it lolls almost to her knees. Her arms hang limply, her posture a mixture of despair and uncaring. A less frightening sight would be hard to imagine.

Hans makes a pass with his hand, then punches in a code and waves a card at the reader, which beeps. The door clicks, then clunks, as automated bolts retract. Hans pulls the door open gently, revealing the bank-vault style closures along the edge, the tips of stainless steel rods poised and ready to slam home again.

The woman doesn't stir.

Morgan strides in, taking a knee in front of her, lifting her head in his hands. Joe can see her eyes are vacant, staring.

"She is sedated, of course," says Hans. "Otherwise she would have torn herself apart trying to get out. It should be wearing down a bit, soon. You might want to be careful."

Morgan snorts, then laughs more full-bodied, almost maniacally. He mumbles something in an unknown tongue, then speaks more clearly, if not more understandably, to the woman. She doesn't respond.

"You see, she has not been harmed. She was not cooperative in our questioning, but we have not damaged her permanently." Hans nudges the door closed with his foot, and it clicks into place. A speaker comes on, transmitting the sounds from the room with unnatural clarity.

Morgan growls, "And why not? Are you smarter than you look?" Hans stiffens again. "Why didn't you rip whatever you wanted from her mind?" Morgan looks over his shoulder at Hans with a look of mild epiphany.

"You knew!"

"Not I. She suspected," Hans responds drily. "Not this, of course, but something...we are not wanton killers, like some."

"Touche' " Morgan laughs. "Just wanton slavers. Worse, to us." Which "us" he means, Joe could only guess, but the sentiment resonates.

Better a coffin than a cage.

Morgan speaks again. "I'm taking her out of here."

"No." Hans sounds quite final. "You want to, but you can't. She's a witness. Her hair was found at the scene of one of the murders. She knows something or was involved. If I let you leave with her, Vitel with have my head, and perhaps yours."

"I'm not afraid of Vitel," growls Morgan...but there's a hint of uncertainty.

"No doubt...but I am," responds Schmidt without inflection. "And I'd sooner defend my actions in starting a war than be unable to defend them at all. You can take word that she is unharmed. That should placate the canines. And we need more time to work on her...delicately. Hurry will only bring the harm they fear."

Morgan stands, turns to face the window. "I'll ask for two days. No more. After that...it might get bloody. Will Vitel stand up for you? Will anyone? Your clan has always been something of a thorn in his side...are you sure he won't let two of his problems take care of each other?"

Schmidt licks his lips. He takes a deep, reflexive breath. "All right. Two days...and after that, I will say you forced my hand and blame any failure on you. "

"I knew you would," Art says sardonically. "Fortunately, I don't care. Now open this door."

At that moment the woman lifts her head, clutches at Morgan's hand. "Catch...his eyes! I can't..." Her face is haunted, staring past them all into space. "I can't see!" She cries out then, a pitiful whining howl, rubbing her head against Morgan's hand like a wounded dog before its master. Morgan leans down, to kiss the woman's brow, then extricate his hand, whispering something again. His face is stiff, his eyes gleaming red as he turns back toward the watchers. "Open the door!"

Hans opens the door, warily, slamming it back as Morgan exits. Then Hans finds himself pinned against the wall, and wary figures materialize suddenly from intersecting corridors and doorways, hands filled with weapons. Schmidt waves them back.

"Two days," grinds out Morgan. "Two nights hence I will return with force enough to make you bleed. If I have to use it, you will be lucky to have two acolytes alive and a hovel left standing. Have her ready and waiting."

He releases Schmidt, then turns to go. Hans steps stiffly back, brushing off his old-fashioned suit with obvious distaste. He stares at Joe and Stacks until they follow in Art's wake.

Art takes a different route back, up a stairway. He shoves some of the watchers back, with his hands or his countenance. They crowd in behind; Stacks snarls and swings his chain a couple of times, keeping their space. Finally they are outside, walking in a bubble of armed retainers to their vehicle. They seem eager, hoping for an order to attack, but Hans Schmidt did not become an Elder by failing to weigh the costs and benefits violence. Joe supposes that can be said about Morgan as well.