A Night in the Life of David Turov pt 2

A Night in the (Un)Life of

David Turov

A Vampire the Masquerade Short Story

Part 2: Home Again, Home Again

The group strides across the tarmac, every bit the conquering heroes returned from abroad. The light cloud cover overhead reflects the city lights back down at us, and coupled with the lights of the airport, we're bathed in a dim, orangish ambiance. The jet's hangar looms nearby, the vehicle in question performing it's slow, arduous taxi into the structure. Off to the side, our destination, is a group of vehicles that has been valeted over, the drivers of the small fleet having departed upon delivery, as per their instructions.

It's not a long walk to the vehicles, but everyone is taking their time, letting the feel of the city wash over them, much in the same way as an back into place old sailor will pause and smell the salt sea air, and feel as if he's being called home. I let the group walk ahead of me, lost in my own thoughts. I don't notice Sophi walking next to me until she bumps my elbow with hers. With a start, I bring myself back to the here and now, silently cursing myself for the lapse in attention.

“Hey,” she begins. She's pulled her hijab back into place, the black cloth and her dark skin blending almost seamlessly in the dark, orange lighting. Her bright eyes stand out, however, their intensity stabbing through me, and I feel the pull of so many things ripping through me. I wonder, as always, if the price of my safety, and Enzo's, is worth the cost I'm paying. I raise my eyebrows to her in reply.

“Are you going to be okay, now that we are back?” Unlike Elizabeth, Sophi isn't altruistic. I've personally watched her cleave monsters in half, and dance through groups of enemies as if it were a choreographed exhibition. The inherent violence that she encompasses, however, merely serves to push into focus the meaning of her care and kindness, of which I am currently the focus. I nod to her curtly.

“I've matters well in hand,” I tell her. Even as I say this, it's a struggle to bring my old habits back into place. While we were in England, I was able to pretend to be something other than what I normally portray myself as. For whatever reason, I played closer to my true self with this group, most likely because of the bond I share with Sophi. Stupid, stupid choices, I chide myself. Her good natured scoff as she jabs me with her elbow again almost shatters my self control, as I feel... whatever it is... stab through me, clutching at my heart like a palpable force. It's all I can do to not lean against her. Instead, I just barely manage a curious look at her. “You doubt my abilities?” It comes out more hoarse than I'd like.

“You play so many games, David.” Her voice is tinged with sadness, as if somehow she's already seen the end of the road I walk, and knows how poorly it will end. “You know I will do what I can to help you, but you are throwing yourself into so many dragons' dens, it will only be a matter of time before you get too deep, before your world implodes, and then there will be nothing I can do.” I let out a resigned sigh, an all too human gesture, as I gaze sideways at her. I can't trust my emotions enough to look at her fully with what is about to come out of my mouth.

The blade flashed in the dim light of the bulb, and I involuntarily flinched from it, only to start swinging by the shackles that held me hanging in place from the ceiling. A frightned, animal whimper escaped my throat, and terror welled up inside me, coupled with hope. Such a terrible thing, to fear death, yet want it, need it so badly. I clenched my eyes shut, and heard the whisper of air as the sword sliced down. A sensation of falling... I landed in a crumpled, dirty heap in the filth that had accumulated beneath me for the past two days. Gagging and disgusted, I scrambled back, slammed into the wall of the cell. Arms that shook with fatigue and strain raised up to shield me from the next blow.

“Your path to the outside has been cleared.” Oddly accented Russian. Her voice was the promise of darkness, the whisper of death itself made incarnate. “You must hurry, though, before the Germans find their dead.” I slowly lowered my hands, my uncomprehending stare fixated on this shadow made flesh before me. Above me, I could here the faint squeaking of the broken chain swinging from its hook. She stepped forward, yanked me roughly to my feet. Her bright eyes glared at me from the dark folds of cloth that swathed her features. “Go!”

“You saved my life, all those years ago. I never got to thank you.” She opens her mouth to say something, but I raise my hand. “Please.” She stops, waiting patiently for me to continue. “I'm sure, after the incident at the hospital with Anya, that you stepped in to save my life again. Then, as before, I do not know why.” I slow my pace, letting the rest of the group pull further ahead. I cannot look at her, and the false emotions that course through me threaten to undo me. I know they're false... I know they're false. Aren't they?

“Instead of thanking you when I had the chance, I asked you for a favor.” I stare up at the sky, taking a deep breath to steady myself. “I asked you for a way to help me keep a semblance of myself in light of the alliances I'd made. Again, for whatever reason, you helped save me.” I force myself to look at her, now, I force myself to be vulnerable to her. My eyes lock on her.

“Now, I thank you. I thank you for myself, and for Enzo. You have done so very much for me.” I keep my gaze upon her, letting her stare into my eyes, I fingernails dig into my palm, the pain the only thing grounding me, keeping the emotions in check. “I thank you, but I swear to you, any further problems are my own, and I will not darken your door with my specters.” She comes to a stop, turning to face me fully. Her smile is a pitying one, no more than I deserve. She reaches up, and places her cold, steely hand softly against my cheek. My stomach drops into freefall as she touches me, and a low sound crawls from my throat. She pats my cheek gently.

“You are an idiot.” She states flatly, grinning. She turns and continues casually after the group, gesturing me to follow. I obey. “You do not get to dictate my actions, “ she continues, “Nor do you get to say who I will care about, or how I will care about them.” She casts a sidelong glance at me, then turns back to the group. “I like underdogs, David,” she says flippantly. “I have been the underdog, I can relate to it. But you? You are more under than anyone I have ever met.”

Up ahead, the group has reached their vehicles. Klein's motorcycle, a black and green Kawasaki Ninja 300 that appears to be more machine than Klein's undying 15 year old frame can handle, Vincent's Lamborghini Huracan Spyder, unyielding lines in black with blue highlights, Seth and Tony's matching '69 Chrysler GTO's, black and chrome gifts of affection from Chicago's deadliest underworld tyrant, and Archon's grey and black Dodge Charger, which is being eyed with unhidden glee and hunger by Hank. The group mills around as Sophi and I make our slow approach, discussing amongst themselves plans for the future, victory celebrations, welcome home parties, hunting expiditions. While we're still out of normal earshot of the group, Sophi stops and turns towards me once more.

“I know you are not, how would you say, one of the gang,” she begins. “I know that there is still a large measure of distrust between you and Vincent. However, I hope you can trust me.” The emphasis she puts on the last statement draws at me, pull me into the beginings of some downward spiral that I just barely manage to keep myself from tumbling into. Numbly, I nod. Another pitying look from her, perhaps because we both know the pull I feel, perhaps because she knows all to well the Bond into which I've entered with her. The same Bond that Vincent has upon her.

A quick, silent step up behind him. A preset diversion, a nearby flashbang perhaps, when I know his Senses will be hightened. A blade through the top of his spinal column, temporary paralysis, how fast will he heal from it? Can he use his other Gifts in the moments it will take him to recover? Flare gun round into the base of his skull, fire and heat boiling away at tissue and bone and brain. While the fire takes it's toll, while he still can't move to defend himself, empty twenty rounds of 5.7mm into what's left of his skull. Can he survive it? When will his compatriots step in? When will she kill me? Will he expire before she can save him? Would that free her? Wouldn't it be worth it, if she can be free?

She hands me what appears to me a remote key fob, but of no manufacture that I'm aware of. As I hesitate, she takes my hand and wraps it around the fob. A mild, electric shudder courses through me from her touch.

“This is programmed with your access credentials for the Catacombs,” she says, referencing the not-so-secret base that the group has built on the southwestern outskirts of town. I look at her numbly, but she continues. “Most of us stay there, and we have room for you as well should you need it. It is not an order you must follow,” she interjects, seeing my hesitant expression. “If it helps you to process it, consider this. You are still in Mr. Winter's employ. Winter is an unknown quantity in this city. I like the idea of keeping unknown quantities nearby so that I may learn more of them.” I slowly nod, accepting the veneer of suspicion she offers, and cherishing the kindness that she hides behind that. She indicates the fob I hold loosely in my hand. “If you press those two buttons together, it will signal an alarm to me, and I will find you, where ever you are. Do you understand?” Hey eyes fix upon mine, her gaze reaching into me and squeezing my brain, my heart. I nod once, slowly. I can't speak.

She reaches up and pats my cheek again, hard enough to cause a minor sting, but I don't mind. She smiles her soft, barely there devil's smile, and inclines her head slightly, coyly. “Stop being an idiot, and you will not have to use it, correct?” With that, she turns and strides purposefully towards Vincent, who is standing with his arms resting atop the roof of the Lamborghini. I can feel his eyes upon me from behind the tinted lenses of his spectacles. His gaze is stone steady on me, and lasts for a moment after Sophi has already gotten into the vehicle. I imagine that he is plotting my demise, but without the hinderances I would face in regards to his. It's sobering to know that if he should make that decision before I do, there's nothing I could do to alter the outcome.

I smile benignly and offer a short wave to him. He doesn't return it, but instead slides smoothly down into the driver's seat of his vehicle. He guns the powerful v-10 engine, and the car takes off, slick and controlled, the model of effecient engineering. I watch him drive off, and I can almost imagine Sophi turning in her seat to watch me as they leave. I know she doesn't, but I imagine.

“Hey, Dave.” The voice is akin to the growl of a predatory animal, threatening and dangerous. It is also completely unexpected, and I spin on my heels to see Tony looming next to me. I look back to where his car is, having just seen him there a moment ago. I'm sure I did. I think. I turn my head back to him, to find him leaning towards me, sniffing. He's sniffing.

Shit.

He cocks his head and he slowly smiles at me. It's not a pleasant smile. With his slicked back black hair and heavy jaw, it wouldn't surprise me to see him take a ball bat to my knee. In a previous life, it's what he was good at. In his currently life, he doesn't need the bat anymore. I clear my throat, attempting some form of nonchalance.

“Hello, Tony. Is there something I can help you with?” As the words leave my mouth, he takes a half step in. Unable to stop myself, I give ground to the primal force before me, my hands moving to my sides in a supplicating geasture. He looks me up and down, and narrows his eyes at me. I blank my breathing, force myself to calm, to pale before him. Nothing to see here, just a small, weak, dead thing.

“Sophi gave you a key the the Tomb?” he asks me, using his own terminology to refer to the Catacombs. I nod, warily. “So... you're one of us now?” This question has more of a sneer to it.

“I will always do what I can to offer you all my assitance-” He interrupts me with an angry scoff and a thick, rebar like finger to my chest.

“That's not what I asked, Dave.” I'm struck by the thought that Tony is the only man I've met who can make one's given name into a curse. He steps closer, crowding me. I cast a desperate glance over to the other members of the group, all gathered around their cars and blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding a mere forty feet away. It dawns on me that Tony is Cloaking us. He grins his killer's grin, shadowy and skull like in the harshness of the city lights. “I know it's your thing, to double talk and tell half truths. To pretend at things you're not.” Again, he sniffs at me.

Shit.

“So how about maybe you answer some answers straight for a change, you think you can do that? Because if you can,” and he draws himself up to his full height, to stare down at me, “maybe I don't have to remember that I'm the Sheriff here. Maybe I won't have to enforce Camarilla law.” For a moment, under the lights and the starshine and the clouds, Tony allows his true face to show, a horrific, nightmarish visage, all fangs and hatred and killing desire. “Maybe I forget who the monster here is.”

And then Tony's public face is in place once more. He stares at me, still angry, but as if nothing else happened. He's silent for a moment, but I recognize the twith to his eye, that growing need to act instead of doing nothing.

“Mr. Winter has plans for you all.” This causes Tony's eyes to widen in surpise, but his persona is otherwise still in full force. “He wanted me to tag along with your group, make myself useful to you. Answer what questions you have. He wants you all to feel at ease with the idea of him.”

“This isn't building trust.”

“Hear me out,” I say to him, my hands up and defensive as I say this. “I'm trying to explain why I'm here with you all. Trust me, it's not by choice.”

“Then what is it? What's Winter playing at?” I shrug, honestly exasperated at the myriad thoughts and ideas constantly running through my head.

“I don't know what his final gameplan is. I'm very good at reading people, at understanding what makes them tick. With Winter, I honestly don't know. He's ancient, he's totally inhuman. He can act the part when it suits him, but whatever humanity and empathy he once possessed is loong gone.” Tony ponders this for a moment, calculating, trying to find a way to make this work for him.

“Why are you telling me this?” He asks, incredulous.

“What, not wanting you to kill me isn't reason enough?” He gives a dangerous smirk at that, but I can tell the joke scores. “Winter hasn't forbidden me from telling you what I know. I'm sure he expects me to share my thoughts with you all at some point anyway.”

“Why?”

“Commonality of purpose and opposition,” I tell him. He stares at me blankly. “You and your friends have no love lost on Kaitlyn and her cronies. Mr. Winter sees her as a potential and probable enemy at some point in the future.” Tony puts a warning hand up.

“She's still the Prince of Ashford, and I'm her Sheriff. You need to be careful what you say.” His tone is difficult to gauge as he says this. I give him a shrug.

“Winter isn't overly concerned with her. He's far more interested in seeing what you all will do, and seeing how that will align with his goals.” Tony grunts as I say this.

“What happens if he decides that our goals don't align, huh? Where will you be?” I fix him with my gaze, anf I feel the frown crease my face.

“I'll be the first one he crushes under his boot, because...” I stop. I can't bring myself to say it. I can't stand to utter what feels like a betrayal to Anya. Tony's eyes widen, shifting from suspicion to understanding.

“Because of.. Sophi?” I nod, unsure why I'm letting this information out. Unsure of my own plan, if it still even exists.

Tony glances over at his friends, who have begun actively looking around for him. He scowls in annoyance, then faces me once more.

“So why her?” He asks. He's not concerned for me, I can hear it in his voice. He's gathering data, trying to accumulate it and sort it, stuffing it in that overactive memory of his. He's wondering if he can use it later. I contemplate not telling him, but perhaps, maybe some day, I can use his knowledge of my reasons in my own way.

“Winter has long forgotten what it is to be human, he doesn't care about that. Sophi remembers every day what it is. Strives for it, even in the face of what she does. To make the deals I made with Winter, to do whatever tasks he will inevitably ask of me, I needed to find something to balance out, to remind me what it is.... to be human. She's the only one in your group I trust not to use me to their own ends.” I stare at him as I see him ponder this, then I make one more statement to him, wondering if it'll be my last.

“Besides,” I say, “I know you understand the struggle to keep a hold on your higher self, when all you do is darkness for others.” I nod slowly to him, not judging, merely seeking to understand. Letting him see that I try to understand.

He scowls, and turns away from me, walking towards the group. They notice him approach, and begin waving and catcalling, not seeming to notice that mere moments ago, they were looking around an open field, wondering where he was. I watch for a moment as they gladhand one another, congratulate themselves on jobs well done, missons bested, adventures hard one. I watch this group of monsters, of killers... of friends. I adjust the cuff of my suit jacket, and turn to walk towards the airport terminal. There is no valet parking tonight for David Turov.

“Hey, Davey!” I turn back towards the sound of my shouted name, and see Tony climbing into his vehicle. He looks back at me, and gives me a two finger salute off his brow.

“Welcome home.”

A Night in the Life of David Turov Part 1

A Night in the (Un)Life of
David Turov

A Vampire the Masquerade Short Story
Part 1: Landing

The voice doesn't so much crackle over the intercom, as it does purr. For the amount of money my "associates" spend on such extravagances, nothing should ever crackle.
"This is your captain speaking. We are on final approach to Ashford International Airport. The local time is 9:27 pm, and the temperature is a cool fifty-seven degrees. We have light clouds, but nothing that will hamper our landing. We'll be touching down in about ten minutes. On behalf of Monarch Charters, I and the staff would like to thank you for your continued patronage. Welcome home, everybody."
I continue to look out the window, watching the lights of Ashford shine like amber gems upon a black velvet cloth to the west. Behind me, I can hear my associates begin packing up their belongings. I hear them cutting up, joking. No cares in the world.
"I think they'll let me fly the plane," I hear Archon say. Without looking, I can hear that smile, the devil-may-care smirk that he carries so often. "I flew a Cessna in my film, 'Mumbai Renegade.' That's got to count for something, right?"
"Wait a minute," interjects Klein. His youthful tone betrays a hint unsuredness. "Was it you flying the plane, or did they have someone else flying and they just filmed you in the cockpit, you know... ACTING?"
"Well, potato, tomato... I know what the controls look like. Have you seen me drive? I got this!" I hear Archon stand to make his way towards the cockpit, and I wonder briefly if I'm about to be killed by forces far beyond my control. I sigh. I shift my gaze from the city lights to the reflection of Archon in my window. He's tall, but not overly so. Ash blond hair, swept back from his face, ever present sunglasses covering his eyes, making him look like a Californian surfer, albeit a surfer who's about to try to pilot an aircraft he's never flown before. I see his jaw set in determination, his smirk widening into a full smile. Yes. We're all going to die now.
"Not meaning to take away from your fun, good sir," I hear Hank's southern drawl snake its way from near the back of the cabin. "However, I do believe that we have time for one more hand." I hear the playing cards shuffle , and I can imagine the one hand shuffle  he's performing. "I mean, unless of course you're scared of losing. Again."
I watch as Archon's reflection turns towards the back of the cabin. His eyebrow raises, questioning. "What're we betting? You've already got all my loose cash." Hank chuckles good naturedly, and I finally turn around in my seat, looking over my right shoulder to watch the exhange.
Hank is a slight man, though on the taller side. His brown hair hangs loosely about his face, framing his angular features. Thin lips smile beneath a handlebar mustache. He continues his card shuffle with one hand as he adjusts his Stetson with the other. His suit coat is lying on the arm of the chair next to him, and the shoulder holster he wears serves to accentuate his thin frame.
"There are more things to bet with than just mere money, sir," he soothes. "Besides, what are you worried about? You're starting to get really good at this game!" Hank beams, as if a thought has struck him. "I know! How about if I win... I get to borrow that nice car of yours for a week?"
"Hell no, no one touches her but me! You'd only insult her with your lack of fine motor control."
Hank's smile turns predatory, as he causes the Ace of Hearts and the King of Spades to chase one another around the deck he's holding in his left hand. "Alright... two days... and if you win, I'll procure a helicopter for you to do with as you please. I'll even bungie out of it with you, if you'd like."
"You're not touching my- wait, bungie jump out of a helicopter?"
"It's a bit much for my fair heart, to be sure. But I do so like that Charger of yours... she and I would look so good together for a few days. But I understand if you're too squeamish about losing..." Hank lets the sentence trail off.
"Oh, it's on like Donkey Kong!" Archon moves swiftly to the back, his too white smile wide and hungry for the challenge. He sits across from Hank, and I realize that Hank's reward for saving all of our lives will be to probably wrap Archon's vehicle around a tree. Another problem for another day.
I lean back in the leather seat, for a moment allowing myself to be comforted by its embrace. I close my eyes, and begin my mental preperations for what lay in wait in Ashford.
"Are you okay? You're not... airsick, are you?"
I can't help myself. My eyes open at the sound of the angelic voice, and I see that Elizabeth has quietly sat herself down in the seat across from me. It's all I can do to keep my breath from catching in my throat as I gaze impassively at her beauty.  I think I give something away, because I see her faint smile widen just briefly. She brushes a strand of brown hair from her face, and it's an effort to figure out which look is better on her. I close my eyes and quickly center myself. I open them again, and try the impassive stare again. Perhaps this time it takes, or perhaps she's good natured enough to let the slip pass. Not for the first time, I wonder how such a lovely person ended up with monsters such as we.
"No, I believe we're all beyond getting airsick, don't you think?" I say, allowing my accent to push through a little. The fewer performances I'm engaged in, the easier the remaining ones will be. "I'm just trying to calculate my to-do list for after we land."
She nods, then asks, "Is there anything you need help with?" She truly means it, and I'm saddened by how genuinely kind she is. I try not to think of the heartache we'll all feel when we inevitably break her. If not our group, then our society, which does not pride itself on unselfish acts. I shake my head.
"Everything I need to do can be done on my own. There is nothing strenuous, just many trivial tasks. Meetings. Arrangements for future meetings and dealings. Things like that. But I appreciate your offer. Spasiba." She reaches out and pats my knee, and even knowing what she is, I feel that electric thrill at her brief touch. I bite the tip of my tongue and blink at her.
"Well, the offer's open, if you need it," she replies. I can hear a touch of her native Louisianna tickle her words. "But now that you remind me, I've got to say I'm not looking forward to my own meetings. My producer's been blowing up my texts, wanting to know when I'm coming in to record the new single, but I've just been so busy. I guess now that we're back from England..." Her soft voice trails off, almost childlike, as her gaze is drawn to her wrist. She turns her arm over, revealing an angry set of fresh scars, like lightning bolts racing from the palm of her hand, up whe inside of her arm, spreading and fading just past her elbow. She looks at them, her soft mouth slightly agape in fascination.
"Elizabeth," I say softly, leaning close to her, lowering my voice so that hopefully only she can hear.  Her gaze jumps from her arm to me, almost as if I've startled her. "I don't make this offer lightly...or to anyone else here. But... " Now it's my turn to stare at the scars for a moment, angry and fresh, but oddly entancing in their way. "But... if you want, I can help you get rid of those. I can-"
"No!" She interjects, a little too loudly. She looks about and smiles at the rest of the group looking at her, giving the bearest shake of her head. She turns back to me, lowering her voice consipiratorially. "No," she continues, more sure. "I think... I want to keep them. I want them as a reminder of what happened."
"What happened was that you waved a long piece of metal above your head in the middle of Stonehenge during  a thunderstorm and got struck by lightning!" I hiss, marveling at the insanity of the statement even as I utter it.
"I know," she beams. She reaches up and pats my cheek with the hand in question, then leans towards me to whisper in my ear. "Isn't it amazing?" Her breath tickles the edge of my ear, and I feel myself go weak at the sensation. Unaware, she stands and walks towards the front of the cabin, where Tony and the rest of the group is. I let out a long, nearly silent, shuddering breath at her departure.
Footsteps shwish across the carpeting of the cabin floor. I look to my right and see Seth approaching. He's staring at me curiously, as if performing a visual diagnostic on the scene he'd just witnessed. He motions to the chair that Elizabeth just vacated.
"Mogyu ya sidet'?" His Russian is Israeli accented, and I find the combination to be soothing at the moment. I nod, motioning to the seat as well.
"Da, konechno." Of all the group, Seth, with his bookworm ways set in a soldier's body, is probably most akin to myself in manner. We have both kept secrets as a profession, he and I, as well as uncovered others' secrets. Our time in Pamplona and Barcelona saw the start of what might end up being an interesting friendship, if one of us doesn't have to kill the other. Time will tell. Seth's cough interrupts my musings, and I'm aware that he knows that my mind has wandered momentarily. If he knows where my thoughts wandered to, he's being professionally courteous, for which I'm grateful. He unbuttons the jacket of his charcoal suit and sits in front of me, his greenish eyes boring into me. With his eyes and the determined stare, along with his military short hair, he reminds me of a sniper instructor I knew once, long ago.
"Is everything okay?" Seth switches back to English, where his accent is less pronounced. "You and Elizabeth had an exhange." I stifle a smile at Seth's bluntness. It's a quality I've come to respect in him, these straightforward comments, as opposed to the double talk and lies that prevail in our society..
"Yes, tvarich, everything is fine. She was just recounting her time at Stonehenge." Not a lie, though not the whole truth. It appears to be good enough for Seth, who nods his head, his stare easing slightly.
"You were in better spirits when we were in Europe," Seth says. "As we get closer to home, you are more pensive. Why is this?" He tilts his head to the side slightly, lmost in a birldike manner, as he regards me, watching for my tells as I answer. Seth had been an Israeli spy for too long not to have picked up on the tells of those who dealt with him constantly. It's a useful habit that is not abandoned just because one is no longer in the life. I shrug.
"Ashford isn't home for me." I reply to him, matching his bluntness with a rare moment of candor on my part. "It's a place I ended up after Enzo and I left Los Angeles. He still goes back ocassionally, his mother still lives there. For me though? There's nothing there. I thought perhaps Ashford could be home, but my reasons for those thoughts are, well, gone now." My gaze drifts back to the window, to the lights of Ashford, and as if on cue the private jet we're in starts to bank towards it. In moments, I can no longer see Ashford's lights, the only view for now being available only in the cockpit.
"You're refering to the old woman who died at the hospital?" Again, Seth's bluntness, though this time less appreciated. The months old memory it invokes is too raw. I look over at him and see him staring at me, unblinking, his head slightly canted in the other direction. A too damned curious, too damned deadly bird. I stare at him. He stares at me. Slowly, I nod. Once. He continues to stare, waiting for more information.
"Anya and I were close several lifetimes ago." I explain. "Back in the Soviet Union. We were Romani Ruska, Russian gypsies. During the war we became separated, because of the Nazis..." I ponder for a moment, trying to figure out how best to continue. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Seth nod ever so slightly in sympathy. His collar was open, and I could barely see the Star of David that he constantly wore around his neck. I continue. "By the time I found out she'd survived the war, I was in Los Angeles. I discovered that Anya was ill, had moved here to be treated by the oncologists at Ashford Memorial. The rest.." I utter a short, bitter bark of a laugh. "The rest is trivialities."
I lean back in my seat, eyes to the darkness beyond the window. Light pollution from the city is causing the stars to fade from view. I find that to be a fitting metaphor. Seth shifts in his seat as he chooses his next words.
"If the memories are too painful for you, why don't you leave? Go back to Los Angeles?" It's an equation for him, I see. Enzo would parse it as a simple 'if not/then' programming statement, an argument he and I have had before. I shake my head.
"Events under the current regime have placed certain obligations about my neck," I tell him. Again, this is truth, but not complete. I see his eyes narrow, the analyst seeking more data. "In protecting myself and Enzo, I had to make certain deals with certain individuals, make sure I was standing on a strong side."
"Mr. Winter and his entourage." I nod.
"In my haste, I believe I may have misstepped a bit, misjudged the situation. He's difficult to read, he doesn't think the way we do. I'm finding the situation to be... more complicated than anticipated."
"Again, why not just leave?" Another shake of my head.
"Seth, one does not simply run from the attention of a thousand year old vampire, does one?" My grin is both amused and ironic as I say this. After a moment of judging my mood, he follows suit, and we both begin to chuckle. I think he understands that for all the heartache, all the danger.... there is a shadowy game at play, and individuals like he and I have a deep rooted desire to play that game.
The sharp tapping of metal on glass grabs our attention, and we turn to see Vincent the front of the cabin, well appointed in one of his custom suits, tapping the side of a champagne flute with a small silver pen knife. He turns his head to Klein, peering out at him from behind smoked lenses, his face the model of Dorian Grey eternity. He nods to Klein, who lifts a silver serving platter before him, an unmarked green wine bottle resting in the center.
Klein then looks back to Vincent, who gives him another brief nod, that of a teacher encouraging a willful student. Klein's boyish face clenches in concentration, his blond locks obscuring his eyes from view. As we watch, seven more champagne flutes appear from nothingness around the bottle, similar to the flute that Vincent holds, though not exact replicas. These are not quite as elegant, not as refined. The glasswear solidifies, and Klein gives a grunt of final effort, his head snapping backward from the intensity of the act. For a moment, the sclera of his eyes are flushed crimson with the magic he's invoked, then his eyes are clear again as he flashes everyone his goofy teenager smile, basking in the light applause we offer. Such a young boy, I think, to have been a killer for as long as many of those gathered in this group.
"We're going to be landing in a moment," Vincent states, his clear voice ringing through the cabin, demanding attention. "I thought it would be fitting that that we celebrate our return to Ashford, and the successful conclusion of our trip abroad," this he says with a nod to Elizabeth, who beams gratefully at the entire ensemble, "with a toast." He gestures towards the wine bottle, and the cork lodged in its neck begins to twist and pull its way free.
As the cork drops to the platter next to the bottle, the bottle itself raises from the surface, tilting and pouring careful, measured amounts into each flute. Dark, thick crimson liquid spills into each glass, slightly transluscent in the glow given off by the cabin lights. The strong scent of iron quickly engulfs the cabin, and I watch as my asosciates widen their eyes with anticipation. The last of the flutes is filled, and the bottle glides towards Vincent, who holds out his own glass to be filled. With an almost casual gesture, Vincent mentally commands the glassware and bottle to float out amongst the rest of the group.
Surgical implements danced through the air before me, the light from the dim bulb overhead reflecting on their corners and sharp edges. My blood dripped from these as they floated in front of me, and the doctor stares at me curiously, greenish blue eyes taking in my wounds as his implements float to the table. "Sehr eigentarig," he exclaims softly in his oddly accented German. "Das ist eigentarig."
The glasses find themselves in the hands of our assembly. Archon, looking dejected, plucks his from the air before him, as Hank stands next to him making cooing, "vroom vroom" noises and deftly slides his hand around the incoming beverage. Klein sets the serving tray aside and takes a glass hovering in the air next to him, his face full of pride at his part in Vincent's little group building ritual. Elizabeth gently takes her flute with delicate fingers, eyes ablaze with with success and plans for the future. Seth pulls his glass from the air, sniffing at the contents within, and then nodding his approavel. My own glass floats in front of me, and after a moment's hesistation I take it and hold it numbly, automatically. The bottle floats towards Tony, who's standing near the cabin door, leather jacket and slicked back hair making him appear every bit the mafia enforcer. He wraps his large hand around the body of the bottle, giving it a light swirl to judge how much liquid is left within, He, too, gives it an expirimental sniff.
The last glass floats to Sophi, who is as always standing near Vincent. In a rare moment of relaxation, her hajib is down, and the color of the liquid in the clear flute is almost lost in front of the darkness of her skin. Articulate fingers lightly grip the sides of the flute, and her eyes scan across the room at everyone. For a moment, her eyes rest on me, and a wave of emtion slams into me like an almost palpable force. She gives me her sad, slight smile, knowing what I'm feeling, before returning her gaze to Vincent. I clench my jaw, reminding myself that what I'm feeling isn't true, that it's an illusion, an empty and hollow thing. I harden my heart. I do not want to feel this.
Tony watches the whole exchange with vague interest. Even as he sees me notice him, he continues to watch, to file away my reaction in that steel trap brain of his. Another keeper of secrets, that one. A hoarder of information. A pain in my ass.
"We've faced more than a few obstacles in our time abroad," Vincent says to the assembly. His mixture of Italian and French accents gives a musical, lilting quality to his words. "We've faced and overcome these obstacles. As a team. We must be constantly reminded that we are far stronger together, that we have the power to face whatever upcoming trials and obstacles so long as we remember that we're a team." He pauses for effect, looking around at everyone. He conveniantly ignores Tony's slight roll of the eyes. "We forged a bond literally in the blood of our enemies while we were in England. It is a bond that will serve to keep us stronger than we would be seperately." This time, his words cause a ripple of unease in the group, couple with no small amount of guilt. I see Sophi's gaze harden slightly at Vincent, a momentary flash of anger that quickly fades.
Not for the first time, I calculate what it would take to kill Vincent. How much time it would take. What my chances of survival would be. How his group would react. Whether they'd kill me. How Sophi would feel about it. How angry she'd be with me, after making me promise. Would her anger be a fair price to pay for...
"I believe the unity of purpose we are developing will push us to better things," Vincent continues. "I truly feel that as we grow into ourselves, there will be no challenge that, given time and planning, we cannot overcome. We will be strong together. We will face our challenges together. And together, we will not be vanquished." He raises his glass. "Salut!"
Everyone eagerly drinks at the liquid in the glasswear. I hesitate for just a moment, then raise the flute to my lips. I set my jaw and harden my stomach as I tilt back, the warm, salty blood slicking its way past my lips and down the back of my throat. I try to pass off the small shudder that passes through me as one of ecstasy.
As we drink, we all feel the light bump of the jet's landing gear touching down on the tarmac of the airstrip. A small cheer rises up from my associates, and I note Vincent's timing between speech, drink, and landing. Effective.
Not once during all of this are we told to raise tray tables or return to our seats. For the amount of money my "associates" spend on such extravagances, nothing should ever crackle.

TRIGGER Pull

I've stated before that I like to run dark, gritty games. There's something special about facing the inherent nihilism of the world, about staring the abyss in the eye and daring the mofo to eyeball you back, that I find oddly confirming. I tell dark tales to my group so that afterwards we can appreciate the light.

As is often the case, these grim tales tend towards adult themes and content, violence and depravity that lurk in the darker recesses of the id and ego. I do not tell tales of torture porn, as I find that distasteful, but I don't shy away from darker elements that have a narrative purpose. Amongst friends who've known each other for years, who kind of know what makes the others tick, you can get a feel for what you're group will or will not be comfortable with, and can tailor accordingly. When telling tales like that, horror tales, you want to edge towards the comfort border, but you do not want to run across it all willy nilly.

But what do you do when you haven't known members of your group for that long? Or when your group is mixed company? How do you know you can tell a horror story without crossing the lines with someone, without triggering some sort of deep seated reaction in them, or just plain old disgusting them? The answer is very simple. You communicate.

My group is made up of myself and seven other people. Two of those individuals I've known for and gamed with for eighteen to twenty years. We've run some gritty games in the past, and I don't worry too much about them. However, a third guy in the group, my friend's son, I've known for eighteen years (since he was born), but I've only really interacted and gamed with him for about two years. The additional four members of the group, I've known for two years or less, and they include a group member's fourteen year old son and a woman. So in essence, over two thirds of my group, I don't know what really makes them tick inside. Also, I run the risk of offending parents if my story has overly questionable content.

When I decided I wanted to run grimdark games for this group, I wasn't sure how to go about doing it. I figured I'd have to keep it somewhat toned down and safer than I'd intended. This is actually an okay method!  Most stories you want to tell, you can tone down the darkness and still get the point of the story across. If you're ever in doubt about what you can, "get away with," err on the side of caution. It's better to tell a watery story than it is to risk severely offending someone you're trying to entertain.

Fandible.com is an actual play podcast, and they have an effective way of warning listeners about impending questionable content. While they did not come up with the idea, Fandible is the first group I've seen make use of 'trigger warnings.' In essence, these are blurbs about the type of questionable content, informing listeners in case they don't want to hear stories involving said content. This works well for my group because we maintain a GroupMe site for our games, and we can discuss what's going to happen in the games (no spoilers!) before we get together. I need to point out, when you use a trigger warning for an upcoming session, make sure you allow for feedback from the group, and allow for venues of private discussion. Let them know if the trigger can be altered, or if it can't, let them know they may need to sit that session out. Make sure the gamers know you're open to communication! For instance, if you're going to run a game that will include child abuse, and you have a gamer who doesn't want to take part, they need to know that they can tell you why that is, if they choose to do so. If that gamer was abused as a child, they may not want to relive certain memories. Or they may want to take part in the game, but they want to discuss with you how it affected them so that you can avoid certain things, or even play up certain things if they want to try to work through an issue. I cannot stress this enough.... Communicate! Always be willing to communicate.

When it comes to running questionable content, this is my commandment... Do not glorify the darkness. For example, don't tell a story that includes animal cruelty just so you can run a scene where characters get to torture puppies. We shouldn't revel in the shadows, we should hold a candle up to them and examine them for what they are. Also be respectful of your players. If you have a game where a sexual assault is going to take place, do NOT do that on "camera." Keep as much questionable content as you can off camera, and tell only enough to get the point and mood across. No more than that, otherwise you start running into torture porn territory, and that doesn't work for me. Also, if said content involves a character directly, discuss the events with the player before you play them. This is important. You and the player need to agree on what's appropriate and what's not. This may mean giving that player some spoilers, but better that than irrevocably offending the player.

After the game is complete, everyone should take time to decompress and discuss, as needed. It's natural for gamers to step into the shoes of the character, to become them, and to feel the emotions the character would feel. Because of this, you may need to take some time at the end of the session to help everyone become grounded in reality again, or to work through whatever emotions they may be feeling. The gaming table should be a safe place for everyone to discuss what they're going through, without fear of ridicule. If you have gamers who can't respect that, you may not need them at your table.

To summarize, there are about four steps for running triggering content. Decide if the story demands that type of content. Warn your players of impending trigger content, and communicate with them about it if needed. Respect the content and the players, and show just enough content to get the story across. Decompress after the story, and give everyone the chance to find their balance, and discuss the ramifications of the content if needed.

These are merely my suggestions for running mature content, though I think they're pretty good ones. I hope that you can use since of these hints to gain insight into how you can run more mature themes, and I wish you luck in doing so.  Remember, while we may walk through the shadows, it just takes a little light to find our way through.

Why the Storyteller?

I run a Vampire: the Masquerade game for a group of my friends. We generally meet every other Friday evening, and for a few hours they run their characters through various scenarios I create. I won't discuss my developmental process right now, but suffice it to say, things usually do not go as planned.

Every game master knows this: Players are a tricky bunch, and when you present a sandbox scenario (I happen to love sandbox games), players will run off the rails pretty quick.  It's a unique challenge, trying to herd (in my case) seven individual quick minded people, each with their own goals, onto a story path. In addition to that, a game master has to remember relevant non player characters, locations, primary and secondary story arcs, tertiary story threads, political environments, behind the scene machinations, player and character goals.... Oh, and when portraying those npcs, the gm has to portray each one as an individual, provide mannerisms and speech, and remember THOSE npc goals if relevant.

It can be a daunting, quickly overwhelming task. It can be frustrating, heart breaking even. It can break some gamers' will to gm anymore, or even cause them to stop playing altogether. So the big question one might ask is, "Why? Why would you want to be the Storyteller in the game?"

I can't speak for every game master, dm, or storyteller out there. I can perhaps hazard a guess on their behalf, but that speculation will be colored by my own experience or lack thereof. What drives me may not drive someone else, and that's fine. There are no wrong answers when it comes to why a successful game master does what he does (though, if you're running a game for world wide fame, glory, and to pick up supermodels.... Eh, I don't think you're gonna be happy). So, I'll speak for myself, and if there happens to be carry over for someone else, great. If not.... No worries.

I guess to start from the basics, we'll discuss world building. I enjoy the idea of presenting a backdrop that players can interact with. I like developing elements that in some way will resonate with players and their characters. Such aesthetic is informed by the type of game I'm running, as well as the general mood of the players, but it generally has to be an aesthetic that I personally enjoy. In the case of the VtM game, the setting is a grim, gritty analog of Nashville. My group lives near Nashville, and we're familiar with it (though in the game the city is called Ashford, and is located near Gary, Indiana). The grim mood is in line with the theme of most Vampire games, and since I like gritty movies and stories, and kind of a noire vibe, this hits my buttons. I can get into this.

As to developing story lines... I like to write. I like weaving webs, casting entanglements, seeing how pieces fit together. I like getting reactions from my players. I like drawing then into a tale I'm telling, getting them lost in the story and how the pieces interact with one another. I like playing with character emotions and motivations, drawing out expectations and tensions. Intrigue and morality plays are my go to devices.

With npcs, I like acting, I like performing. Each npc is a chance for me to don a new suit, try on a new skin, fit in a new head. I like the challenge of finding the proper voice, the proper stance, the correct gestures for an npc. Many times, I have to do this on the fly, so I get to stretch my improvisational wings, and then work my memory as I try to remember those bits and pieces for the next time I present that npc.

As a whole, the challenge of presenting a cohesive experience kind of gets my juices flowing. I mentioned before that I like writing, but when I prep for a game, I write very little, if anything, down. A couple of jotted notes, a thin outline if I'm feeling like working, and then we're off to the races. At that point, it becomes a competition of sorts. Can I keep up with and entertain these seven people? Can I keep my plots framed together and relevant to both the story and the characters? If I screw up, can I cover it without the players knowing?

This last point I'm going to hit is probably the one you'll hear least about if you do any research on story telling or game mastering, but I think it's one of the most honest points, as well as the one that indicates the most vulnerability. I have a pretty healthy ego. It can take a decent amount of abuse and I'll still be peachy keen. But at the end of the day, I like to be appreciated. I like to know I did a good job at something. I like having people entertained by what I do. I like to have my friends like me, and by entertaining them, by taking them on an adventure of the mind, I can prove my worth to them. Does that mean I want them to constantly pat me on the back and praise me? No. I want the critiques. I want to know where I mistepped. I want to know where I can improve. Yea, I want my ego stroked, but I want to earn it honestly.

So there you have it. I almost exclusively take the part of the Storyteller as opposed to playing.  With all of the inherent obstacles and struggles that come with running a game, that's the slot in which I thrive. I enjoy it. That's my element. And now, to some extent, you have the reasons as to why I'm a Storyteller.

Telling Tall Tales

Being a geek, part or full time, there's an expectation that one spends their days huddled in Mom and Dad's basement, pouring over tomes of Dungeons and Dragons lore. Growing up in Florida, I didn't have a basement. Otherwise, hell yea. I was such a DnD junkie, in fact, that I'd carry game books in my backpack at school instead of text books (that would partially explain y embarrassingly low GPA, despite an almost embarrassingly high IQ at the time (I've been hit repeatedly in the head since then, so well....)).

While I was enlisted in the Army, I came across a game back in 1992 that would eventually change how I viewed role playing. That game, White Wolf's Vampire: the Masquerade, had just published its second edition book, and it was recommended to me by a comic book store clerk who knew I liked vampires (before this, I was devouring the DnD Ravenloft materials). After reading through the book, my mind was blown.

I'd tried running one or two games with some of the guys in my unit, but at the time I was still too imbeded n the DnD mindset of power gaming and min/maxing. Additionally, I hadn't yet learned how to focus a game on the players, so the sessions I ran were lackluster "baddie of the week" affairs. Yea, not great.

In '93, we had some new recruits join our unit. One of the guys was a fellow named James, and he, his wife, and I would soon become very good friends. As James and I talked, we discovered a shared interest in gaming Once his wife moved to the area and they'd gotten off-post housing, they began hosting small gaming sessions for the few of us who played. Eventually, I'd broached the topic of Vtm, and they were interested in the idea, so we gave it a shot.

We were 19, 20 years old. We were all speed readers. We were all fairly smart. Needless to say, we skimmed the rules and didn't learn them all that well. Our core group was just the three of us, with an occassional friend joining in. But we had fun. So much fun. James and his wife Tabby started having me stay over on the weekends so that we could engage in all-night sessions. This led to me moving in with them so that we could play during the week. Additonally, we'd often times just sit around and discuss the nature of the game, what we wanted to see happen in the games, and general strategies for the games. We delved into other White Wolf games, and we took turns on Storyteller duties. In truth, the time I spent playing with them is probably what helped me get through my enlistment.

I eventually left the service, and James, Tabby, and I went out seperate ways. A few months after moving here to Tennessee, I met members of the group I currently play with. Several of us have been friends for over twenty years now. Over those two decades, I've learned more about the "art of storytelling," I've picked up tricks, read up on the art, learned about story structure and improvisation, how to make characters more believable. In every way, I've become better at what I do.

But.... if it hadn't been for those couple of years where I was so intensely engrossed in the games, so inundated with the concept of trying to help my friends have FUN (that's the idea of a game after all, right?), then who's to say how I would have turned out as a Storyteller. Sure, we didn't have a full grasp on the rules. Yea, we had some really dumb, overpowered character (I had a Bubasti Mage at one point... heh?). But we had fun, we enjoyed ourselves, we learned the basic, golden rule of  gaming. Have fun (there might be a point I'm trying to make, hmm?). Everything else, rules, structure, timing... they can all be learned. But if you can't let go and laugh from the get-go, then that will carry over into how you game. Think about that.

Now go out and tell some tales.

In Greetings....

Into the breech, my friends. It's been far too long since I've had reason to place my thoughts in long form on the net, and I admit that it may take a while for me to get back into the swing of things. While I'm undergoing these intellectual growing pains, I hope that you'll bear with me, and see if we can't explore this vast wasteland we call my brain. Oooh, the anticipation! So let's see, what makes me a part time geek? I guess I should address the part time portion first. 

I've got a full time job in a manufacturing plant as a machine operator, forklift driver, safety team leader, and whatever other hat the company thinks they can fit on my head. On top of that, I'm a husband and a father, and those two aspects define a large portion of who I am. Additionally, I've been an infantry soldier, an armored cavalry scout, and a combat arts practitioner. All of this together takes up a large portion of my time. All of this is a full time life.

Now, my geek bona fides.

 I've been a gamer for over thirty years (I started playing the Dungeons and Dragons Red Box set back 1983, when I was ten). In addition to tabletop RPGs, I'm a fairly avid video gamer, and I must confess to being in the Microsoft camp, in that I do my playing on the XBox (360 and One). As of this writing, I'm currently playing Star Wars Battelefront, Fallout 4, Rise of the Tomb Raider, Star Trek Online, and a few others. You can find me on XBox under the gamer tag, "ThePartTimeGeek." Go figure. 

Along with the various games, I'm in love with science and technology. The opportunity we have to better our lives through the application of our intellect, of that which at its very essence is what makes us human, absolutely astounds me and fills me with a sense of wonder and hope. While I shy away from the prospect of artificial intelligence and autonomous machines (I've seen all the Terminator movies, I know how that ends!), I whole heartedly cheer for exploration, augmentation, discovery, and knowledge for the sake of just knowing.

Then there's drawing, movies, Star Wars and Star Trek, comics, Doctor Who, Supernatural, indie film creation..... all these parts help contribute to the whole that is the wonderfulness of me. Over time, I hope to share some of these tidbits with you, help you become a little more familiar with what it means to be my brand of geek.

At least, part time.