Writer's Notes: This is a caitiff character, created for LARP--a punker/goth-chick with a skeletal, corpse-like appearance due to her *actual* clan heritage. She was a short-lived character, and her main focus was her hacking skills and the massive chip on her shoulder.
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Hey
Diary.
Winkin
and Blinkin are gone. Killed by that ungrateful sonuvabitch Prince.
I knew
he couldn’t be trusted. I knew it. But we decided to play the
game. Winkin convinced us that if we became indispensable to him, we
wouldn’t be hunted anymore. You were always too trusting,
dude. I guess death is an inevitable result. Dammit though--why did you
have to drag Blinkin with you!?
So now
I sit in this damnable sterile hotel room. Just Nod, all by
herself--getting slowly drunk off of a carafe of lukewarm type A. Hey
never let it be said I was a stinkin’ Ventrue--no drunk
redneck down on the strip is too good for me when I want to get well
and thoroughly sloshed . . .
Must
admit--I enjoyed killing that stinkin’ drunk geezer. Just
imagining that that was the Prince whose neck I was breaking almost
made me feel warm all over. ‘Course, it didn’t last
long; and then I’ve got a damn dead body at my feet to take
care of; and two empty spaces still at my side, where I
used’ta have friends.
We were great, weren’t we guys? The three stooges, the three musketeers--no job to dirty, no info too hidden for us to get. Mebbe it was because we were vamps, mebbe because we were Caitiff--mebbe we would have never been friends otherwise. After a while, it didn’t matter.
I did
the sneakin’ and the hackin’--never was really good
at the interpersonal shit. Winkin--that was always your thing. You
schmoozed and Presenced with the snottiest and most acidic Harpies--all
the while pickin’ secrets out of their heads, smooth as silk.
You were a real sick voyeuristic bastard, weren’t you? I
think that’s one of the reasons I liked ya. You an’
me--we were alike inside. Not like Blinkin.
You,
Blinkin--you were the best of us. You kept us together--kept us from
gnawing on each others throats like the cannibals we are. Mr.
Fix-It-Man--no memory too big, no Masquerade breach too small for you
to take care of. Made human friends like it was easy--and I guess it
was for you, wasn’t it? Big fuzzy Greek teddy bear--always
told ya man, it’s positively indecent for a vamp like you to
have that much body hair--looked like a damned curly Neanderthal.
I’ve still got your penknife, Blinkin. I remember how you
were always digging shit out from underneath your fingernails with
it--always grossed me out. You never let the way I look bother you
though--when a confused and broke kid vampire callin’ herself
Nod wandered into town. . .you never took advantage of me. At least,
not that I know of.
Unlike
certain Princes I could name.
After
all we did for that upstart bastard Ventrue. We MADE him. He acts so
all high-and-mighty now, being God-Emperor of Colorado Springs now. .
.I still remember the day he asked us three caitiff to help him
“protect his assets”, as he called it. His assets,
my ass. We dug up dirt on Kindred and human powerbrokers alike, for
him. We dominated lackeys, covered up mistakes and Masquerade
breaches--did damn near everything except take out the garbage and walk
his dog for him! (Though I did pick through his garbage a couple times.
. .)
All
because he said he’d “remember” us. He
said he’d protect us. He said he’d even try to get
us some positions of power in this stinkin’ town. And you
believed him, didn’t ya, Winkin? You wanted a place to belong
so bad, that you swallowed it--hook, line, and fishing pole. You
believed in it so hard that you got me and Blinkin believin’
in it too; even against my better judgment. So who’s too
paranoid and cynical now, huh?
We
never stood a chance, did we? Not three mutt caitiff--who took the
names a Harpy insulted us with and shoved that joke right up their
noses. Not three mutt vampires who had tentacles and informants on
every street corner of the city. Nope. No power we could smuggle was
good enough, was it? It didn’t protect us, it
didn’t help us--it probably killed us.
That’s
what I figure. That’s what I’m sorry for. We spent
all this time trying to become somethin’ better than what
they said we were--and guess what? I guess these little ninja turtles
got a little too big for the Prince to want around, huh?
Don’t
worry, tho. He’s gonna get his. This little ninja
turtle’s been hangin’ with the uglies on the
side--straight arrow guys, who don’t care what ya look like
as long as you’ve got the scoop. Sent a message to the head
Nos--calls himself the Dirty Jew. He’s been looking for the
guy who arranged for his childe’s “Masquerade
breach” and subsequent week-long public
execution--’bout five years ago. With all that shit we were
shovelin’--it was inevitable I’d stumble on some
from that Ventrue bastard. I’d been saving it for a special
occasion--I figure the Dirty Jew ain’t gonna be happy when he
finds out that not only did his High and Mightiness arrange for his
kid’s death, but that he diablerized the kid and claimed
boons off of the Jew at the same time! Wish I could be there when the
Jew catches up to him--I hear he’s real old. He should have
some really, really, interesting ways of killin’ someone. . .
‘Course,
it still doesn’t change anything. You’re still
dead. I’m still alone. And this city still ain’t
got no place for me. I’m gonna go north, guys--I hear there
are cities up there so desperate for vamps that they won’t
even care if your caitiff, anarch, or a flyin’ poodle as long
as your Undead. Mebbe I can hide out there for a while. . .just in case.
So now
I’m back where I started this miserable night. Only one
Stooge is left. One young Musketeer callin herself
Nod--hidin’ in a hotel suite and staring out into a cold,
black city that’s got no place for her in it. Doin’
her damndest to get stinking drunk. . .so I won’t have to see
your faces, or his. So I won’t have to see ya being ripped
apart by that grim Gangrel butcher he’s got, Blinkin. So I
won’t have to remember the blood matting your beard,
dribbling over your blank eyes. So’s I can convince myself,
that really--really--there was nothing I could do. Except what I did.
You know me, guys. Don’t hate me for runnin’ and
hiding’--it’s the only thing I was really good at.
I couldn’t help you. I couldn’t save you. Hell, I
can’t even cry for you. So’s all I can do for you
is get drunk--and hope somehow, you’re getting drunk with me,
in spirit. Hey, we all need our little fantasies, don’t we. .
.guys?
End
Diary.
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