VAMPIRE THE MASQUERADE: PITTSBURGH BY NIGHT
Prologue
The violin sings low through the penthouse. Paganini, spinning slow on an old record player. The city sprawls in broken light and winter haze. High above the Golden Triangle in his penthouse suite, Prince Morgan watches the city through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. He sits with his back to the room, one hand tapping the armrest of his leather chair, the other beneath his cheek. Behind him, two women lounge on opposite couches. Beside the Prince stands a man built like a brick wall, face a slab of twisted scars, eyes hidden behind blood-red round shades.
One of the women speaks, voice soft as breath. “Gehenna was just a bedtime story for the ancients. Like we said it was. No street ran red with the blood of childer. No apocalypse. Just another lie that faded with the millennium.”
The other, all power-suit and lipstick like dried wine, adds to the conversation. “Sabbat’s gone quiet. The war was bloody, but we heard that the remaining force left the city to recuperate. Fighting is reduced to skirmishes now. The Camarilla holds New York, sire.”
Morgan stops tapping.
“They’ll come crawling back out,” he says, calm as still water. “Fanatics always do. Think they stopped the end of the world with crusades and claws. Victoria, keep your eyes open. I want names, faces, every newcomer who steps foot in my domain checked out. We’re not playing host to rabid dogs. Let us not forget that they still hold Philadelphia. That’ll be all.”
“Yes, sire,” Victoria nods, already sliding her phone from her coat, her heels echoing as she vanishes through the tall double doors.
The tapping resumes.
“Giselle?” the Prince says without turning. “What’s your read?”
The other woman, speaking softly to no one but herself, pauses. Her eyes are cloudy and disinterested. Her voice is barely a whisper.
“We build what others break, my Prince,” she murmurs. “The Sword sharpens itself, swings wildly, strikes stone. Cracks itself apart in the dark, thinking it striked true.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Morgan stares through the glass at the city glowing beneath the light snowfall. Bridges stitched across rivers. Cars scuttling like beetles. People mingling in the parks. Everything in order.
“Thank you, Giselle. You can leave. Oh, and please, tell Chauncey to send someone in. I find myself… parched.”
The woman rises. She bows slightly, still muttering to herself. The doors open and she disappears into the corridor.
He inhales and exhales slowly. Habit, not need.
“You can drop the charade now, Sheriff.”
The scarred man at his side flexes his neck and cracks his head. The illusion dissolves. Beneath his mask, the Nosferatu reveals himself in full. Scars twisted into something akin to a demon. Something meant to haunt.
“My Prince,” he growls, voice thick like tar. “Do you really buy what the madwoman said? Gehenna… a farce? All those signs… thinblooded… just coincidence?”
Prince Morgan chuckles without mirth.
“Religious now, Carter? Maybe the world didn’t end. Or maybe it’s already here. Maybe having to worry about Gehenna for an eternity will be our Gehenna.”
The doors creak open. His meal arrives. A blonde woman blindfolded in satin.
His fangs slide out.
Across town, far from the Ivory Tower, down in the rusted bones of the city, a disheveled, bruised and battered man runs like hell through the industrial graveyard of Chateau. Blood runs down his side. His breath comes in knives. He stumbles over old rebar, crashes through a doorway hanging off its hinges. The gun in his hand trembles. Every few feet he turns and fires, teeth gritted; just to make a point, even if it misses. Finally, a dead end. He stops, panting. Swears under his breath. Then turns. Click. Empty. He tosses the gun to the side and puts his hands up.
“You don’t know who the fuck you’re messing with.”
From the dark of the dusted warehouse, a voice is heard. “False bravado won’t do you any good. We know exactly who you are. We want you to carry a message.”
“You’re fucking dead!” the man sneers, rage spilling through cracked lips. “Whatever it is, you can shove it up your–”
A loud bang. The echo rolls long and slow.
He falls down, motionless.
It is the year 2000. As the oblivious Kine light their fireworks and toast to a new millennium, Gehenna, the prophesied cataclysm that would have the ancients drown the world in the blood of their childer, has not come to pass. Amid the looming towers of Downtown Pittsburgh, Prince Henry Lewis Morgan endures. For more than a century he has ruled the city, upholding the Traditions with an iron will. His grip weakens, yet his presence looms. Ever since the city lost its steel production, both the population and the Prince’s coffers bleed, and Camarilla’s hold slips ever so slightly beneath the weight of festering discontent. Beyond his waning influence, the Anarchs swing their bats in punk-soaked squats, howl rebellion in smoke-choked bars, and plot freedom in boarded up factories of North Side. Beneath the city, in the sewers and the derelict Underground Railroad, the Nosferatu slither. Deformed in body, sharpened in mind, they are the eyes and ears of the Camarilla; spymasters, whisper-merchants, and now, guides through the maze of data and surveillance that defines the new age. In North Oakland, beneath the Gothic spires of the Cathedral of Learning, the Tremere keep their secrets. There, behind warded doors, they study the tomes pilfered from Hillman Library and delve into the crimson mysteries of vitae, far from the idle prattle of Elysium. The thin-blooded, once hunted like rats and accused of heralding the End Times, linger in Prince Morgan’s domain, barely tolerated. To the west, in the wind-blown wilds of Oakwood and East Carnegie, the Autarkis Gangrel pace like wolves among the trees, eyes burning with hatred for all sects. They guard their territory with fang and claw, indifferent to politics. On moonlit nights, the Appalachians echo with bone-chilling howls, sounds that no Kindred can ever make, sounds that put the primal fear in every Kine. Some say it is mourning, others say war songs.
And then, there is the silence. The Sabbat. Their packs in Pittsburgh lie scattered and butchered, remnants of a decades old war. The Anarchs and Camarilla struck together once… but now the quiet feels like a held breath before a scream. Something stirs.
The sun bleeds its last across the mountains, swallowed by dusk. The moon opens its silver eye upon the city, and so you rise… But who are you? (Please specify gender if you wish to do so.)
Race
toreador
A) You began leaving your mark on the art scene of Pittsburgh with works that were raw, unpolished, and deeply reflective of your internal chaos. You were hungry for recognition, but also for connection with others who felt just as lost in the world. At one of the gallery events, you met her. She said you had “a brilliant spark,” that your work “mirrored the suffering of life.” Flattery with a bite. First, she became your anonymous patron. Then, she sank her teeth in for good. Now, you own a club to her name in the South Side, Acherontia, which has recently gained attention and fame among the Kine for its retro darkwave scene and rave nights. Sometimes, the place doubles as Elysium, a truce zone where Pittsburgh Camarilla can shake hands for a while. Most nights, it’s just noise and strobe lights, but for you, it’s also a studio. You paint in the basement; concrete and a single flickering bulb. Your sanctuary. You’re trying to fill a void these nights, chasing the echo of a muse that slipped through your fingers the night you got Embraced. You chase it with blood. With bodies. With whispered names that you forget by the next night. Nothing works. As if that weren’t enough, your sire has recently vanished without a trace. Disappeared. She’s even missed a few of her beloved high-class socialite mingle events. You are determined to find out what happened. You are Toreador.
Auspex, Celerity, Presence.
assamite
B) A prestigious university in Cairo was where you worked as a librarian. By day, you were friendly with students and staff. People believed you were a person of scholarly ambition, hungry for knowledge. By night, your sadistic tendencies eventually led you to playing the role of an infrequent serial killer. Unluckily, one of your targets turned out to be a vampire, someone you had misjudged as easy prey. You were Embraced half out of amusement and half out of punishment. Despite being a neonate, they found value in both your bloodthirst and your technical know-how. While you were trained by the Warrior caste, your occupation and skillset also brought you into contact with the Viziers. After a year of brutal training and backbreaking errands, you’d had enough. You stowed away on a ship bound for the United States, for Pittsburgh. Now, you’re a mercenary, an assassin, and a fugitive. On the run from the swift judgment of the Elders of Alamut for your desertion. You are Assamite.
Celerity, Obfuscate, Quietus.
ventrue
C) It started small, your job at the agency. A smear campaign here, a little black site torture interrogation there. You kept your head down, your mouth shut, and your conscience buried six feet under. Every time they handed you a job, you finished it. Quiet. Efficient. Clean. Your superiors noticed. With every promotion came more risk… and more reward. But you weren’t in it for medals or the occasional pat on the back. You had your eye on the real prize: the “inner circle.” The big government boys giving the orders, pulling the strings, steering the machine. You wanted in. Then the real “inner circle” noticed you. The kind that don’t show up in reports. The kind who see beyond classified. Vampires running their own operations behind the government. They needed someone like you: sharp, loyal, and just ruthless enough to follow through without asking questions. You were taken off the books. Declared KIA in a drug bust that never really happened. You watched your own funeral from across the street, cigarette smoldering in your fingers. Now you’re one of the Damned, pulling jobs and gathering intelligence for your masters under the false identity of an FBI agent, just like before. And just like when you first started your career, you’re back at the rock bottom. Except this time, you have no intention of staying there for long. You are Ventrue.
Dominate, Fortitude, Presence.
ravnos
D) You experienced your first round of applause on the stage of a school’s play. Since then, you felt you were an actor. You moved to the sunny hills of LA trying to chase jobs and fame, but to no avail. Desperate for money, you started doing riskier acting gigs: first, performances on the street with troupes of junkies and other trash in the hopes of netting some dollars; then, leading your own group of street actors and performers, doing street plays for money and - all the while - stealing from the unsuspecting, dazzled crowd. Over time, powerful people noticed you, and your group started getting invited to parties in houses farther and farther from the city to reenact real-life tragedies of murder, exploitation, and rape to wealthy, darker individuals, where they would pay you handsomely and lavish you with gifts and drugs. Until one day, you were tasked to perform a ritualized murder in one of those unknown houses, unaware you were participating in your own snuff act. The blade that cut your throat was real and, as you lay dying, to honor your desire of acting you imposed yourself as a kid, continued to perform the dance macabre as a last, defiant act to life itself. Someone in the crowd greatly admired your resolve and, as the others were feasting on your blood, she took pity of you and, with a smile, gave you the dark gift. You are Ravnos.
Animalism, Chimerstry, Fortitude.
nosferatu
E) Tinkering with tech and computers always felt like your natural calling. By the time you were in college, you were already a black hat. Turns out, you and your group had been on a watchlist for a while, and it all came crashing down when your idiot of a roommate made a series of OpSec mistakes. The FBI showed up on campus and arrested the moron. The feds confiscated everything. Hopeless and paranoid, you steered clear of the streets, double-checked your back at every corner, and headed home to grab your bag and leave town for good… before they came for you too. Except the knock on your door wasn’t the feds. It was the ugliest, smelliest, most repugnant creature you’d ever seen in your life. After you came to your senses, it explained how they were the ones who tipped off the FBI, and how its organization needed exceptional people like you. It invited you to its “family.” The wailing of police sirens in the distance only added to your despair. You accepted. Weeks later, police cornered “you” in a forest lodge on Mt. Washington. They breached the site and… the whole place vaporized in a massive explosion. Now, you’re a boogeyman in your old circles, leaving your old sig behind for scares. You are Nosferatu.
Obfuscate, Animalism, Potence.
brujah
F) Your widower father worked day and night at the steel mills to afford you a good education. But times were hard. From seeing your dead-tired dad at home to visiting the mill where he worked, you witnessed firsthand how the workers were treated unfairly in the twilight of the steel industry; underpaid, overworked, and left in dangerous conditions. By the time you were in college, the steel industry had all but vanished. But the economic depression and decline still hung thick in Pittsburgh’s air… at least for the working class. Local celebrities, bankers, and ex-steel barons still lived comfortably in their mansions. Because of this, you and your friends clashed with riot police time and time again during protests. With your fiery personality and charismatic speeches, you became someone who inspired people to take action, to fight back. Then today, while walking across campus, you met someone. He felt important… too important. He asked to come back to your dorm room, and for some reason, you agreed. You think he said you were being recruited? At least… that’s the last thing you remember. When you woke up, he was gone. You are Brujah.
Celerity, Potence, Presence.
malkavian
G) Some might call you a sociopath. Throughout your adolescence, you saw people as beings beneath you and silently mocked their beliefs and lives. In your mid-twenties, after dropping out of university, you made a living out of conning the bereaved. A practiced tilt of the head, a pause, a whisper. “They’re at peace now.” Of course it’s all bullshit. There’s no such thing as the supernatural. Your smoke-and-mirrors act, built on cold reads and rational guessing, was just an easy way to make money. Your Embrace came out of nowhere, a seemingly random attack in a parking lot while you were walking to your car. The first few nights were horrific, tense and confusing. You never saw your sire once. The only communication came in cryptic, surreal fragments: messages left on your answering machine, instructions slid under your door in unmarked envelopes, the ringing of a payphone down the street that only stopped when you picked up. Eventually, you got the hang of hunting. And then came the voices. Whispers in the back of your mind, speaking of nothing and everything. Flickers of movement in your peripheral vision, always gone when you turned to look. The world shifted, cracked slightly at the edges. Reality felt like a stained glass window, and you were on the wrong side of it. You’ve come to understand that the Embrace was a kind of divine punishment for your arrogance, your blasphemy, your mockery. The spirits you lied about your whole life? They’re here now. And they’re tormenting you. So be it. You will spit in the face of your tormentors. You will stare into the abyss and punch God. You will have the last laugh. You are Malkavian.
Auspex, Obfuscate, Dementation.
tremere
H) Born into a devout Catholic family of Polish immigrants, you lived in a small but modest house on Polish Hill, just north of Oakland. You were religious until your adolescent years, until that night. On a dare from your friends, you snuck into the crypt of the Immaculate Heart of Mary Church at midnight. What you witnessed there shattered your faith: a horrific ritual murder and rape, committed by your parish priest. No one would have believed your word against the good Father’s. So, you said nothing. You distanced yourself from the Church and from God, repressing the trauma the only way you knew how, silence and distance. Years later, while studying in Hillman Library, a man approached you. He asked questions about theology and mysticism. You tried to brush him off, told him you hadn’t practiced since your teens, but then he looked into your eyes and asked again. Something compelled you to speak. From what your family taught you as a child to the atrocity in the crypt, you told him everything. When you finished, he looked pleased. He took you to Cathedral of Learning, Cathy, to one of the unused rooms in the sub-basement. There, he drew wards, chanted phrases, and opened a door to reveal a massive room. Then you were Embraced. That was months ago. Your Embrace was experimental, a test to see if faith and trauma could power blood magic. There is a constant war within you; the struggle to be someone better for your old family… and to be something monstrous enough for your new one. You are Tremere.
Dominate, Auspex, Thaumaturgy.
Map
Character Sheet
Name: Adrian Vale
Generation: 13th
Clan: Ventrue
Attributes:
Strength 2
Dexterity 4
Stamina 2
Charisma 2
Manipulation 3
Appearance 2
Perception 3
Intelligence 3
Wits 4
Disciplines:
Dominate 2
Command: Speak a one-word command, which the subject must obey instantly. If the command is at all confusing or ambigious, the subject may respond slowly or perform the task poorly. The subject cannot be ordered to do something directly harmful to himself, so a command like “die” is ineffective.
Mesmerize: Mesmerize allows for anything from simple, precise directives (handing over an item) to complex, highly involved ones (taking notes of someone’s habits and relaying that information at an appointed time.) It is not useful for planting illusions or false memories. A subject can have only one suggestion implanted at any time. Both you and your target must be free from distraction. You may activate the imposed thought immediately or establish a stimulus that will trigger it later. The victim must be able to understand you, though the two of you need to maintain the eye contact only as long as it takes to implant the idea. The victim cannot be forced to harm himself directly.
Presence 1
Awe: Those near you suddenly desire to be closer to you and become receptive of your point of view. Despite the intensity of this attraction, those so smitten do not lose their sense of self-preservation. Danger breaks the spell, as does leaving the area. However, those who were subjected to Awe will remember how they felt in your presence.
Fortitude 1
Although all vampires have an unnatural constitution that make them much sturdier than mortals, Fortitude makes it so you can shrug off agonizing trauma and make the most bone-shattering impact look like a flesh wound.
Contacts
Most of your mortal ex-contacts (fellow agents, operators, beat cops, informants) sadly cannot be reached, as they think you are dead. You have to build your network from ground up.
Benjamin Raffard: Your sire. Raffard owns a real estate firm in Downtown Pittsburgh. He introduced you to the Pittsburgh Court a couple of months ago and got you a studio apartment in the South Side Slopes.
Rakeem Vaughn: Street informant. A common drug dealer, you saved Rakeem from a gang related shootout with your quick thinking while you were working undercover for a job on behalf of Raffard. As he owes you his life, he likes you quite a lot.
§Carter Pike: The Sheriff of Pittsburgh is a no-nonsense man. You got his number very recently, when he called you for a job. In one of your Elysium visits, you heard from Raffard that he’s a Nosferatu, but he looks human, somehow. Is it one of their tricks?
§Dennis “sp00ky” Weller: Nosferatu fledgling. You met sp00ky during a mission Sheriff Carter Pike assigned to the three of you; a test to prove your worth to the Court.
§Vivienne Holloway: Toreador fledgling. You met Vivienne on the same mission with sp00ky, arranged by Sheriff Carter Pike to test your loyalty and value to the Court.
Chapter One: Blood Work
Part 1
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling fan groans overhead, spinning slow. You feel it before you do anything; the dull ache of hunger behind your gums as you slowly rise out of bed. You walk to the window, pulling apart the jet-black curtains just enough to peek outside to glimpse the Pittsburgh skyline, silhouetted by the early night. Your phone buzzes, a courtesy from Raffard. You answer.
“Yes?”
“Pike here. The Point, by the fountain. An hour. Don’t be long.” Click.
You drag a cigarette from the crumpled pack on the nightstand. Flick the lighter. Its flame used to make you recoil; some deep, feral revulsion that came with the curse. Now it just makes your eyelid twitch. You suck in the smoke and try to think.
Carter Pike. You’ve seen him in Elysium before; the Sheriff of Pittsburgh. A face full of scars and a personality like a brick wall. If he’s calling you directly, and it can’t be said over the phone, it must be important.
You throw on a suit and overcoat, strap on your shoulder holster, leave your apartment, and hop into your car. Crown Victoria. Nothing flashy. Being nondescript helps you stay unnoticed. If this meeting hadn’t come up so suddenly, you could’ve grabbed a bite on the way. Raffard mentioned that your… family, has a very specific taste in blood, and yours is quite simple. Blood from nicotine users. You start the engine and begin the descent down the sloped streets toward Point State Park.
You stop the car at the park entrance and step out into the crisp winter air. With slow steps, you approach the massive fountain at the far end. Just as promised, he’s there, with something tucked under his arm. But he isn’t alone. Beside him, a hunched figure; covering his face with a hoodie, pale and twitchy. Nosferatu.
“There he is,” the hooded Nosferatu croaks with something close to cheer.
“Good evening, Sheriff.”
“Likewise,” he replies. He’s wearing those blood-red round shades he always wears in Elysium. “We’re waiting on one more. Once she arrives…”
His words trail off as he looks past you. You turn as well and see a beautiful woman approaching. She’s followed by what you assume is her bodyguard or chauffeur, who holds a black umbrella over her in the gentle snowfall. Hands in the pockets of her fur coat, she offers a polite greeting.
“My apologies…”
“Let’s cut the greetings short,” Pike interrupts. “You three can trade pleasantries later. We’re already running late.”
“Here’s the brass tacks. I called the three of you for a job tonight. Seeing how all three of you are still fledglings, think of it as your trial. A chance to become respected members of the Camarilla Court.” He continues. “One of our guys, a ghoul named Stan, went dark about a week ago. We figured he was just laying low, but he hasn’t answered any calls or reported back.”
He unrolls what he was holding and hands it to the woman. She reads, silent, then passes it to you. Newsprint. You scan the headline: “BLOOD RESEARCH BEGINS!”
You hand it to the Nosferatu. He lets out a hiss of breath.
“God damn it,” he mutters.
“I think you can understand the predicament we find ourselves in. We’ve received word that someone, a PhD student at the medicine school, is analyzing blood samples from the homeless and street trash of North Side. Stan was among them, gathering intel.”
He looks at each of you.
“Your job is simple. Infiltrate the university’s medical department. Don’t care how, as long as you don’t kill anyone. Find out if any of those samples belong to Stan. If they do, destroy them. And if you do find a ghoul sample, make the student talk. I want to know who handed over the blood. Any questions?”
“Do you have a picture of the student? Or the ghoul?” you ask.
“Nothing on the student on such short notice. Here is Stan.” Sheriff takes out a driver’s license and shows it to all three of you. “Of course its a burner for a made up guy. But the photo is legit. Take it.” He hands the license to you, which you pocket inside your overcoat. “When the job is done, give me a call. You already have my number when I called three of you earlier.”
Then, the woman speaks again.
"Sheriff, does this disappearance have anything to do with… the thing we talked about?
Pike turns to her. Eyes unreadable behind the crimson lenses.
“I don’t know, Ms. Holloway. But keep your eyes open anyway.”
He looks at the three of you again.
“Any other questions?”
Silence. He walks away.
The three of you linger in the cold shadow of the fountain. The Nosferatu, wearing a crooked smile beneath his baseball cap and hood, speaks first.
“Name’s Dennis. Hope one of you two’s brought wheels - I took the light rail.”
“Vivienne.”
“Adrian.”
“I think we should visit the lab immediately, Adrian. Dennis here can… also come with us,” the woman looks at the Nosferatu.
Nosferatu shakes his head and clicks his mouth.
“Nah, I think going to the slums might be a better idea. Let’s shake the homeless down a bit, maybe spook ‘em a lil’. We might find Stan AND whoever collected blood from him and other bums.”
It seems that there is a tie in votes. Vivienne and Dennis turn to you.
“Well bossman, what do you think we should do?”
You start pondering your options.
p1 choices
A) Head straight to the university campus. A quick in and out should be simple and without a fuss, right?
B) Swing by the homeless center of North Side where Stan used to sniff around. If anyone heard something, they might be there.
C) Pay Rakeem a visit. He sells to homeless. He’s got ears on the street and a habit of knowing things he shouldn’t.
Votes are tallied, A it is. With “no split” winning over “split”.*
Part 2
You glance at your watch. 8 PM.
“We hit the lab first. Homeless center can wait.”
Dennis throws his hands up in mock defeat and shrugs. “Alright then.”
Vivienne turns to both of you. “Let’s take my car.” She glances toward the man holding the umbrella over her and gives a small nod. He responds in kind.
“Shotgun,” Dennis rasps, already grinning.
The four of you start walking toward Vivienne’s car, parked on the other side of the park entrance, far from where you left yours. It’s a sleek, luxurious sedan. The man opens the door for Vivienne while Dennis climbs into the front seat. You slide in next to Vivienne in the back while the man takes the wheel.
“Pitt Med, Oscar,” Vivienne says.
“Yes, ma’am. Should take about 30 minutes.” Oscar steps on the gas.
“Adrian, Dennis,” Vivienne begins, “I want to ask you two about this disappearance. Have you heard of anything similar happening recently? I mean, people going missing?”
You light a cigarette. She turns her head away at the sight of the flame. You smirk. You’ll never tire of watching Kindred reaction to your little party trick.
“Nah, nothing on our radar,” Dennis says, letting his arm dangle out the window. “If something had come up, Sally would’ve had us checking every crevice.”
“Auntie” Sally. Nosferatu Primogen. You’ve never seen her yourself, but Raffard mentioned her a few times. A local legend and a boogeyman, rolled into one.
“Nothing from me either,” you say, exhaling smoke. “Why? You asked Pike about this too. Is it something - or someone - personal?”
Vivienne watches the road through her window, her gaze distant. “Yes. Someone important to me. My sire. She disappeared a few days ago, around the same time as Stan. That’s why I asked Pike. And that’s why I’m asking you. When he called me in for this mission, I was hoping we’d find her along with the missing ghoul.”
“Sure thing,” Dennis turns to Vivienne and flashes a wide, unsettling grin. “I’ll keep my peepers peeled, yeah?”
The rest of the ride passes in silence.
“We’re close, ma’am.”
“Oscar, drop us off a block away. We’ll walk the rest.”
He nods and pulls over a few minutes later. You and Dennis get out. Oscar opens the door for Vivienne and hands her the umbrella. As he returns to the driver’s seat, she leans down and speaks to him through the window.
“Circle around the area and be ready when I call.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He drives off into the snowy night.
As snow continues to fall, you take the umbrella from her and open it, holding it above both your heads. “Shall we?”
You and Vivienne walk in silence, your footfalls muffled by snow. Dennis lags behind, head low, doing his best to avoid attention. As you make your way down Terrace Street, the School of Medicine building looms into view. Calling it big would be an understatement. With its labyrinth of interconnected structures, spire-like buildings, and tall, glass-paneled windows, it looks more like a modern-day fortress than a hospital. Dennis gets close from behind.
“Alright, bossman. What’s the play? Place looks massive. We don’t even know where they keep the stash.”
“You’ll enter through the hospital’s emergency wing at the back,” you instruct. “Find the security room, take care of the night guard, and guide us using the cameras. If you can pull building schematics, even better. Vivienne and I will go through the front gate.”
Without a word, Dennis walks into a shadowed alley and ducks behind a dumpster. A minute passes. Still no sign of him. Then, his voice drifts out right next to you.
“Sure thing, bossman. Let’s get yous twos those cameras. I’m going.”
You don’t see him; he never came out, but it’s unmistakably his voice.
“I’ll never get used to that,” Vivienne mutters. You make your way to the front entrance and enter the building. Inside, a security guard holds up a hand.
“No civilians after 8, sir,” he says, aiming it at you.
You flash a badge. Your alternate identity as a mortal, another idea of Raffard. “Special Agent Mulder. This here is Professor Lockhart. We’re here about the blood research taking place at this institution.”
The guard loses his composure, "“Well, uh… I’m sorry, sir, but we were told that…”
He stops. Both of you involuntarily look at Vivienne. In that moment, she’s the most important person in the world.
She reads the guard’s name tag. “William, please. We’ve come a long way for this project, and we still need to return to the hotel. Could you be a dear and point us to the lab?”
“O-of course, Ms. Lockhart. But I don’t know much about it. I’m just a guard, haha…” He nervously adds, “Well, if there is a research project, it’s probably happening in Scaife Hall.” He points at a sign. “Follow those. Labs are in that wing. Oh, and you’ll need an ID card to open the doors. Please, take mine.” He hands her the card. “If you need anything else, I’ll be here.”
Vivienne’s already walking away, offering no reply. You look at the guard dead in the eye and you stir your blood.
“Have no doubts about it. Now, why don’t you forget this whole encounter?” His eyes glaze like fogged glass. He walks back to his post and slumps back into his seat. The dull ache of hunger throbs behind your gums again. You make a mental note to feed soon. You catch up to Vivienne as you head to west wing, toward Scaife Hall.
Your phone buzzes after a while. Dennis. “Bossman, I’m in position. Can see yous twos heading to the labs from the screens here. I cornered a little songbird, he sang good. The one you’re looking for is Lab 186.”
You think you hear a muffled scream in the background. “Shut up,” Dennis barks, followed by a loud smack.
“Alright.” You turn to Vivienne. “186.” She gestures at a nearby sign. Labs 180 to 186 are on the upper floor.
“Dennis, don’t forget to wipe us from the footage.”
A chuckle through the line. “Already on it, bossman.” He hangs up.
You reach the end of the upper floor. Lab 186. Vivienne swipes the card. The door clicks open.
Inside, a man has his back turned to you, gripping a baseball bat. His friend is sifting through files. Both turn the moment you step in. The file-man drops what he was holding and bolts for the open window. At the same time, the one with the bat charges at you and Vivienne. You duck under his wide swing, probably not meant to cause pain, just to delay you two. You grab his wrist and twist it hard. There’s a sickening crunch. He drops the bat and collapses, howling in pain.
You see Vivienne blur past at unnatural speed, streaking toward the window, but it’s too late. The runner is gone. You can already hear screeching tires outside. Vivienne turns to you, her eyes wide.
“I saw him before.” She’s already pulling out her phone and dialing. No doubt Oscar, so he can give chase.
You leave the man groaning on the floor and make your way toward the files and samples scattered across a metal table, clearly the work of the two intruders. You take a quick glance at the tubes and find a vial of crimson liquid labeled “Stanley Kotack,” written in sharpie. Nearby, a research file. You pick it up and skim through it. According to this, the team, consisting of two students who worked on this project as their thesis, didn’t draw blood from Stan directly, his vial was already in a group of samples taken from volunteers. The report notes that his blood is “nothing like the ones taken from the homeless population,” and somehow has “regenerative properties.” Yeah, you’ve found the ghoul blood.
You take an old suitcase lying near the back of the lab, dump its contents, and pack every related vial and report inside. Then you turn to the man on the ground.
“Start talking,” you growl. “Who are you, who sent you, and why are you here?”
He winces, jaw clenched against the pain.
“Odran. He sent us. Said it was a simple smash-and-grab. Didn’t mention anything about vampires. Yeah, I saw your lady friend zip by like a ghost.”
Vivienne steps in. “How long have you been watching my club?”
“Two weeks. Maybe three.”
“Do you know anything about my sire?”
He hesitates. That’s all the invitation Vivienne needs. She kneels down, grabs his already mangled wrist, and gives it a deliberate twist. The scream that follows is bloodcurdling.
“No! I swear! I don’t know anything, I’m just,” he screams more. “Just a muscle! We were supposed to bring the blood and the report to Odran. Tonight. North Side. Some underground party! It’s in my pocket!”
Vivienne lets go, pats his jacket and takes out a small card, then stands up without a word. You’re already pulling out your phone.
Pike picks up immediately. “Adrian. Is it done?”
You give him the rundown.
“I see. Gather what we need. I’ll have someone there in ten to fifteen, to collect your guest.”
“Who is Odran?”
“Degenerate Anarch. More laidback than most of his sect in this city, but still one of them. Curious he’s mixed up in this blood business.” He hangs up before you can ask more.
You and Vivienne lock eyes. You take another glance at your watch. It’s about 11 PM, an hour until midnight.
p2 choices
A) You still need to find the students, before this spirals into a full-blown Masquerade breach. Head to Odran’s party and see what he knows.
B) Swing by the homeless center first. Any scrap of information helps before walking into the Anarch’s den.
C) A compromise. Dennis won’t blend well in a place full of mortals, touching body to body. He can check the homeless center for Stan or the campus for the students while you and Vivienne handle Odran.
Also, if you want to do something to the ghoul you captured, or anything else before you leave, please specify in your votes.