The walls are paneled with oak, and there are far too many fake breasts here for this to be anything but a refuge for those who are growing old and desperate to forget it. The management's managed to temporarily revive the place with the illusion of youth by throwing weekly teen nights, but they're going to lose their liquor license if there's any more slips. Still, it's a good place to hunt...
     Of course, there are predators other than me who hunt here. Some don't even have fangs...
     Ramses is thinking. He is always thinking, his brain does not turn off so easily as all that. But it turns off even less when he is in this medium-place, between well-fed and rather hungry, with just the faintest hunger to keep his edge in place and not enough blood to make him lazy. He prefers it that way, really.
     His dark hair's been chopped short, though it looks as if it was hacked short with a knife rather than salon scissors. He's on the short side at a little under 5'7; he passes 5'6, but doesn't quite make the next inch up. Slender, rather than brawny, with flashing dark eyes - almost nondescript. But there's such a slip between almost and nondescript...
     He has too much spirit to be allowed to live, and far too much passion to be allowed to die. Thus was said of him when he lived, when he was lured to his death. It remains true of him; Ramses (he uses no other name) escapes the dullness of the mediocre, of the masses by having too much personality to be contained in mere ordinariness. Black jeans, a black long-sleeved silk t-shirt, a pair of muchly scarred and ancient boots, newly resoled; their color's lost to the ages, a double row of silver studs down the outside of either boot, with two missing on the left boot. That's up one from last time...
     "Pint of bitter," Ramses tells a girl wearing the t-shirt with the logo of the Winking Daisy stretched across her capacious bosom. He pats her hip, but more out of form than with any real feeling. "Booth in the back open, right?" He doesn't wait for her nod. If there's anyone other than who he's waiting for, he'll eject them himself.

     The door swings open, allowing a gust of chill wind to provide escort for the young-appearing man who enters. He kicks the door forcefully closed with the heal of his tennis shoes, an idle gesture of contempt, merely an afterthought, as he scans the familiar scenery of the bar.
     To the casual glance, this is the type of boy-man the bar has sought to attract. His features are young, pretty to the point of almost being effeminate, soft jaw blending into rounded chin, full if slightly pale lips that invoke thoughts of sensuality. The features are not distinctly English, indeed, he could pass for a native of any Northern European country, and often has over the past century or so of haunting this city. His grey eyes would mirror the clouded sky were they ever seen by light of day.
     Unlike many of his apparent age who come here to drink, to dance, to woo, to hunt, he is not dressed in a way designed to say "Here I am, you know you want me, but are you worthy?" Instead, his head is covered by a grey woolen cap from which only a couple of dark blond locks escaped to be damply plastered against his pale forehead. The black turtle neck sweater he wears doesn't cling to his frame, instead hanging loosely, suggesting the thinness of the form beneath without accenting it in any way. His jeans fit just as unflatteringly, not tight enough to show off anything worth seeing, but not loose enough to hearken to the baggy, gangster cut that once dominated the youth scene. His faded tennis shoes likely were once white, but now, just a dull light brown-grey.
     He moves to the bar wordlessly, his neutral expression masking a whirl of emotions from concern to naked fear. His hunger recently slaked, though not to the point of gorging, he's in a pensive, thoughtful mood, seeing the pointless and emptiness of the surrounding mass of humanity for what it is, merely the sea within which he moves and lives, that which provides food, profit and life as he navigates his way unnoticed among them, mattering only in what their utility. Tonight however, they don't matter, there is another mission, one which will reap vast rewards or, perhaps, lead to the loss of all that he has fought and schemed for
     As he reaches to the bar, he ignores the buxom waitresses and their batting eyes and greets a tired-looking middle-aged bartender. "The usual," he says, waiting patiently and idly producing a wad of colored Euros from his pocket, depositing a crumpled bill on the countertop and smoothing it with a long, pale hand. His words, his accent, they aren't Oxford educated, but neither do they anymore sound like those of a street urchin of Queen Victoria's reign. Instead, they could almost be mistaken for middle-class, perhaps some third-rate boarding school in a poorer suburb.
     A tumbler of some cut-rate Scotch is set before him, and Justyn turns, not waiting for change. He takes a slug of the warm, pungent liquid to ease his nerves before trudging, head slightly bowed toward the back of the room.

     "Yeah, yeah, you were here first." Ramses offers a flashing grin to the two girls in the booth. "And your boyfriends'll be here any minute. Tell them to take it up with me when they get here, hm? I could use a bit of excitement. Who knows," he winks at one of the girls, "if your boyfriend's as cute as you, maybe I'll bend him over in the back of the alley. Or I could just bend you over," he continues, seeming to ignore how they blanch. "But you know, you're a little scrawny. I like my women to have a little more up front."
     He looks ready to keep it up, but by this point, the girls are already fleeing with mutual squeaks of dismay. Ramses shakes his head, sliding into the booth and putting his feet up on the table. "I think I liked people better a hundred years ago," he remarks to you as you approach. "They had more balls, then. More vigor, more life. Or maybe we just appreciated life more, because it was so easy to see it slipping away. I should write that down."

     "And to think I was the boy raised on the streets," says Justyn with studied nonchalance as he slides into the booth on the opposite side of the table from Ramses, another deep slug of Scotch, draining half the glass before setting it, not particularly gently, on the scarred, peeling lacquered wood, not bothering with a coaster -- no wonder the tables are approaching shabby, such uncouth disrespect!
     True to his uncultured upbringing, he brings his knees up, bending them to the side to escape the confinement of being under the able then righting them to rests his feet on the leather-padded seat, pressed against the table's edge. He wraps his arms around them, hands sliding underneath the sleeves of his sweater to clasp opposite arms, cradling his thin, denim-clad legs within them. "It's been a long time," he ventures coolly, no hint of the rage of emotion within. That his mind is racing like thoroughbreds on a polo field is not readily apparent as his internal voice screams: What have you done you fool?

     "My father was a canon, so I'm a son of a gun." Justyn receives a wicked smile, and Ramses lets his feet drop as he leans forward. "Solidly middle class and I ran with crowds above my station in life. I killed my father with disappointment by being so dissipated as to become a poet. Or maybe I'm lying through my teeth. You'll never know, and what does it matter? I'm who I am now."
     He shakes his hair back from his forehead, leaning forward a little, dark eyes alert and unwavering as he regards the Gangrel. "It's been a while," Ramses agrees. "Are we here to discuss poetry and philosophy, or can I just ask you who put the stick up your arse and let's move on to discussing what's what?" One eyebrow cocks up, and he grins broadly, offering a hand across the table. "Too long, eh? Serious, now. What's the differs?"

     Justyn smiles despite himself at the crude jest, but what can one expect of a Brujah? Then again, who is he to judge, a waif from the streets who survived by stealing and selling whatever he could, whether it be ill-gotten gains or himself. And yet those days, as deprived and demeaning as they were, they were so simple. Keep your head down, stay out of the way of those who could hurt you, survive, just survive. Live another day, rarely a moment wasted of thinking beyond the next dawn, the next meal. Were things different now? It is still survival, yes, waiting for the next sunset rather than sunrise, but that's not really much of a change. The difference is that nearly a century and a half have taught this still young Gangrel ambition, desire beyond the immediate, longing, even greed. Desire for comfort, for power, for ... No, there is not time for this intrusion of thoughts, best not to think of how we got here, care is needed. Whatever he's learned while seeing the dawn of two centuries, one the changing of millennia, he will need them tonight.
     He unsnakes as hand from its resting place to toy idly with the half-filled tumbler of Scotch, staring for a moment at the light dancing on the ripples he creates in the amber liquid before looking back up at you, his grey eyes the steel of a killer. He must approach this carefully, delicately. Markham was a thief, a smuggler, but trusted. He had served them both well, still he was human, surely the word of another vampire would be taken above the memory of a dead human, but then, Ramses doesn't know this yet.
     Words flat, emotionless, matter-of-fact. "There was a problem with Markham."

     Both eyebrows quirk upwards as Ramses scans through his mind. "Markham. Markham. ...One of Trevelyan's people, wasn't it? Or am I misremembering?" Ramses frowns, reaching for his pint where it's been placed at the very edge of the table, dragging it closer. He doesn't need to drink, but the taste is soothing. Reminiscent of things he's long since let go of - sunlight on hops, a countryside that no longer exists and never truly existed save in writers' and poets' imaginations. He knows all about that.
     "What happened? Talk to me, kid, and you know me. If I can do something..." Nothing is free. But everyone needs to get a leg up somehow.

     Justyn allows the scene to play out for the hundredth, perhaps thousandths time in the past few days: That panicked call from Markham about his discovery, the skimming of significant percentages of his shipments, money that should have found its way into Ramses' enterprises that was just gone, depriving those up the chain of the shares agreed upon when he became part of this enterprise. The momentary wash of immobilizing fear, that he'd been discovered replaced with the realization that Markham knew nothing, yet. That if he acted quickly, decisively, the tables could be turned, at minimum protecting his hide, and perhaps creating further opportunity for advancement, the taoist dichotomy of trouble: danger and opportunity. A hastily arranged meeting, his dagger and supernatural fury removing Markham and his lieutenant swiftly before the treachery could register.
     "In a matter of speaking, he was one of the assets I managed, not important enough to warrant Trevelyan's individual attention, a link the chain," he says quietly, taking another swig of the scotch, draining the glass before pushing it toward the middle of the table. Was it possible Markam had told anyone else? A letter, a message left for Ramses, Trevelyan, someone else on the chain, someone who could cast doubt on what he was about to say? Improbable, yet not impossible. "He got greedy," he offers, feigning anger, testing, waiting to gauge reaction."

     Both eyebrows draw together in something in between consternation and confusion. "Well," Ramses says finally, "I guess I'll have to tell Meurelle. Shit." He shakes his head. "Bad enough there've been the bodies turning up headless in the river, now this? Mortimer's going to have us all on dock duty for the rest of the year. My arse'll be found frozen to a crate."
     Behind those half-lidded eyes, however, his mind is moving faster, in leaps and bounds. Who had access? Answer : too many people to quickly narrow down. Can I find out who did it in time to present an answer right away? Answer : probably not. Can I shift blame? Answer : yes.
     "You'll have to answer some questions on it to Trevelyan, unless he passes the buck to me," Ramses says aloud, looking steadily at Justyn, expression unchanged, "but for now, start at the beginning, go through it step by step. How'd you find out about Markham?"

     Justyn frowns, eyes alert, now fixed on Ramses, mind still buzzing. A reasonable question, an expected one, one he's prepared for. Gods could this work?
     "Random audit, I check in from time to time on all those I manage, nobody pays much attention to a crow, even on the water front." He pauses, hugging his knees again tightly, an unconscious sign of nervousness, but not likely one the Brujah would recognize.
     "A shipment I saw come in didn't add up when it got to me, so I started paying more attention, it was systematic, clever, perhaps, we intentionally distance ourselves, but he got greedy."

     "They'll want to question you themselves," Ramses says casually. He's watching for potential slips; bigger shark, looking for smaller shark to throw to the biggest sharks. Just in case. Eat or be eaten, as it all too often is. "Just be glad this's mostly been an in-house job. You won't have to deal with the fucking royals, I don't imagine," the Ventrue, "though, then again, come to think..."
     He frowns suddenly. "Well... let's not count our coins too quickly. Trevelyan's just been paid a visit by someone fairly well up there. Word is he views the bloke as being some sort of mentor, father figure, who knows - but the Prince of Poitiers isn't exactly small fry, and he was just here."
     He scratches his head vigorously. The slovenliness is a bit of a put-on, though most people here wouldn't know it. Slouching, Ramses looks up again, dark eyes intent, flashing with vigor once more. "You do realize that when shit falls down, you're going to be on the lowest rung, don't you." It's not a question. "If I were you, I'd take off and lay low. Unless you want to spend a few hours being grilled by Trevelyan and his pet Toreador? He's in a pissy mood, I hear. Caught one of his own men involved in a plot to steal ancient artifacts from him. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that," one eyebrow lifts, "would you?"

     "If I did, do you think I would have been bloody silent? Do you think I'd cross Trevelyan?" Justyn asks, true anger flashing, welcome righteous indignation a soothing balm for his guilt and fear, if only for a moment.
     "Markham was my responsibility, and he's been dealt with, but is there perhaps a way to make us both look good here?" He searches the Brujah's face for some hope. He's survived this long, surely this can't be it, there must be a way out, if not a way to win, then at least a way to restore the status quo.
     "What, what if I could get it back? Markham must have had a cache, or maybe a bank account, the goods or money had to go somewhere. If you could return it to Trevelyan .... I won't let the fuckin' wanker take me down, I found him out. I removed a blight. That has to count for something."

     "Well," Ramses says slowly, "if the money's gotten /back/... we should be able to tidy it up. Maybe make it so we don't even have to report it at all - just ... Markham had an 'accident'. He was mortal." He waves a hand. These things happen. "Car accident, wife caught him in bed with another woman, whatever. Covering that up is the easy part, it's the money which'd be a bitch, and you know how these old men are about what's theirs." Says the hundred year old.
     He picks up his pint, sniffs at it, sets it down with a sigh and a shake of his head. He's just not thirsty for it anymore. "We can try to look good and risk being caught, or we can try to cover it up. Which do you wanna do?"

     "Markham was killed by common thieves," Justyn says flatly, having finally found the key to pulling of a convincing lie: self-deception. "He was a suspected smuggler, the bobbies won't put much effort into the investigation, Scotland Yard won't even blink."
     He uncoils and pulls of the grey woolen cap, a cascade of honey and brown sugar hair falling to just above his shoulders, his hands rising to comb through it, starting at the hairline on his forehead and combing it back in a two-handed motion that finishes at the nape of his neck before his hands fold together on the tabletop as he leans forward.
     "I'll find the money, you can take it to Trevelyan. You can take the credit, we can work out what we owe each other later. Why risk getting caught in a lie when the truth can prove our resourcefulness, or cunning, our worth?"

     "Funny you should mention." Ramses gives Justyn a hard look, then nods slowly. "I'll do the work and the write-up. You get the money back and make sure the books are in order - they're sticklers at the best of times, and after this? It'll be hell if there's any irregularities."
     He starts to rise, sliding from the booth. "Let me know when everything's in place. I'll go hat in hand to a few people I know with pull over the bobbies - I'll get it buried faster and deeper. It'll mean cashing in a few favors, but eh, that's what they're for, right? Oh, and one other thing."
     Ramses pauses at the edge of the booth, giving the Gangrel another sharp-eyed look. "Llewellyn's back in town. Meurelle and he seem to be on the outs, but they go way back - way back. I think he's one of the oldest goddamned Ventrue on the Island," Britain, "and if he starts sniffing around ... make sure there's nothing for him to sniff. Got it?"

     Justyn blinks. Hard. Swallowing reflexively, his barely apparent Adam's apple briefly becoming more prominent as a look of wild, animalistic fear momentarily crosses his face to be subdued with no small amount of effort.
     "Bloody Hell," is about all he manages, kneading his grey beanie reflexively, distending and distorting the pliable fabric, his pale fingers clenched around it with obvious force.
     He suddenly rises, his left hand sweeping his hair up from the back, his right shoving the cap over it to conceal the sensuous cascade of locks underneath it as he composes himself.
     "Everything'll be ship-shape if he starts pokin' around. I ain't gonna find myself involved in that." He practically spits out the last word.

     Ramses nods, seeming satisfied with the reaction gotten. If you can't inspire mind-numbing fear in others yourself - well, it never hurts to have a bogey man to use instead. "Right. Always best people our age keep well clear of our elders, anyway. Be seeing you, kid. Keep me posted."
     He offers a quick, feral grin that almost shows his fangs, then spins on his heel. The two girls who'd had the booth are pointing at him with complaining looks on their faces; their boyfriends, hulking footballer types, give the Brujah a glower that seems to please him no end. This is how it started, didn't it? Him against the world.
     "Come on, fellows," Ramses tells them cheerily, heading for the back door. "You want a fight, I'll give it to you. The ladies should really stay inside, though, unless they're planning on fighting, too."
     Well, a bloke's got to work out his frustrations and fears somehow, hasn't he?

     Justyn glances from Ramses to the footballers to the girls and decides that his lustrous hair is once again needed. He sweeps the cap off allowing it to cascade again, shaking it loose, allowing himself to be transformed from mildly pretty average Joe to ephemeral beauty, the kind no woman and few self-actualized men can resist.
     "Well, if you gentleman are busy, I'm sure I can keep the ladies company for a bit," he says, wrapping an arm around the nearest bubble-headed girl while batting long eyelashes at her companions. "I'm sure the ladies wouldn't mind."
     The evening's been stressful enough and he's Gangrel, proud and capable. There's no way Ramses will get all the fun. While the Brujah's grin may be feral, Justyn's is downright vulpine, the inner wolf barely restrained, eager, knowing he appears the easy mark, the kind of boy-band type beauty that European girls swoon over, much to the chagrin and easy hatred of their lunk-headed suitors.

     The girls hesitate; but in the end, the bird in hand is more tempting than going with their blood-in-eye beaus out through the back. Just the way Ramses likes it. How well the two footballers do will depend entirely on how many frustrations the Brujah has to take out on them. And if a couple of footballer types end up in ER - or DOA - who'll think twice?
     The girls, meanwhile, giggle, and one of them as she settles in against Justyn asks naively the question which he's no doubt heard a hundred times or more.
     "You're in a band, right? I've seen you on MTV, haven't I?"

Posted by rowan at May 29, 2006 09:49 PM