Check it out.
Also... I started a story set in the World of Darkness (aka the Whitewolf universe). I've been roleplaying far too much... but please... read...
Flow, flow, flows the river. Pulsing, spurting, flowing, bubbling up from subterranean depths, the crimson shower spatters, into my mouth, into my body. I can feel the power coursing through me. I drink deeply, my victim moaning almost impreceptibly in my arms, providing me with life, glorious life... and power.
My name is David.
I am a vampire.
Samuel chalked the cue, eyeing the table carefully. The cue felt unnatural in his hands, akward. Pool simply was not his game. His mind knew what to do, his... well, his self understood how to react, but his body would not respond. He could see the combinations, he could see the interactions of the forces, he knew what the balls would do and what he watned them to do, but he could not control the cue.
"Look's like I'm making myself a twenty," his opponent chuckled. She was lithe and had no shame in her body, and very little modesty. Skin tight vinyl made most of her outfit, naked flesh the rest. She brushed at her hair, even though the short black coif had no chance of obstructing her view. It was nothing but seduction in the way she leaned down, her body slicing through the smoke filled air, setting her wieght on her elbows, as if perching on a pallid bust of Pallas. She swung one arm back, and guided the cue between her fingertips, the polished wood rubbing against the dark gloves she wore, the soft sound lost in the background noise created by the other games being played.
Samuel frowned darkly as the eight ball slipped down into the left corner pocket.
And he lost twenty dollars.
But he talked his opponent into a drink. A drink that turned into a conversation, a conversation that turned into sharing a cab, which of course turned into a quick cup of coffee in her apartment, which turned into a late morning, causing him to miss work, violating company policy, and he lost his job.
He never saw the girl again.
"Sensei," Samuel raised himself from the bow he offered his teacher, standing on the soft padding that covered the floor of the dojo. His teacher sat on a straw mat, his back to the paper sliding door that seperated the training floor from his office. "I have come to tell you that I can no longer take lessons with you."
The teacher looked up from his bowl of noodles, seven noodles trailing between his chop sticks, his dark, soft eyes look up to Samuel's own. "why would my student come to me and say this?"
"Sensei," Samuel bowed again, growing uncomfortable under his teacher's soft stare. "I can no longer afford to learn from you Sensei."
"Why is this my child?"
Samuel fidgeted under the soft gaze, and cringed as the teacher slurped the noodles off of his chopsticks. "I lost my job Sensei."
The teacher chuckled. "Well my student, that is a terrible thing. Why did this happen?"
How does he know just the wrong things to ask, wondered Samuel. Why can't he just accept it and stop asking.
"You have been my best student Samuel. It would be a shame to lose you."
Sameul tried to muster a lie to cover up his incompetance, but instead, even as his mind was wrestling with the problems of telling a believable story, his mouth told the truth, all of it. It came unbidden, but flowed as a torrent, truth spilling all over the white gui of his teacher, even as he gently slid another chopstick full of noodles into his mouth.
The teacher nodded. "I understand Samuel, all of us make mistakes. Tragic, yes, but they all happen. It would be... it would be a crime for you to stop developing your talents as a result of such a small mistake, at the hands of such a tempting young lady." The teacher smiled knowingly. "In this case," the teacher's face grew momentarially enigmatic, "I'm not completely sure that you were fairly equipped to not make this mistake. No matter," the teacher waved off Samuel's puzzled look. "Samuel, I'm starting a new class actually... it's a special, advanced, class. I was going to ask you to join any way, at no cost, since it is my first time teaching the material."
Samuel furrowed his brow. "Special?"
And so the teacher shared his own truth.
Death is a terrible thing, or so they say. Myself? Death is life. We all must kill to live, even the vegans kill thier plants. We all must kill to live. Even those of us that aren't alive.
That isn't true of course. I am in the unique position of not having to kill to continue my existance. I could take a pint here, a pint there. I don't need to devour each my prey completely.
But I do.
How many tabs was it before she could perform magick? Two, three? Five? Did it matter? Of course not. There's the point where one no longer has self, and that's when nothing matters.
It's also when magick happens.
Even as the chemicals coursed through her body, she could slow the world down around her. The ravers jumped in slow motion. The skaters on the half pipe had incredible hang times. Off to her left, one of the party goers knocked a tray of pills out of an attendant's hand, and each of the hundreds of blues, reds, greens, yellows, and blacks cascaded in a twisted rainbow, slowly enough that had she wanted to, she could have traced the path of each individual color before they smacked against the concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse.
The falling rainbow passed onto the ground in half a lifetime, and she kept dancing, caught in the music, which too was slowed, passing through her like molasses. She knew she wasn't the only one doing magick here, not nearly. But so few were, so dreadfully few, that she was worried. Where was Davis? And Theo? Claire, Diana, Trey.
She had to know...
Tracing memories to places, tracing places to people, tracing people to pasts, she reached out, forgetting the rules about the place, and instead...
She did magick.
A bust. Trey knew it was a bust even before the cop threw him against the side of the car, muttering on about "rights" and slapping a pair of handcuffs on him. Please, Trey's mind screamed at the minivan that was parked just down the alley, please see this and get away! And they heard him. The black minivan leapt into motion, backing out of the alley at full speed. And it stopped with a sudden crunch, metal meeting metal.
"Freeze!" He heard shouted, and knew that the cops had boxed them in.
"Shit," he said, as the cop patted him down, yanking the switchblade, his darling Ana, from his leather jacket.
"Alright dirtbag. Time to go to a little place called 'jail'. Damn punks." He tossed Trey down into the asphalt of the alley. Trey met it chin first, his hands cuffed behind his back. That was going to make for a nasty scrape.
Tires squealed at the far end of the alley. Probably the paddy wagon, thought Trey, come to take us all off to that "little place". Trey forced himself to a sitting position to look at his impending fate, and gasped.
It wasn't a paddy wagon.
It was a long black Lincoln. The windows were tinted to pitch blackness, and the entire vehicle seemed to attempt to remove itself from your memory. It was the sort of thing that you might see on the street and never notice it. It wanted you to forget it. It pleaded- no it demanded for you to forget it; it tore itself from your memory.
But Trey would never forget it, for as long as he lived, which probably would be depressingly short.
Two men exited the car, drawing the cop's attention. "What the hell is this," he wondered aloud.
RUN! Trey's mind shouted at his legs, which just went numb at the added imperative for action. He saw Claire and the rest getting thier own search. Four more cops had shown up. They saw the two men as well.
The two men walked towards them, the grime from the alley recoiling from thier manicured black suits. Dark glasses made thier gaze unreadable. Thier expression was grim. "Officer," one said, removing a wallet and displaying some form of identification that Trey couldn't read through his frightened tears.
I'm going to die, was the only thing that he could hear in his mind.
"Agent Johnson, FBI. These children here are wanted for questioning in a federal investigation."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
I watched them negotiate for awhile. The cop and the man in black debating silly things like jurisdiction. I knew what was going to happen of course. The second man in black flipped a switch on a device in his left pocket, and the cop gave in. Handed the young, all too young mages over to the men in black.
Poof. The cops were gone. Packed up and left, leaving five, trembling mortals facing down the two darkly dressed men. Words were tossed at the youths, "vulgarity", and "disturbance". They were accused of crimes against reality.
I could see them all begging, trying to run.
But none of them could. They writhed as the two agents brandished thier weapons, strangely crafted devices, made with dark metal and having angry lines.
Crimes against reality.
There was only one sentance.
The first mage vanished in a silent puff of smoke as the agent's pulse laser sent every atom in his body surging in a different direction. That was enough to break the silent spell that the two agents had woven about the young mages- one of them was on her feet and moving, running.
By the third step, she too was a cloud of vapor.
I'm not sure why, perhaps because I was hungry, perhaps because I too was tired of the Technocracy imposing thier view of reality on the world, or simply because I had a moment of stupidity, but I leapt down into the alleyway.
The two agents never really knew what was happening. Moving as quickly as I could, I felt my vitae expend as I tore the head off of the first agent, and sunk my fangs into the second.
Even under the kiss, the agent's cold, rational mind worked, trying to bring the gun around to focus its deadly beam on me. I was too distracted by the ecstasy flowing into my mouth, and missed the kick that the one remaining mage used to send the weapon flying.
The agent slumped to the pavement, dead, and I turned about, sated, to see a lovely young raven, a pulse laser clutched in each hand, threaten me.
After saving her life, this is the thanks?
No mind of course. I told her that I could kill her before her fingers could even close down on the trigger. Not a bluff in the least. She knew it.
So instead, we ran together.
David and Claire.
Kick. Lean, punch. Block, duck, kick low. Arch the back, twist on the heel and strike.
This new style his Sensei was showing him was incredible. Samuel moved slowly, it seemed to him that each punch he threw should have been blocked, dodged, or that his opponent should grab his wrist.
It never happened though. Each punch struck home, and with a vengance. His sparring partner was doing as much damage to him however, and it was a guarantee that he would wake up bruised tomorrow.