Name: Brandon Lawrence
Player: Doug Dawson
E-mail Address: n/a
Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Vampire
Nature: Caregiver
Demeanor: Architect
Clan: Brujah
Generation: IXth
Haven: Apartment
Concept: Doctor

ATTRIBUTES:
Physical: Strength-3, Dexterity-2, Stamina-4
Social: Charisma-2, Manipulation-2, Appearance-2
Mental: Perception-2, Intelligence-3, Wits-3

ABILITIES:
Talents: Acting-1, Alertness-1, Brawl-1, Empathy-2, Streetwise-1
Skills: Animal Ken-1, Drive-1, Repair-1, Stealth-1
Knowledge: Bureaucracy-3, Computer-2, Linguistics (Spanish)-1, Medicine-5

DISCIPLINES:
Celerity-1, Dominate-2, Potence-2, Presence-2

Backgrounds: Generation-5, Resources-2
Merits & Flaws: Prey Exclusion, Unskilled

VIRTUES:
Conscience-5
Self-Control-4
Courage-3

Humanity-9
Willpower-7
Blood Pool-10

Appearance: Brandon is a young Caucasian male who was embraced in his mid-twenties. He has blond hair and pale green eyes. Since dying, Brandon's skin, hair and eyes have lightened in colour.

PRELUDE

Date: <Some Date To Be Determined, right after the death of Sandra Jackson>Time: About 2 A.M.
Place: An emergency room in Monterey

"Twelve...thirteen..."
The voice, though soft, carried through the room in a moment of silence. Brandon Lawrence looked up tiredly from the journal he was glancing through. "Do what, Steph?"
A chuckle came from behind the desk. "Sorry. Just counting ceiling tiles, trying to stay awake." Stephanie Winsett wasn't actually visible from where Brandon was sitting; he guessed she was lying down, staring up.
"Oh. Okay." As Brandon glanced down at the journal again, trying to concentrate on the article ("Statistical Analysis: Burns In Gang Violence Increasing"), he heard her softly begin counting again, starting over at one.
As she passed eight, a sudden grin came across his face. He waited a few moments. "Twelve...thirteen..."
He cleared his throat. "Steph?"
There was a long pause. "Yes, Brandon?"
"Awfully quiet tonight, isn't it?"
The pause this time was even longer. "Thanks for the newsflash, Walter Cronkite. Yeah. Just be thankful. I've been here a good bit longer than you, and a night like this is pretty goddamned rare."
Silence fell again. After a moment, the counting started over again. Grinning, Brandon waited patiently. "Twelve...thirteen..."
"Steph?"
The pause this time was the longest yet. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" She probably had her eyebrow quirked in that way that sent his hormones flowing double-time; too bad she was married.
"Who, me? Anyway, 67. Just thought you'd like to know."
The pause felt somehow dangerous this time. Brandon had a sudden image of her counting slowly to ten, but not counting tiles this time.
"67?"
"Ceiling tiles. In the whole Emergency Room. Just thought you'd
like to know."
"Brandon, you bast-"
And then, chaos. With no warning at all, the doors to the ambulance drop-off slammed open. A gurney with one of the most bloody bodies Brandon had ever seen came flying into the room, followed by a very uncertain-looking crew. Stephanie jerked upright in surprise, then nearly vaulted over the desk to get to the patient. "Why the hell didn't you call this in?" she shouted even as she rushed to take the vital signs of the incoming case.
And why the hell didn't we hear the ambulance's siren, thought
Brandon. Even as he rushed to help Stephanie, he cursed the timing.
The support staff had gone off for a short break; since normally any
thing this severe would have a call-ahead, they should have been able to get them back in plenty of time. Since he was junior to Stephanie, he began to gently but hurriedly clean the body a bit while she made a preliminary diagnosis.
"Jesus!" It was a short, shocked whisper, from Stephanie, but it surprised Brandon. He'd never heard her express shock over a patient before. What could...? Then he saw it: the throat had been violently shredded, ripped apart as though by wild animals, and a thin wooden stake had been driven into the chest.
Stephanie spun around and confronted the dazed ambulance crew. "What the hell is wrong with you? No call-ahead, no siren, and you come in like bats out of hell with a body that shows _no_ vital signs at all. Hell, this one's so cold that..." She broke off as she noticed Brandon fiddling with the thin stake through the heart. "Leave that alone or the cops..."
Brandon was never sure just what she was going to say, because at that moment, the stake came loose in his hand. Even as he felt a flush of embarassment start to show on his face, everything seemed to slow and stop as the body came violently to life.
It couldn't have been more than a few seconds, objectively, but it
seemed more like hours as the blood-covered woman sprang up. A casual backhand swing sent Stephanie spinning away into a wall. Before Brandon could even raise his hands in self-defense, the woman was on him, knocking him backwards even as her teeth sank into his neck. A thrill of almost sexual energy ran through him even as his life ran out. It felt rather like an orgasm, but more powerful. And then everything was fading to black, peripheral vision going first, rapidly shrinking into narrow tunnel vision...
And then the process reversed, even more quickly. His tunnel vision swelled out to normal and then _more_. Above him, the blood- soaked woman wore an ironic smile as she dripped a few precious drops of blood from her wrist into his open mouth. "What the hell..."

Date: The Next Day
Time: 11 P.M.
Place: An Alley In Monterey

Brandon suddenly stopped talking, and shuddered. "I don't know
if I can describe the feeling...the _hunger_..."
The impeccably dressed young woman standing in the alley with him smiled. It was a twisted smile, suggesting bitter humor. "I'm...familiar with the feeling. Please, continue. You spin a nice tale, though I've heard the like many times before."
Brandon shrugged. "I'm not sure what I can say. The rest of the evening is a bit blurry. Stephanie had a mild concussion from the hit she took, so I was the only one talking to the police...I didn't mention the blood-drinking bit." A cold wind blew down the alley, but it didn't bother him.
"Who did you feed on? You must have fed."
Brandon shuddered again. "I wish you wouldn't talk of people like food. I'm not sure. The ambulance drivers, I think. Just enough to bring me under control. Then she took off, and took the drivers with her. It all seemed like a dream...I was able to convince myself that it was just a vivid hallucination, that I'd been thrown into shock by the whole thing. I certainly didn't think that I...that I'd become..."
She shook her head. "You modern folk have such a hard time believing. All the better for the Kindred, I suppose. What brought you around?"
Brandon was very quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was almost a whisper. "I made it home, crawled into bed. The next morning..._this_ morning, a little bit of sunlight got through my shades and touched my foot."
The other shivered. For just a moment, she looked nothing at all like the savvy businesswoman he had first thought her, and everything like a fragile porcelain doll."I see. That explains the limp. Well, that will heal, if more slowly than most wounds. You just need to keep well fed."
Brandon nodded. "When I awoke this evening, I was starving, famished. I tried to eat, but couldn't. Given everything else that had happened, I was able to figure it out pretty well. So I came out on the streets, looking for a....donor."
Now the other vampire nodded, as though a guess had been confirmed. "And you stumbled right into _my_ hunt, all unknowing, like a babe in the woods." She gestured towards the girl who had been the cause of their meeting, a bleached blonde who stood in the shadows as though hypnotized. "Why her? She matches my own tastes nicely, but surely there were others available, less difficult to get to."
Brandon shrugged. "At first...I wanted to avoid people, thought I could get by with animals. I managed to catch a stray dog, stun it, and drink. It was revolting. I remembered the almost sexual feeling I got when She drank from me, and the thought of sharing that with an animal...I felt like throwing up. A bit later, I came across a wino. I almost drank, but...well, I'm strictly hetero, you know? So I went looking for women."
This revelation seemd to interest the woman more than anything else so far. "Really. I've never heard it described in quite those terms before, but that almost sounds like my own line's preferences. I wonder if your Sire was one of my own clanmates, taking advantage of the recent anarchy...I don't suppose you could provide a good description?"
He shook his head. "She was female, covered with blood and gore. I didn't get that good a look."
She looked thoughtful now. He started to speak again, but she cut him off with a look. He began to get nervous. How long could it be before someone came along? Finally, she spoke. "I have come to a decision of what I will do."
She paused and looked at him, as though expecting an objection. When he made none, she continued, "I will drink of this vessel here; you will watch and learn. Then, you will drink of my vitae, but not too deeply. Then we shall go somewhere more...congenial," tossing a look of disgust about the alley, "and I shall teach you of the Traditions and the things you will need to know. Then, perhaps we will hunt again. Then we will part, perhaps not to see each other again."
She stopped and smiled. "But if we do meet again, you will owe a boon for this night. Understood and agreed to?"
Brandon hesitated. He felt like he was getting in over his head, but he needed to understand what was going on. "I understand and agree." The words had a ritual feel to them, and he wondered why he had answered in quite that fashion. "By the way, what's your name?"
Her smile this time made all her previous ones seem insubstantial
and meaningless. "You can call me Monica, Childe."

Date: A Week Later
Time: 9:00 P.M.
Place: Just outside Dominican Hospital, Santa Cruz

Brandon leaned against the wall of the hospital, drawing comfort from its solidity. It bothered him somewhat that the chill in the stone _didn't_ bother him. He wanted to hold on to his humanity, despite--no, because of--the way Monica had described the slow changing into...Other.
At least he was still normal enough to have been nervous as hell about the interview with Father Donohue, the hospital administrator. God, that had been nerve-wracking! He'd found himself about to ask to confess, to tell all. _That_ would have been a disaster.
At least he'd had good references from Scithers back in Monterey, even if he didn't know why Brandon had had to leave. How could he explain that he was a vampire now, and that another vampire had suggested he get out of town fast because the Prince of the vampires had just been killed? He'd had to hand him a story about being shaken by the attack, a desire to move to a somewhat smaller town. He'd handed the same story to Father Donohue, but it hadn't worked as well.
That had been the worst point of the interview. In desperation, he'd tried the technique Monica had taught him, "commanding the wearied mind," she'd called it. _Pushing_ with his mind just as he hit the key word in his sentence. "Can't you just _believe_ me?" There had been a flash of tension in Donohue's eyes, which faded only after a second that had been an eternity to Brandon.
No, Donohue had neither a weary mind nor a weak will. Brandon knew he'd been pushing his luck when he used the power again later, but it had been necessary. He _couldn't_ agree to work even an _occasional_ day shift, he knew that. Fortunately, his skills were good enough that he thought he could earn a little leeway.
Well, at least his job was taken care of. He'd arranged for an apartment by phone, so his home was taken care of. For a moment, he flashed back to his unbelievable efforts to stay awake during the day to make the calls. Fortunately, all med students were old hands at screwing up their sleep cycles.
What did that leave? Monica had advised him to always have several 'havens', but that would take time, time to familiarize himself with the area. One possibility had already occurred to him: find an unused closet in the hospital somewhere,put a padlock on it or something.
That was really all the bare necessities, he supposed. That just left The Fifth Tradition (he thought of it with capitals, given the emphasis Monica had put on the Traditions): Presenting himself to the Prince. Just fucking lovely.
Brandon looked up at the sky and sighed deeply. "The question is, where is this guy?" When no answer came, he shrugged, and strolled offdown the street.

Wednesday, May 31st, 1995. 11:42 p.m.

Brandon walked absently through the empty corridors of Dominican Hospital. It was late, it was a quiet night and nothing was going on. He was on break and since this night he had a short shift, he could look forward to going home at 4 o'clock. Except for Doctor Tate, the rest of the staff were down the hall, against standing policy, watching T.V. in the rec. room.
The note Father Donohue had left him was still in his pocket. Absently, he took it out and read it again.
"Brandon, I just want to say how much I appreciate the work you're doing and to say once again how glad we are to have you with us. God Bless, D."
Brandon grimaced and, crumpling the note up, threw it away. The fact that Brandon worked exclusively nights had made him very welcome amongst the rest of the staff since nights and graveyards were the most unpopular shifts. Usually the worst staff members worked nights. Not much rotation when one had seniority at Dominican. Just then his beeper sounded. Brandon rushed back to emergency.
"Father, excuse me Doctore," Sister Egberda met him in the corridor. "I'm sorree about tak-king your break," the sister continued in her French accented English, "but this patient came in and Doctor Taft, he is helping another with Sister Jane." Though Sister Egberda's accent was still as thick as a door, her English was at least getting better. Egberda was Brandon's favorite of all the nuns. Though her name sounded Swedish, she was actually from the Ivory Coast of Africa. She was very big, very round, and tough as nails with the patients, taking no guff. Though her bedside manner was a bit lacking, she did whatever the doctors told her promptly, except when she thought they were making a mistake, in which case she pointed it out. The other doctor's hated her and some of the more inept ones were genuinely afraid of her, but Brandon liked her. It was lucky, he thought. In a Catholic hospital, you took the help you were given. You couldn't fire a nun.
The patient was a young woman, very young, and quite attractive. She had long jet black hair which fell straight down her back and the black evening dress she wore had dark stains on it. Another, a short balding man wearing a sports jacket, was holding her arm up. In it was imbedded a piece of a wine glass. Blood had collected all around the glass. Brandon came up to take a look at it and he could see the glass was in pieces. He would be a while cleaning up the wound.
"Hi, I'm Doctor Lawrence. Well, I see you've gotten yourself quite a little accident." A terrible feeling began to grow inside him when he saw the blood. "Why don't we step into this next room and we'll have someone take a look at it.
The woman nodded and went into the room by herself. The man with her smiled and took a seat, never taking his eyes off of Brandon. Brandon thought he seemed an odd partner for such an elegant woman. The man's clothes were neither as tasteful or as expensive. Maybe they were friends, or maybe she was a pro, Brandon found himself thinking. Whatever she was, Brandon did not want to go into the room and face her again. She was young and beautiful, and his desire coupled with his hunger was tearing at him.
He turned to Sister Egberda. "Sister, I think I'm going to let Doctor Taft take this one. Would you tell him that he has another patient waiting."
"But, it iz only stitches," the nun chided Brandon. "You are the Doctor! You must!"
"Yes, Sister, I am the Doctor," Brandon told her forcefully, "And I'm telling you to go get Doctor Taft."
"He is busy, as you should be, young Doctor. If you wish him, he is there." She pointed out one of the other exam rooms.
"Doctor?" the woman's voice came from inside the room. "Are you going to come soon? It really does hurt."
Brandon swore under his breath and steeling himself as best he could, he entered the room, a waxen smile on his face.
"Well, let's get this over with, yes?" Brandon nodded and the woman held out her hand, the scent of her blood drawing him so close at first, he had to mentally fight to tear away. He wasn't sure how long it had taken him, so he glimpsed at her quickly, but the woman didn't seem to pay attention.
"So why didn't you take out the glass before coming," he asked her as much trying to distract himself as the patient with his banter.
"I thought it would look more dramatic this way and that I might get helped sooner," she told him.
"How did it happen?" he asked.
"How do any of these things happen?" she told him.
There was a long silence while Brandon worked to clean the wound. He was surprised that it didn't seem to be bleeding much and that her hand was so cold.
Brandon looked up at once, shock registering on his face.
"Oh my, G-" was all that he managed before she grabbed his throat with her other hand, squeezing it until he could feel his larynx break. With one arm, she lifted him off the floor.
"Poor dear puppy," she chided him. "You look like you hurt."
Brandon clipped her on the side of the head, tearing her scalp. He thought Sister Egberda or one of the others would come in, hearing the noise, but no one came.
In retaliation, she smashed his face against the wall, breaking the plaster board.
"The only reason I don't kill you now," she told him, "is for saving my unlife the other night when you took that stake out of my heart."
Brandon turned his face, dazed and swimming. Her face, he hadn't recognized it at first. She had been so bloody and the way she dressed before had been so different.
He tried to speak, but all he could do was choke and cough up blood.
She grabbed him and slammed him against the exam table, breaking several ribs.
She stood over him, bending down to look at his face.
He tried to punch her, but the effort was weak and feeble.
She kicked him in the head, with just enough force to rattle his brain.
"Now, dearest, that's no way to treat your Momma." she chided him.
He tried to speak, but still, he couldn't. He waited, helpless to do anything.
"You're not exactly a chip off the old block, are you," she sneered. "Still, blood runs deep. Listen Chylde, one of the rules of our kind says that you have to come see the Prince of this city. You hear? His royal Highass Happy will see you, Saturday, Midnight, at the Carousel at the Boardwalk. And since you've been remiss, you can come bearing gifts, like seven pints of good clean blood from this nice hospital of yours. Comprendez-vouz?"
All Brandon could do was nod feebly.
"Good, well then, let's call it a date." She straitened her dress and started to walk out, pausing at the door. "Oh, and welcome to Santa Cruz."

Thursday, June 1st 1:00 A.M.

The ticking of the wall clock was loud in the little room Brandon sat in, alone. Each second echoed against the bare walls, marking off his silent thoughts like a metronome.
Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.
Brandon couldn't think straight, couldn't figure out what to do. Suddenly, it occurred to him that according to every story he'd ever heard, it was pretty damned useless for _him_ to be asking _God_ for help, and he began giggling. The giggling got worse, leaving him nearly paralyzed with laughter. He was giggling so hard he couldn't catch his breath...except he didn't need to breathe.
And just like that, the giggling stopped. "You'd think I'd be used to the idea by now," he muttered. But he wasn't.
Well, now that he was under control, maybe he could think about what had just happened logically. He stood and began pacing.
First, it was obvious that she had come here just for him; the whole thing was so obviously a setup. That meant that any hope he'd had for maybe staying quietly anonymous was screwed but good. She'd just waltzed right in, seen him, and...
Shit, she was strong! He'd remembered how easily she'd tossed him around back in Monterey, but that had been when he was mortal, nowhere even close to as strong as he was now. But apparently, she was so much stronger than he was that the change hadn't made any significant change in their relative status...
Suddenly nervous, he sat back down, putting his back into a corner. He'd had a fantasy or two about tracking her down, extractinsomething from her--revenge, acknowledgement, knowledge? Something. Tonight shattered those ideas quite nicely.
Okay, then. He couldn't hide, and he couldn't fight her. What did that leave? Obeying her or getting destroyed, probably. If he'd felt like getting killed, he'd have stayed out past dawn, so that left doing what she said.
He felt remarkable better now; things were so much easier to deal with when you could just sit and think them through. Still, now he had to figure out how to get his hands on _seven_pints_ of blood.
Unconsciously, he noted that his break was over and he got up and headed back out. As he wandered the halls, a few of the staff offered expressions of sympathy and concern; he'd passed his injuries (such as they were after the regenerative power of the Blood had done its work) off as due to a sudden attack of the 'patient'--probably drugs at work, one or two had suggested, and the grapevine was busy changing that into a PCP-freakout, probably.
He'd been expecting Sister Egberda to make some objection to the story, maybe saying how calm the woman had seemed, but she seemed to accept it like the rest of them. Maybe she'd seen calm-looking people freak out before. (Or maybe that psychotic bitch had 'worked' her somehow. After all, it was pretty convenient that he'd been the only available doctor, and he only had Egberda's word on that. Stop it, Brandon! Paranoia's not going to help...)
Okay, back to the problem, he thought. Seven pints of blood. The quickest way would be to just take it from the stocks, but that'd be a pretty big chunk to just go missing...investigation would be called for, and he'd probably get caught. He could probably get a pint or two that way, but no more without risk.
He'd been thinking up long-range plans, but they didn't help him now. Maybe some of his other thoughts...what had been that one? Oh yeah...The supplies had to be inspected every so often, he could do the inspection, and reject a few pints. Hey, if he did the inspection, he could compare it to the inventory...take a few pints and then report them as missing. That could work, throw suspicion off himself, as long as the last inventory wasn't in the past few days.
Of course, that would make future pilfering a lot more difficult, but he was in trouble _now_.
...Hell, what kind of thinking was that? He _couldn't_ let himself mortage his future for the present. He was in this for the long haul. Scratch reporting his own thefts, then. Do inventory, get a couple of pints rejected for 'contamination', then get someone else to sign off in agreement with both his rejection and the rest of inventory. (Who? Dr. Tate didn't usually pay that much attention to paperwork, and had been pretty easy to _push_ the one time Brandon had needed to do it.) _Then_, tomorrow night, pilfer the pint or two. How much could he get in that two-stage way? Maybe enough, probably not.
Okay, forget the stores. How about the patients? Hmm. Mr. Salinas in 103 had sort of marginally high blood sugar results on his last test, but was otherwise recovering nicely from his broken leg...he could order another test legitimately enough, draw a full pint without hurting him. Especially if he told him to _Sleep_ through the drawing.
Was there anyone else he could draw from? Gina Sommers, maybe...her allergies shouldn't affect the taste, should they?
He ran through all the patients as he made rounds, considering all the options. He'd been telling himself that they were only for the direst of emergencies...but he was afraid this qualified. He counted up the pints he thought he could get on his fingers, over and over, and kept coming up about one short, unless he was really lucky.
"Shit. It'll have to be Mrs. Dunning." The sound of his voice in the quiet lounge startled him. He'd have to be careful about talking
to himself, he realized. Most of what was on his mind these days would get him in serious shit indeed. Thank goodness there wasn't anyone else in the room...for that matter, how had he ended up here? He needed to pay more attention to where he was walking.
Mrs. Dunning was the true prize of his stay here at the hospital; she had a fairly severe case of hemochromatosis, a superabundance of iron in the blood. The standard treatment was, of all things, _bleeding_. A pint every week until the levels stabilized, then once every couple of months. She was in for observation tonight, due for the blood-drawing in the morning.
A thrill went up his spine as he remembered the taste he'd had of her blood that last time she was in. Just a sip it had been, since he had been sated then. The flavor...remarkable. A bit rich, perhaps, but potent.
He'd have to work it very carefully, he knew. How could he justify drawing her blood early? Well, if she couldn't sleep, but her early observations were all normal, he thought he could pull it off. "Heh." It was an ironic chuckle--he knew a few ways to keep her from sleeping, and even if her oberservations weren't perfectly on the beam, he could fix that.
Something inside him began to object at that thought, at the corrosion of his once-spotless ethics, but he shoved it aside with a pang of remorse. In the final analysis, he'd already died once, and he wasn't about to do it again.
Humming a bit, Brandon headed off to find Dr. Tate, rehearsing what he'd say. Dr. Tate? I was just trying to think of something to do to keep busy, and thought I could do the inventory check on the perishable supplies...the blood and plasma and...Oh god, I hope I can pull this off.

Thursday, June 1st, 1995 7:16 a.m.

Brandon was home at his place on Plymouth Street. The sounds of the rushing freeway traffic were always present as a backdrop, the bushes that Caltrans had planted hardly able to block the noise. Still, as he lay there, ready to "sleep", Brandon, restless in death, still couldn't help thinking about the sunlit world outside, still caught in morning. It was a world that would be forever denied him and just thinking that caused him great sadness. It hadn't hit him before, but then he had always been sleeping by dawn. This morning, maybe it was the fear, he had stayed awakened, and he had heard the birds. For the first time, in what felt like eons, he heard the morning songs of birds. Even painted over the ugly backdrop of the morning rush hour, they sounded like the voices of angels, mocking his damnation.
The curtains were drawn, but it was more than that. He had painted the windows from the inside, drawing pictures of stars reflected over water. The picture, of course, also kept out the sun.
What if I just go over and scratch off the tiniest part of the paint, Brandon thought. Surely, it couldn't hurt. He could just peek out. He got up and drew back the curtains. His hand quivered as he held it next to the glass. Feeling weak, he abandoned his madness and fell back to his bed, covering his head with his pillow. Hating himself for what he had become, he finally fell to sleep. Like in death, no dreams came to him then.

Thursday, June 1st 11:33 p.m.

Sister Egberda was surprised to see him.
"Doc-tore Law-rantz, it iz your night to be off," she told him, both surprised and chiding.
"Just want to check up on a few things," he smiled, walking briskly past her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doctors Tessie and Sheshna regard him with dumbfounded surprise. They must've been floored to see him in, he realized. After all, how often did new doctors get both Friday and Saturday nights off, and then show up at work anyway? Fortunately, they were too busy to ask, and Brandon certainly wasn't going to offer any explanations. Let them think he was a firecracker. Who knows, given the state of affairs at Dominican, he would probably get a raise for being dedicated.
Funny at first, the thought nearly brought tears to Brandon's eyes. Pushing them back, he opened the door. Mrs Dunning shifted nervously in her sleep as Brandon's shadow fell over her. He shut the door and they were alone in the dark.

Friday, June 2nd, 1995 9:34 p.m.

Lights whirled around him so that Brandon found himself caught up in their maddening dance. Screams cascaded like a waterfall of sound, but these were only half born of terror, the other half given to ecstasy that only life and adrenalin could fuel. Brandon was jealous of the revery of the mortals.
How odd, he thought. He had thought of them as being other than himself. He had never done that before. He must try to never do it again.
"Hey, watch where you're going!" A large man in a biker jacket had bumped into him. Two woman and another man watched Brandon for what he would do. At first, anger had flared up. The man had squeezed Brandon's blood offering in his rush, and Brandon, looking at the man's bravado, found that he wanted to tear the man's throat out. And he could do it, he knew it. It would be so easy.
"Excuse me," Brandon apologized meekly.
"You'd better watch yourself, man!" The biker pointed a finger in Brandon's face. The other man snickered and Brandon thought that he heard a giggle. Brandon looked down, not in fear, but to hide the beast becoming unveiled in his eyes. He was loosing control.
Then, the footfalls told him he was alone again, only the crowd around him.
"This is Elysium," a voice told him. "We honour life here. Zere is only peace and happiness, but not truly for us, eh?"
Brandon whirled. A classically handsome man, with a pasty white face looked toward him, twirling a handlebar moustache with his hand. The other hand gripped a cane with the head of a cat. Though the vampire, and Brandon knew him for what he was, looked toward him, he did not look at him. Rather, his eyes seemed to drift through him, as if Brandon were made of smoke, or was an image superimposed on something more lasting.
The clothing of the man was ludicrous. It was somewhere between that of an antique figure in a wax museum, circa 1910, and that of an escaped circus clown. It could only be
"Prince, uh, your Highness," Brandon certainly didn't know what to do. Fear gripped him at once. As comical as the man appeared, he was still a Lord of the Undead.
"Yes, chylde, I know. We are not to meet until later, yes?"
Brandon nodded.
"I saw you here, and I said to myself, here is a chylde who knows ze secret. Here is one to whom Death shall reveal colours yet unborn. This is so n'est pas?"
Again Brandon nodded. If the Prince were mortal, Brandon was sure he would be a patient of his.
"Just because you don't hear the music, don't think that you are not a dancer," Prince Happy told him in a conspiratorial tone.
"Yes, Sir," Brandon again nodded acquiescence. He started to open his coat, to offer his gifts.
"No, chylde. Our meeting, it iz not of this time, but has happened, but not yet. Not until all of Sandra's bastards should come to me, at that time, will I take from you the sweet poisons you bring. Until then, I will kiss the night and make love to her breezes. Do you like killing?"
The abruptness of the question startled Brandon.
"Uh, well uh, no, I don't think I do," he said, then regretted saying it. It certainly wasn't an answer that he had meant to say. Rather, coming sharply as it did, the question had plucked truth from his lips. But a vampire who couldn't kill was a danger to all kindred. He had blown it. Perhaps madness was only a guise with Happy.
"But, kindness in us is a curse. Curses can be blessings if your plays perform well. But then I say that fear cuts at the music. What say you, my chylde?"
Brandon had lost him. "I don't know what to say," he said, again truthfully.
As if he hadn't heard him, the Prince continued, "Don't dance to its tune," he patted Brandon on his shoulder. The touch was heavy and frozen, like ice, even through Brandon's heavy jacket. "Zere, I must go. A kindness comes, and I must say our dream is over."
A shift in the Prince's gaze caused Brandon to glance to his left. Standing like a leather goddess, his "mother" regarded him. Looking back at the Prince, Brandon startled. Happy had gone, seemingly vanished.
Smiling at him like he was an old lover, she eased up to him, the crowd parting appreciatively for her.
"What the fuck you looking at?" she asked.
"What?" Brandon's mind was reeling. With the lights, the cries, the hypnotic music from the carousel, everything was swimming inside him.
"Mother" felt at his crotch, squeezing the bags of blood. "Oooh. Is that blood in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?"
"Get the fuck away from me!" he pushed her back, perhaps a bit too strongly as she sailed back, knocking over a signboard.
A security guard appeared.and helped her up. Looking menacingly over at Brandon, he started to approach, unfastening his nightstick.
"Hey, it's O.K," she told the guard. At first, the guard didn't budge, but then looking at her, he nodded, dumbly like a toy.
"Yeah," he agreed. "You two have a nice night." The guard walked away. A few seconds later, Brandon could hear him yelling at some kids.
"Don't forget," she warned Brandon, "this is Elysium. You don't want Purdy after you now do you, - son?" She laughed softly, but her dark eyes were pools of bloody violence. Brandon didn't know what was more maddening - the echoes of Happy's words, or those damnable eyes.
"I've got to get out of here," he told her, just as he would have told anyone. "This place is crazy!"
She laughed. "What, you only now figuring that out? What an imbecile!" Lightly, she danced around him, tickling Brandon's neck and ears with her breath. Angrily, Brandon swiped at her, missing. People started to back away from him, like he was some freak stoned on pcp's. Inside him, the Beast rumbled loudly.
"Temper, temper," she mocked him. "You'll catch your final death."
A man walked up. He had been watching them for some time.
"Give it up, Rebecca." The man's voice was strong and firm. Rebecca snarled at him, then, fear growing in her eyes, she walked up to this man, her eyes downcast, her nostrils flaring.
"It's not fuckin fair, Purdy. He's mine and he's not worth it!" Her voice had taken on the tone of a little girl, caught doing something naughty. The man, rather vampire, didn't say anything. He was dressed in leather, like she was. His brown hair was tied in short braids and thick hair bearded his face, almost like fur. His body was squareish, and the white lines of scars crossed his face, as if he had been slashed there many times. Rebecca came up and they started to kiss. They did this for some time. Then Rebecca yanked away, holding her mouth. It was bleeding. She glared at the stranger, but didn't say a word.
Ignoring her, Purdy walked up to Brandon. Brandon, who had seen everything as if in a fog, still struggled with his Beast. Awakened, it would not be put down and Brandon was terrified of the bloody feelings welling up inside him. Purdy watched him for some time and then turned away.
"You did this," he told Rebecca. "You make it right. Kiss and make up."
"Fuck you!" Rebecca spit. "He's a fuckin wimp. He's a joke! He could never be one of us!"
Purdy just glared at her until she backed down. "If he's to be put down, Happy will say - or I will. He belongs to me now. You remember that, Beckers. Kiss and make up," he growled. "Or your head's my next ornament." The power in his voice was amazing and Brandon believed every word. Not even looking back, Purdy disappeared into the crowd, Brandon catching only a glimpse of his biker jacket before he vanished altogether.
Still smouldering, Rebecca walked slowly over to Brandon. Brandon clenched his fists, fingers digging into his palms. The Beast glowed inside him.
"There there," Rebecca's voice had turned to silken honey. Thick and glossy, it robbed him of his strength. His Beast roared, but the roar seemed more distant now. Running her hand along his chest, she pushed Brandon back against a pillar. The crowd swept past them, ignoring them for the moment.
"What'sa matter, baby?" Rebecca asked, her mouth pouting seductively. "Baby mad? Baby hurts? Let mama kiss and make it all better." The rage dissipated as she leaned her body on his. Her hair, smelling fragrant, tickled his face.
He tried to push her away, but she easily deflected his arms so that they embraced her instead. Ice cold, her first kiss burned him. Then warming, he found his hands running over her body. His fire diverted, it warmed both him and her. It was more passionate than anything he had experienced, and it drained him, not only of anger, but of strength as well.
Pushing his hands away, she licked his lips one last time and pulled back. The warmth had faded and her eyes regarded him once more with cold disdain.
"What do you feel?" she asked him, her voice touched with a clinical coldness.
Ashamed that he had felt what he had felt for her, he refused to answer. Instead, he looked away. He hated her, he wanted to attack her, to kill her for manipulating him the way she had, for using him the way she had. But his Beast had betrayed him. He felt nothing of it but a burning memory.
Satisfied, Rebecca nodded. "Don't forget," she told him. "Midnight, at the carousel."
Brandon pushed past her. Leaping off the wooden steps, he tripped on the sand as he left the Boardwalk. Collecting himself, he walked down to the surf, ignoring what the water did to his expensive shoes. He bent down and cupping the ocean in his hand, washed his mouth. He used the bitter salt water to wash the taste of her from him.

Friday, June 2 10:30 P.M.

Still shaken, Brandon wandered down the shore, avoiding the revellers and the couples. He had to do something to clear his head; if he had his meeting with the Prince while he was this mixed-up, who knew what would happen? "Hell, he might like me better like this," he muttered under his breath.
The Prince. That was a problem he could focus on, be analytical about. Monica had told him that the Prince was insane ('Typically Malkavian, but easier to deal with than some,' she'd said. He still wasn't sure just what that meant.), but no specifics. That little scene he'd just had certainly didn't disabuse him of that notion.
Shit. _I wish I could sit him down with a nice copy of the DMS,_ he thought. _If I can figure out the nature of his condition, maybe I can figure out how to deal with him._ Still, when he'd done his psych rotation they'd given out some general advice...what was it again?
He closed his eyes and tried to think. Suddenly, he could see the image of Dr. Harcourt in front of the class. "Don't get angry with them. Don't just sit there and tell them they're wrong. In the milder cases, say you disagree. In the more extreme cases, it's like they're in another reality; try to understand the parameters of _their_ reality, but don't try to pretend you see it like they do...that tends to either get them upset or makes them feel that their view has been validated."
Brandon's eyes snapped open, and the vision disappeared. That had been so _real_--was this just another part of being...what he was...or was he cracking under the strain? Shaking his head, he glanced back and saw that he'd left the river far behind. Up ahead, a long pier jutted out; he supposed he should learn its name. He chuckled quietly at that thought; he hadn't really done the touristy things since coming to town. Being a vampire could put a definite crimp on your free time.
A soft moan sounded from the shadows. He automatically glanced that way and just as automatically filed it away as a couple of young
lovers. But even before he could finish looking away, he froze. The man was nondescript, unimportant, but the woman...fair skin, long jet black hair, leather jacket...it could have been 'Rebecca,' but it wasn't. A rush of frustrated desire, an echo of the Beast, roared through his head. He was barely able to wrench his gaze away, to start walking back down the beach.
God! What did she _do_ to him? With barely a few words, she had stoked his rage to nearly his breaking point. Then, when faced down by the enigmatic Purdy, she had taken his anger, transmuted it, destroyed it, replaced it with lust. How could he feel this way about her? She had _killed_ him. She had ripped his mortality from him, turned him into a killing machine. And he wanted her.
Was it some sort of bizaare vampiric Oedipus complex? She had brought him into unlife, now he needed her? Or was it simpler than that...he could manipulate the mortals, maybe she could do the same to him. He hoped that was it.
Brandon glanced at his watch, trying to break his train of thought. 11:00. Less than a mile between the wharf and the boardwalk, so he had plenty of time. Maybe being around people (_Other_ people, he reminded himself. You're still a person.) would help.
Making his way onto the wharf, he found himself in the middle of a sea of humanity, milling about with joyous shouts and the occasional angry yell. He stood there for a while, letting the flow of people rise and ebb around him. Suddenly it occurred to him that he was standing here with nearly a gallon of blood in packs under his jacket.
Hurriedly, he started making his way out of the crowd. Just as he made it to the edge, he saw her: the jet-black hair was the only resemblance to Rebecca, but she was good-looking and alone, and a bit tipsy, standing outside the door to one of the bars. There were just enough shadows near her...
He headed over to her, trying to look his best. Monica had told him that some vampires could be incredibly charismatic when they tried, so he tried as hard as he could. As he approached, she turned slightly away; it felt like a brush-off, but now he could feel her blood calling to him.
"Um, hi there." Think charming. Charming.
"Mmph." She looked away. Shit. He could feel his fangs trying to extend. With an effort, he pulled them back in. Okay, subtlety's out then!
"I _said_, hello." An expression of strong annoyance on her face, she looked at him again, some putdown on her lips. "_Sleep._" As he put a figurative shoulder behind the command and pushed, he felt her resistance, not terribly strong, fail. Her eyes fluttered and closed. As she started to fall, he grabbed her and guided her into the shadows.
Barely restraining himself, he leaned her against the wall and began to drink from her wrist. The hot blood, tinged with the taste of tequila, went down his throat like fire. Yessss...
"Hey!" Glancing up, he saw a stereotypical fratboy charging towards him, a little unsteadily. Oh, shit. The boyfriend! Thinking as quickly as he could, he licked the bitemarks closed and stood quickly.
"This your girlfriend? I think she's passed out." Charming, dammit, charming! Smile, act friendly. "Pulse is strong, though."
"Huh?" This was apparently not what he had expected. He looked horribly puzzled and Brandon could almost hear the gears turning slowly in his head. "She only had a couple of drinks..."
Brandon shrugged. "Was it tequila? That's nasty shit."
Somewhat reassured, the other nodded uncertainly. "Uh, yeah, I guess so."
Brandon handed the limp form over to the still-confused fratboy.
"Well, as long as someone she knows can take care of her. I've gotta go." Calmly he slipped by the encumbered young man and back out into the crowd.
From behind him, he heard a shout. "Hey, man, thanks, I guess!"
Moving away as quickly as possible without running, Brandon tried not to dwell on how close disaster had been. He might have been able to force his will on the boyfriend, but it could have turned very nasty. Still, it was almost a good thing he'd been interrupted; he'd only had time to take about a pint of her blood; who knows how much he might have taken?
What time was it? Shit, getting late! He hurried back down the pier
and down the beach. It was 11:45 when he made it back to the Boardwalk. Plenty of time. He took a few minutes to compose himself, straighten his clothes, check on the blood, then headed for the carousel.

Saturday, June 3rd, 1995 12:01 a.m.

"Merci, mon frere," Prince Happy smiled upon receiving Brandon's gift of blood. "These are the kisses of the soul, and their liquid music shall sustain us tonight."
Brandon nodded.
"Are you happy, mon Doctor?" Happy asked.
"No," Brandon shook his head, sitting down. "I can't say that I am. I'm lost in this world - your Highness." He said this last awkwardly, not knowing how to refer to the Prince. As an American vampire, addressing royalty didn't come as naturally as it did to some of the European Cainites.
"If you're lost, then you're found. Only those who are lost bother to search. Only those who search will find anything worth discovering," the Prince told him. "Go now, and play with the other children." The Prince shooed him off of the whirling carousel.
Brandon stepped off of the carousel, still dizzy. He wasn't sure if it was more from motion finally having stopped, or the last impression of Prince Happy's enigmatic words. Looking around, he was startled to see the two Monterey Ventrue looking at him. He would have felt more warmth had he been stared at by two rattlesnakes instead. And they did seem to be looking at him as if he were some sort of rat. Two cool hands cupped his face and turned him away from the Ventrue. Looking down, he was surprised to see a familiar face, though not one he had known personally.
Caitlyn Jackson, local celebrity nightclub performer back in Monterey, pulled Brandon's face closer to hers and pressed a sliding kiss full on his lips, allowing her tongue to explore his mouth. A feeling that he had thought well dead inside of him exploded and Brandon, unable to control himself, pulled her closer to him. Had they been mortal, there would have been no doubt that they would have started to disrobe on the spot.
Caitlyn, not too quickly, pushed Brandon away, licking the taste of him slowly off her lips.
"Thank you," Brandon whispered.
"I thought you needed it. You were looking kind of lonely," she told him.
Brandon nodded. "It's such a pleasure to meet you," he said, offering his hand. Then he realized how stupidly he was behaving. Still, it seemed to amuse her.
Laughing, she ran her finger over her chest, "Stick around. Who knows what might happen." Deftly, Caitlyn leapt onto the moving carousel for her turn with the Prince. She didn't even break her stride.
Another vampire strode up to Brandon and clapped him on the shoulder. "Mon Ami, that is the most awesome thing I have ever seen. I am green with envy as is every dead body here tonight," he said with a mild twangy French accent. "It's enough to make one wish he were kine again, no?"
Brandon looked over at him. He was dressed in jeans and appeared to need a shave. This new vampire smiled and offered his hand.
"Pleasure. My name is Raphael."
Brandon took his hand and shook it. "Brandon Lawrence."
Brandon then looked back at Caitlyn, shock registering on his face.
Raphael, seeing him, asked, "Mon Ami, what is it? What is the matter?"
"That's Caitlyn Jackson!" Brandon pointed. "Do you know how many times I've seen her perform? And she's a vampire! I'll bet she's been a vampire every time I've seen her!"
"Well, that is the idea," Raphael told him. Seeing that Caitlyn had finished, Raphael tapped him on the shoulder. "I must be going, mon ami. I have an appointment for later up the coast and I must not be late out of here. I'll see you another time, yes?"
Brandon nodded and clapped the Gangrel on the shoulder as he took Caitlyn's place on the carousel.
Brandon smiled at Caitlyn as she got off. She smiled back but instead of rejoining him, she hopped over to the only Santa Cruz Gangrel present and tried to strike up a conversation with Mish. Feeling more than a little jealous, Brandon sighed and walked over to the Nosferatu, Loparlo, both drawn and repulsed by the Nosferatu's hideous features.
After all of the interviews had been concluded, Prince Happy called everyone back onto the carousel.
"Mes Enfants," he began. "We are in dangerous times these nights and the darkness, it will suck us dry if we cry not in a voice, but in the hoarse cry of the mob."
Miryam looking around noted once again the dizzying effects of the lights as the twirling carousel zipped past them until they began to blur into a wash of burning colour. The carousel was speeding up.
"The path to Golconda, if you wish it, is found in such a cry. Listen to the gulls when you first awaken. Their savage selfishness is our own. If you run the beach, they scatter before you. Such is our own flight and the gulls of Monterey, once our sister, yes such have come to roost. We are all here together now. Look around you! Look!"
Everyone did, but all they could see was the whirling flash of lights. blinding their undead eyes. As the carousel continued to speed, many of them felt the pull of centrifical force and had to grip tighter.
Happy paused as if he had forgotten what he was going to say. Purdy was seen bending his mouth to the Prince's ear. Happy nodded and then continued.
"There are so many mouths now. You must not feed but one night in three. You must not kill your food, but leave it for others to feed from as they need. The dancer is here, but who will play the music? We must all learn to dance. Do you HEAR ME! TO DANCE!"
All the vampires looked towards one another, trying impossibly to glean as much meaning as they could out of the Prince's nonsense. His rambling seemed to more frighten the assembly than to comfort them. It was as if the vampires of Santa Cruz had conveniently forgotten how mad he truly was.
"The Sabbat, their music is the harshest. And it is so hard to dance to," the Prince told them sadly. Even Crown took note at the mention of the dreaded Sabbat. "Their voices are here, mes enfants. They are in the wind and they whisper around your crypts. They are simple voices and the tales they have to tell all have the same ending. In your daytime dreams, you must think to yourselves what tale you wish to tell, and how you wish it told."
The whirling of the carousel was so fast now, that many of the vampires feared that it would break apart. It had built at the turn of the century and as it creaked and groaned, they imagined it disintegrating and hurling them to oblivion. All eyes looked to Happy, unaffected and standing in the whirlwind like the Captain on a ship of fools. Miryam was the first to loose her grip. But before she could be hurled away, Happy himself reached out to snag her arm and pull in back inward. So great was the centrifical force, that it must have taken great strength to do so.
"So you see, mes enfants, we must ride together so that all of us can finish. In all things, we must dance, we must sing, we must weave our tales, but always - together. It is that or the ride is forever over."
The carousel slowed to a stop and dizzy vampires spilled off of it everywhere. Jonathan looked up and noted how the Prince seemed drained, as if the words he had spoken had sucked him dry. Tenderly, the Brujah Purdy brought him a glass of blood to drink. Blood from a punchbowl was passed around by some of the Prince's ghouls. Though no one wanted to drink it at first, they were reassured when the Tremere Hammel, gazing into it, nodded to show that it was untainted of bonding kindred vitae and therefore safe to drink. The vampires, more than a little dazed themselves, broke up into various social circles, trying to put the best face they could on the Prince's words.

Saturday, June 3rd, 1995 5:06 a.m.

Brandon settled into his bed, his brain spinning over what had happened. It had been a full night, but fruitful in that he had been given permission to exist. He was accepted, by the Prince at least, and for the moment, Purdy. Perdiccas' permission was the more immediate, as he was Primogen of the local Brujah. What would the Dead Devils expect of him? Too tired to think, Brandon let himself drift off, instinctively feeling the nearness of the burning sun. Somehow the image seemed to frighten him more, though he didn't know why it should. Outside, once more, he could hear birds, the sound of their joy in contrast to his own sense of loss. Turning away from their hateful music, he fell into sleep, as deep as only the dead have ever known.

Saturday, June 3rd 10:38 p.m.

"You're here early," Doctor Lovelace said, casting an observant eye upon Brandon as the latter strode into the emergency room.
"Nothing to do, so I thought I might as well come in," Brandon said. "What do you have for me?"
"Not much," Lovelace told him. "Hopefully you'll have a quiet night but somehow, I doubt that."
"Thanks," Brandon said sourly.
Lovelace took him over the rounds. Mostly, it was to fill him in on who needed what medication, or had what problems. Sadly, he noted that Mrs. Bondi in Room 117 had died. The old gal had had a good part of her stomach removed, but had seemed in good spirits when Brandon left her. As the elderly fisherman's widow hadn't been able to sleep, Brandon had gotten to know her very well. He had thought that she would have lived. Lovelace took him up to Intensive Care, just to let him know what was up. Brandon, however, would be monitoring the Emergency Room as normal.
"And this," Lovelace showed him, entering room 203, is Emily Speake. She was attacked at the Boardwalk Friday morning, just before closing. Some whacko with a sword."
Brandon looked down upon the young girl as she breathed, tubes stuck in her nose and mouth. She was in a coma and had suffered from serious blood loss. Regarding her pale youthful freckles and soft strawberry blond hair, Brandon felt a small ache in his dead heart. Seeing a blemish on her neck, he reached inside her tent and turned her head. The unmistakable marks of two fangs were very apparent to Brandon. She had been fed upon and the wound hadn't been licked closed.
"Where was she attacked?" Brandon asked.
"At the Boardwalk," Lovelace told him.. "In the Arcade, I think. The police apprehended the man."
"And you said a sword?"
Lovelace shrugged. "He might have poked her with an ice-pick. Who knows. Maybe he fancied himself a vampire," Lovelace chuckled.
Brandon felt a cold chill when Lovelace made this comment, but the old doctor didn't follow it up. But what Brandon knew was that no vampire would violate Elysium for fear of a bloodhunt. At least, that is what he had been told.
Lovelace then took him to the next room, 205. The patient in that room, also in a coma, had supposedly also been attacked with a sword. In this case, Brandon could concur with the prognosis. The curious thing was that the man was handcuffed to the bed.
"What's this?" he asked Lovelace.
"Turns out our friend here is wanted in Stockton for some armed robberies. The police want him shackled in case he comes to. Quite a tough character. I would have figured him for dead. The funny thing is that when he came in, he had been stitched up already. The sort of thing I saw in Vietnam - field dressing."
They left the room and Lovelace started to take off his smock.
"Have a quiet night, Doctor," he told Brandon.
Brandon waved goodnight to the old man and went back down to Emergency, his thoughts preoccupied.

Saturday, June 3rd, 11:58 P.M.

Click.
Brandon looked up from the paperwork he had been reading disinterestedly. What was that? He looked around, but didn't see anything. Oh, the clock's minute hand, clicking forward. Where did hospitals and schools get their clocks? Every other clock in the world had minute hands that moved slowly and continuously, not jerking forward on the minute. Well, at least it didn't tick off the seconds audibly like the one in the employees' lounge.
He looked back down at the paperwork, lists of numbers counting up how many times which treatment was used, and why, and how much it cost. "Bleah!" With a sharp, sudden move, he snapped the file folder shut. This wasn't why he'd become a doctor! He'd wanted to heal, not deal with red tape.
Still, to be fair, I'd have to do a lot more paperwork at a private hospital, like I'd planned._ Gloom suddenly hit him, boiling up out of nowhere, it seemed. His plans...he'd planned to work at a hospital for a few years, move on to a private practice for a while, retire to doing free clinic work. He hadn't planned to become a vampire.
What was he going to do with himself? How long could he keep up the disguise, the pretense? Could he really think of himself as a healer when something inside him was telling him to be a hunter instead?
The gloom he was feeling responded to his frustration, flashed over into anger. He pounded the desk with his fist. "Damn it!" he muttered through clenched teeth, his fangs partly extended. A cracking noise startled him out of his incipient rage, and he saw that a fracture had appeared, where the desk met the low wall that ran around it.
"Shit...._got_ to keep my temper under control," he mumbled under his breath.
He looked up at the clock: 12:03. Time to walk the rounds again; no time to feel sorry for himself. Worth checking in at Emergency first. He ambled down the hallway, clipboard in hand and cracked open the door to Emergency. Not empty...Nurse Ramirez seemed to be taking care of a young Hispanic male.
"Hello, Nurse. What's the situation here?"
The young man looked up, startled. Brandon could see now that Ramirez was cleaning and dressing a long, shallow-looking cut on the young man's arm. Fresh blood glistened along the length of the cut; Brandon had to look away as his rising hunger battled the nausea he got at the thought of feeding from a man. "Nothing serious doctor...it looked a lot worse than it was."
The young man stared suspiciously at Brandon, and he reconsidered asking any further questions. Gangs? Could be, and if so, this fellow probably wouldn't want him asking about it. "Ah,...all right then. I'm just going to be making rounds."
As he turned and left the room, he heard the young man began to speak in Spanish, "<Do you...>" only to be hushed by Ramirez. - I wonder if she knows how much Spanish I speak?_ he wondered.
He headed back to the IC ward, marvelling that the night had been as quiet as it had. He moved quietly through the halls, listening for anything odd.
Click.
He froze. The same click as before, but this time it was very clearly not coming from the clock, but rather one of the rooms. 108. Who was in there? Oh, yeah...the girl with the holes in the neck. Uh-oh.
He nearly ran across the hall, opening the door quickly but quietly. A huge middle-aged man, with mostly-grey hair and muttonchops wearing a suit and overcoat stood over the young woman, lying pale in the bed. Brandon scanned her quickly, but saw no change in her
condition. The man looked up at him.
Brandon put on his best official face. "Can I _help_ you? You're not supposed to be in here, you know."
The other grunted, but looked like he was about to speak. A long moment of silence dragged on, and finally he did speak. "I had to come...to see her."
Brandon quirked an eyebrow. "Are you a relative of hers?"
The other shook his head, looking at her face. "Only in the broadest sense. Fellow humans in a dark world." He stared at her face for another moment, then looked up at Brandon. "I read her medical report. Exsanguination. Such a mellifluous word, not one you see much of, though." He raised his walking stick (which Brandon only now noticed) and poked Brandon in the chest with it. Brandon stepped back away from the wooden tip, hurriedly. "Keep an eye on her. Be a shame if anything happened to her." And with that, he gave a formal nod and made his way out of the room, shouldering past Brandon through the doorway.
Brandon didn't say anything, content to let this odd man leave. He stared after him as the other walked away down the hall, his walking stick clicking against the hospital's tile floor occasionally.

Sunday, June 4th, 1995 12:20 a.m.

It had been a busy night. Two gunshot wounds, one stabing, a domestic affair in which a woman had stabbed her abusive husband several times, including in the mouth, and a run over homeless person who had passed out in someone's driveway. Brandon had finished with the very tricky emergency surgery on the domestic victim and after checking him into intensive care, ran back down to emergency. As Lovelace seemed to have things under control, Brandon had taken to checking on some of the patients, which was when he had met the strange intruder in Room 108. No sooner it seemed had he seen this man leave, when upon returning to the emergency room desk, that Sister Egberda had yet another case for him.
A young woman, late twenties, early thirties with long black hair and blue eyes waited by the front desk. Other than her striking blue eyes, she was rather non-descript but uncomfortably reminded Brandon of his sire, Rebecca. He tried to put on a more welcoming face when he asked her, "May I help you?"
"Hello Doctor," she smiled looking a little tired. "I'm here to ask about Quentin Carter, one of your patients. I was wondering if I could see him?"
"Carter?" Brandon looked over to Sister Egberda for a brainstart.
"He iz ze one with the deep stab wounds," she told him. "Za one who iz handcuffed to hiz bed."
"Oh," Brandon remembered. Carter had been the patient wanted for robberies in Stockton, according to the police. Lovelace had commented on his being brought in with stitches, ala a field dressing right out of Vietnam. Brandon looked at the woman. "And your name is?"
"Dearbhail MacKenna," she nodded.
Brandon rubbed his forehead wearily for a moment. "This isn't exactly normal visiting hours, you know. And there is Mr. Carter's um...legal status to deal with. Are you related to Mr. Carter?"
Dearhail said, "I'm sorry if it's past visiting hours, but I didn't know when would be a good time to come. I'm not related to him; I'm the person who found him. I'd just like to see him for a few minutes... if that's all right."
Dearbhail paused while the doctor considered her request. "Could you tell me how he's doing? Is he going to be all right?"
Brandon looked over the charts. "Well....I can let you take a quick look at him, but I can't leave you alone with him. Police, security, that whole thing. His condition looks to be stable, at least for the moment. Barring complications, he should recover, given enough time."
A thought struck him. "If you're the one who found him...did you apply the first aid? It's a nice little job of dressing the wounds."
Without waiting for an answer, Brandon bent over and murmured something to Sister Egberda, then straightened back up, looking at her expectantly.
When Brandon had bent over and murmured to Sister Egberda, he had said,. "I'm going to go in with her. But _just_ to be on the safe side, be ready to call the police."
He smiled uncertainly at her. "I'm not really used to having to keep my patients under lock and key."

Sunday, June 4th, 1995 12:32 a.m.

Brandon took Ms. MacKenna to an elevator and she watched him push the button for the second floor. There, he took her past another desk, waving to the three nurses and one doctor on duty
"I'm taking this visitor to 205," he announced. No one seemed concerned and Ms. MacKenna merely followed the Doctor as he opened the door to the room.
Inside, dim lights revealed a man kept in an oxygen tent, with tubes taped to his arms and nostrils. The man's right hand was handcuffed to the side of the bed.
"His lungs took a nice little slice there," Brandon explained. "He's got a remarkable will to live." That was saying it mildly, Brandon thought. This man should've been dead. It was nothing short of a miracle that he stood on this side of life, however close.
"So, you never answered my question that it might've been you who stitched him up," Brandon went on to comment
"So you think he'll make it?" Ms. MacKenna asked, sidestepping the question.
Brandon shook his head. "He's got a good chance, but he's not out of the woodworks yet."
Ms. MacKenna went over to the tent and looked down at her strange benefactor. On the way up, Brandon had told her that Carter was wanted for suspicion of robbery in Stockton and other Valley towns. Inside the tent, Carter shifted. He was awake. Brandon moved closer, concerned. Carter should have been sedated. In checking the tube for Carter's I.V. sedative, he found that it had been disconnected. Brandon grew angry. Obviously, the nurses and doctor on this floor didn't believe in checking very closely on their patients. As he went to reinsert it, Carter's hand weakly touched him.
"Please, no," he whispered. "I have to stay awake."
"Why?" Ms. MacKenna asked him.
Carter motioned for her to come closer but Brandon pulled her back.
"I'm sorry," he told her. "I can't risk contamination from you. And there's that security concern."
Ms. MacKenna didn't look like she agreed, but she nodded, suggesting she would accept the doctor's authority on this.
"Get well soon," she told Carter. "I'll be back to check up on you."
Brandon escorted Ms. MacKenna back to the desk at the entry to the ward, asking one of the nurses to escort her back to the front door.
"Thank you for letting me see him, Doctor," she said. "I hope he makes it."
Brandon just nodded and watched her go, seemingly curious about her strange relationship with the patient, Carter.
After she left, Brandon went back inside to reinsert Carter's tube. If he was going to have any chance to live, he would need to rest and give his body a chance to heal.
"Doc, don't" Carter pleaded, his hand touching Brandon's. Carter's hand was warm, pulsing with life, and Brandon felt a twinge of jealousy for an existence that was no longer his.
"I have to," he tried to explain. "You're going to need your rest, buddy."
"Please, Doc, I can't," Carter insisted.
"Why?" Brandon asked, mildly curious. "If you're thinking about escaping, I should warn you that this is a secure ward." Brandon glanced over at Carter's other hand, handcuffed to the bed rail. "And I should also tell you that anything you say, I have a duty to report to the police."
"Fuck them," Carter rasped, becoming dangerously agitated. "They don't know what I'm about. They think I stole that money for myself - that I'm some kind of criminal."
Brandon shook his head and inserted the i.v. To keep Carter calm until it took effect, he talked to him.
"Oh, I'm sure you had your reasons," Brandon said, trying to sound sympathetic.
"Damn fuckin right, I did! You don't pick up paychecks for my kind of work!"
Brandon glanced at his watch. The sedative should start taking effect.
"They're going to come for me," Carter mumbled.
"Who is? Who's going to come for you?" Brandon asked, not a little uncurious.
"I did one of them, who tried to pick on that Irish singer," Carter said. "She must've got away. I should have known it was one, but he didn't give me the signs."
Brandon thought about what Carter had just said. He realized that Ms. MacKenna had had a sort of accent. Irish would probably fit the bill. As to what else Carter was hinting at, Brandon could only guess.
"Doc, I'm helpless if you put me down. I gotta stay awake, at least until morning."
"I'll see what I can do," Brandon lied.
"Doc!" Carter again touched Brandon's hand, just barely conscious. "I've done in so many, they'll come for me. They've done it before. Damn it, don't you know?"
"Know?" Brandon asked, still looking from his watch to Carter's face.
"The vampires," Carter gasped. "They want to kill me."
Brandon felt the taste of blood welling up in him mouth. He supposed it was his dead body's reaction to excitement - the vampiric version of adrenalin.
"Why would they want to do that?" Brandon kept his voice to the low monotone, deliberately unemotional, the voice of dry uncaring reason.
"I hunt them," Carter said, his eyes rolling until his fluttering eyelids closed. Looking at him, Brandon could see that he was sleeping at last.

Sunday, June 4th, 1995 1:00 a.m.

"Ohshitshitshitshitshit...." It was less of a curse than a mantra as Brandon paced almost frantically back and forth across the empty room he'd let himself in to, after seeing Ms. MacKenna out.
A vampire hunter! A god-damned vampire hunter! What was it Monica had said? "A few pathetic fools who try to hunt the hunters. Some can be dangerous, though."
A vampire hunter! What was he going to do? From one point of view, he supposed he'd be justified in arranging for some sort of 'accident'...No. Something inside him recoiled from that, violently. The man was a patient, one he'd accepted responsibility for. He couldn't kill him.(Oh couldn't you? whispered part of him. If you _had_ to?) He had sworn the Hippocratic Oath, and he would hold to it for as long as he could.
Unbidden, the memory of that swearing boiled up. "I swear by Apollo, the physician..." But as he remembered the end of it, he began to snicker, almost to giggle: "While I continue to keep this oath unviolated may it be granted to me to enjoy life...."
"Oh, that's _rich_," he muttered aloud. He could enjoy life all right, but only its taste, as he drank it down.
With an effort, he stopped his pacing and took control of himself. "Okay." Allright, _I_ won't kill him. But what happens when one of the other Kindred shows up, ready to finish him off? Could I stand by? No, I couldn't. If (when) that happens, I'll have to try and stop it. Shitshitshit. The hospital has to be a safe place of sorts. Just get Carter off the grounds first. But would any other Kindred listen? This was a _hunter_!
"Burn that bridge, come to it, that whole bit," he muttered incoherently to himself.
But what if another vampire was already there? He rushed out of the room and down the hall, looking in to see Carter lying there, unconscious but grimacing as though he were trying to awake. "How much willpower does this guy have?" Well, under the circumstances, he figured he could justify both a higher dose of sedatives and keeping a close watch on him, even if it would take a bit of extra paperwork.
Brandon composed himself before heading over to the nurse's station. It wouldn't do for them to think that a simple petty crook could get him this upset.

Sunday, June 4th 7:00 P.M.

Very carefully not thinking about the problem of the self-professed vampire hunter, Brandon moved around his apartment, getting ready for the night. He had the night off, and it was time to see about...well, places he could feed. He still didn't like thinking of it like that.
Taking a deep breath out of habit, Brandon steadied himself and forced himself to look in the mirror. "Stop being so damned silly," he muttered. He knew quite well that he still had a reflection, but he still flinched whenever he walked past a mirror. What was it Monica had said?
"Only a few Kindred lack reflections...and if you meet one, I advise that you either kill them immediately or run with all possible speed."
Finally calming down, he took stock of his image. Nothing unusual there, just a Gen X'er in slacks and button-down shirt. He ran a hand through an painfully straight mass of very pale blond hair. _Better figure a good style for this length, he thought. _From what Monica said, it won't change._ He ran his fingers along the line of his jaw. _Jeeze, I'm glad I shaved right before I came on-shift that night,_ he thought for what was probably the tenth time. _It'll be nice not having to shave._
As he met his own gaze in the mirror, he got the same little shock he always did. He was used to the fact that his hair and skin were paler now, but those eyes were far too pale a green to be the ones he had spent twenty-six years seeing in the mirror. Still, the expression on his face was the familiar one, the one Linda had said looked like he was always about a night's worth of sleep short.
He looked over his clothes again. They were good for working in, just the image of a hard working young doctor, but they wouldn't do at all for hitting the town. He couldn't afford to look too much like his professional persona when he was 'hunting'. On the other hand, he really didn't want to go too far the other way, with leather and rips and chains.
Average, middle of the road...unremarkable. That was what he wanted. Dark t-shirt, jeans, sneakers. No, wait a minute...if he wore a dark t-shirt, his arms would look _incredibly_ pale by comparison. Gray? Yeah, that could work. Cheap gray sweatshirt, gray-blue jeans, and that old pair of Reeboks from the closet. He'd still look pale, but it might look like it was the clothes' fault.
In the mirror, he suddenly noticed the reflected clock face. According to yesterday's paper, it should be past sunset now. Certainly, he felt fully awake. He put his hand on the doorknob and froze. What if the clock was a bit off? What if he was wrong about the time of sunset?
"Damn it, Brandon, get over it already," he muttered. He opened the door and stepped out into the lingering warmth of the early evening.

Sunday, June 4th 8:00 P.M.

"Doctor Lawrence?" Nurse Ramirez didn't sound too surprised to see him, even though it was his night off. He supposed he was getting a reputation for showing up every night, whether he was on call or not. What _was_ he doing here, anyway?
"Evening, Nurse. Just curious about how those new patients were doing." He strolled past her, heading for the elevator. He heard Lovelace's voice down the hall, and he hopped into the elevator before Lovelace could see him and wonder why he was here.
Upstairs, he looked in on Quentin Carter. He lay very still, and everything looked normal, but something bugged Brandon. _Maybe it's just that he'd love to kill you if he knew what you were?_ He looked over the charts. Nothing jumped out at him, but he was still uneasy._I just hope we can get rid of this guy quick.
Heading back downstairs, he took a quick look over the girl in 108. Not much change. "And who is responsible for _your_ condition?" He wondered if there was anything he could do, in restitution. Could he give her _his_ blood, was it safe? There was so much he didn't know.
Lost in thought, he wandered back out through Emergency, and back out into the night. Just before the door shut behind him, he could hear Ramirez muttering in Spanish, thanks to his unnaturally acute hearing. "<Doesn't he have a life?>"
If only you knew, Nurse, if only you knew.

Sunday, June 4th, 1995 8:08 p.m.

Just as Brandon exited the door and started to head back for his car, on the way to hunt, he heard behind him the muffled voice of a paramedic coming over the radio. The voice sounded frantic and Brandon's doctor side took over, unable to tear himself away just yet. He stepped back towards the ambulance entry for emergency and the automatic doors slid open for him.
"We ETA four minutes to arrive," the voice said. Brandon thought he could hear the siren outside. It was impossible, but maybe not, given his new senses.
The paramedic listed off her vitals. Erratic pulse, extremely low blood pressure, convulsions, shock.
"Who's on duty tonight?" he asked Ramirez. Ramirez looked up, surprised to see that Brandon had returned.
"Fust and Yeh," Ramirez told him, not looking at him as the staff prepped for the arrival. Brandon looked around.
"Where are they?" he asked, more than a little annoyed.
Ramirez looked around, as if their absence had just dawned on him. "Well, Doctor Yeh is in emergency surgery - gunshot wound."
"And?"
The staff nurses looked around for Doctor Fust. The Midnight Casanova was elsewhere. Just as Sister Joan turned on the intercom, Brandon switched it off.
"I'll take this one," he told the assembled staff. He could see the relief in their faces. Sister Egberda nodded approvingly.
The ambulance arrived. The paramedics were early.
As the crew rushed the young girl to station 8b, Brandon did his cursory exam. She was in shock, very pale and had her skin was clammy and cold. There was a pulse, but it was fluttery and unstable. Her shirt was stained with blood, though it didn't seem very much in quantity, just enough to make it dramatic. The smell of the blood assaulted Brandon's nostrils, but this time, he was lucky and was able to control himself.
"Shit!" Brandon swore, unconscious of the nuns present. She was missing at least a quart of blood, if not more. Given her body weight, this condition was fatal if it didn't change in the next minute - or less. Blood type was A-, not good. He ordered several immediate i.v's. He had to get her fluid level up and fast. Her brain was dying, and if it went, the rest of her systems would collapse. Her heart didn't have enough pressure to move anything through her arteries. It sounded like a hollow drum. As they ran for x-ray, enroute to surgery, Brandon did a cursory exam to see if he could find the immediate wound. There was only the small blood stain on her shirt. He decided the source of the bleeding was internal, maybe the result of a blow, but then he saw the marks on her neck, two raw puncture wounds, not bleeding, but puckered and swollen. He ordered his crew to bypass X-ray and swing back around. He knew the problem. Of course, he would. The nurses and orderlies paused. Jerking the gurney out of their hands, he ran with it back to the trauma station. The rest of his staff recovered from their shock and followed.
"What the hell is going on here?" Fust's watery blue eyes poked their way in front of Brandon as he massaged the girl's arms.
"Get out of my way, Fust!" Brandon just shoved him aside.
"You're not on duty!" Fust told him.
"Neither were you," Brandon growled. The two nurses monitoring i.v's just looked at each other.
"You need to get her to x-ray and find the cause of her bleeding. She'll die if you don't, Lawrence!"
"While we're wasting time on the x-ray, she could go into cardiac arrest," Brandon told him. "We need to get blood into her before we do anything else."
"We don't have enough of her type to waste it like this. She's obviously got some severe internal trauma for this kind of loss. If you get her into surgery, we just might make it!" Fust made a move to take the gurney. Brandon grabbed him by his smock and dragged him out of the cubicle.
"This is my patient, doctor. You either assist and do what I say or get out of here."
"Lawrence, that girl's going to die, damn it!"
Brandon ignored him and went back to his work. Her heart was fluttering. The EKG line went flat, the alarm blaring at him. Ramirez had already charged the capacitors, while two other nurses had cut away the girl's tee-shirt. Brandon absently noted that is said something about Sisters of Mercy. He didn't know whether it meant nuns or a rock group. Brandon applied the first jolt.
The girl's body arched up.
The EKG line jumped back to life. Her vitals were starting to stabilize.
The surprised shock on the faces of all the nurses showed itself.
"You can take her to x-ray, if you want," Brandon told them. "I don't think you'll find any internal bleeding."
"That's ridiculous," Fust told him. "There's no way to account for that kind of blood loss without a severe trauma of some sort."
"Is she going to be alright?"
Brandon and Fust turned to the police officer standing by the curtained entrance to the cubicle. Though the police officer had addressed one of them, she was looking at the girl.
Brandon gave her a quick once over. The policewoman was tall and her curly auburn hair might have been attractive in another setting. As the officer's striking green eyes looked to them, Brandon thought they seemed cold and calculating.
Brandon ignoring her, had been looking the girl over. Using a tongue depressor, he scrapped something out that he had missed in his initial look to see if something was in her mouth. It looked like blood. His activity wasn't missed by Fust.
"That looks like blood," Fust said.
"Thank you doctor, but I do know what it looks like," Brandon snapped.
Without even waiting, Fust ordered, "Nurse, prepare for a stomach pump."
Before Brandon could protest, the waiting policewoman drew him aside.
"Is that blood?" she asked Brandon.
"How should I know?" Brandon said, watching Fust. Brandon thought it was, but he wasn't about to say so. This was a royal mess, he realized, and if he didn't cover it up, it could get him into trouble with the Prince. This was the second victim he had seen, counting the Speake girl, who showed evidence of an unmasqued vampire attack. And in both cases, the victim was brought close to death, again violating the Prince's command. Though the Police claimed to have apprehended the first attacker, Brandon wondered if these two cases were somehow connected.
Fust called something to all of their attentions. "Look here," he held up his discovery, "there was blood in her stomach, quite a lot of it too." Fust exhibited what looked like a noxious mix of stomach acid and what might be, and what Brandon realized, probably was, a large amount of blood.
"Lawrence, you're an idiot," Fust said, brazenly violating professional ethics, "This girl's obviously bleeding internally, somewhere around her stomach. I'm prepping her for emergency surgery."
"Her vitals don't support that," Brandon insisted. Agreeing with Fust would have been a good way out of this quandary, but he wasn't about to cut open a young girl just to maintain a charade. There would be other ways to answer the questions that would come up. At least, Brandon hoped there would be.
"You can take her to x-ray, but I'm not letting you cut her open. She'll recover as is." Brandon called Sister Egberda over to him. "Sister, I want you to assist Doctor Fust." Brandon knew Egberda didn't like Fust. She shared Brandon's assessment that the man was an egotistical tyrant. Brandon didn't put it past Fust to try and fabricate an internal wound during surgery. Egberda would keep him in line.
Fust swore, "Lawrence, this girl is going to die because of you, and I'll see that Donohue and the Board crucifies you over this!"
Brandon didn't comment, watching Fust and entourage wheel his patient down to Emergency's x-ray room.
The policewoman, who had been patiently watching this whole unprofessional interchange, voiced her concerns.
"Doctor, I would like some answers now. First, on the surface, I would have to say I agree with your - colleague - that it would seem the girl had some internal injury. How else do you account for her condition? Could those wounds in her neck have something to do with this?"
Brandon tried to concentrate. He was hardly prepared for those very questions. He couldn't tell the officer the truth and he hadn't had time to think of some answers that would seem convincing. The fact that the girl would recover would give him some credibility. Now, he just had to think of something to say.
Glancing at her name badge, Brandon asked, "Officer Morrison, were you there when she was found?"
"I was first on the scene," Morrison told him.
"Could you tell me the situation of how you found her?"
Before Morrison could answer, a tall athletic looking man burst into Emergency from the lobby entrance, followed by a young woman wearing a baseball cap, who Brandon didn't recognize and also by Sister Bernadette, who had been manning the Emergency Reception room.
"Sir, you'll have to come back before I call security," Sister Bernadette told him, but he ignored her, and seeing Brandon, accosted him instead.
"I was told my daughter, Angela Thompson is here. I'm Quinn Thompson, her legal guardian. I want to know how she is? Will she be alright?"
Brandon Lawrence raised a hand in a calming, I'll-take-care-of-this gesture to Sister Bernadette. "Thank you, Sister...Now, Mr...Thompson? Right, now your daughter's vital signs look good, though she needs blood urgently. We're having her X-rayed to check for internal injuries to be safe, but her condition is better than we'd expect if she does have such. I can't promise anything, we never can, but the prognosis is favorable. If you want to help her, the best thing you can do is go back to the Emergency Reception desk, tell them you're her guardian and fill out the paperwork...we need all the information on her medical history you can provide, if we want to help her."
He turned to Officer Morrison. "Now, I was asking you about the girl's condition when you found her. All the information we can get helps." He paused. "I'm particularly curious as to whether it's possible she was moved before you found her; the blood she lost has to have gone somewhere, after all. We had a vaguely similar case the other day, from your department, actually. Small-time crook who got cut up with a sword of all things."
He glanced over his shoulder towards the X-ray room. "I don't have too much time here. I need to be there to check up on her when they finish with this."
Officer Morrison said, "Very well Doctor, I'll tell you on the way." Moving through the swing doors they headed to the X-Ray Room.
"From what we know, she was in a scuffle with a man and appeared to faint, at which point her attacker was apprehended by a number of citizens. We arrived on the scene and I checked the girl as my partner cuffed the suspect. Her breathing was shallow at that time and she was obviously unconcious. The paramedic's came and checked on her condition. Then her attacker got free with a gun, picked her up off the gurney and backed down some stairs holding her in front of him as a hostage. We pursued him down the stairs after he'd fired off a volley of shots and we found her attacker crumpled on the ground, his back broken and her lying there with the two holes in her neck. The holes hadn't been there before. Whatever caused her to lose the blood, as far as I could tell, there was no signs of any spill of blood drying into the ground of any real quantities near either of her resting places. It's a real puzzle." Unconciously, she shifted her hand up and scratched the side of her head. Putting a hand on the doctor's shoulder Officer Morrison stopped him in the middle of the corridor.
"Ok Doc, I've told you what I know. Now Doc, do you mind explaining what you mean about this being similar to one of the other recent attacks? I'd also appreciate your medical opinion on what happened? How come you disagreed so violently with Dr Fust? Was he right or were you playing a hunch? I need to know anything you can give me on this as things just seem to be getting weirder and weirder these days." Locking eyes with Brandon she waited for an answer, anything that might make sense.
Brandon Lawrence ran a hand through his short hair in a motion that was somewhere between frustrated and confused. "At the moment, I don't really know anything. We're just running as fast as we can trying to keep up. Dr. Fust and I...often disagree, and I'm afraid you caught the edge of some of that. I made a best judgement, based on my experience and what I saw, that it was important to get some blood into her fast, that exploratory surgery would cost more than it would gain. He disagreed."
Officer Morrison leaned back against the wall. " Yeah, I noticed that you were having problems with some of the sisters as well. Fair enough. I hope for your sake that your right!" A tired breath escaped her lips.
Brandon glanced around the hall. "Where ARE those results?" he muttered.
With a wrench, he turned his attention back to the police officer.
"There was a patient in here just the other day who lost a lot of blood
due to a stab wound in the abdomen, but a nicely cleaned and dressed wound, so that there wasn't that much blood around it. Similar to this case, though there the problem was obvious, and the pattern of the vital signs was different. If this girl had had internal stomach bleeding, I'd have expected a similar pattern."
Nodding, Officer Thompson picked her notebook out of her top pocket and started scribbling some notes.
He stopped and blinked. Suddenly, he spun and grabbed the arm of a passing nurse. "A stomach pump was done on the latest ER case. I
need a _full_ analysis done on the contents. Please?" He finished with a pleading smile. The nurse, apparently used to such abrupt requests, nodded briskly and moved off.
Brandon turned back to Officer Morrison again. "Sorry. What was I saying? Similarities. There was another case with a sword...or am I combining cases? I'll have to check records...anyway, a puncture wound to the neck; arterial pressure can spray the blood away from the body, though from what you said, that doesn't sound like the case here." He stared off into space for a moment. "Bother. Confusing. Anyway, her condition suggested to me that the blood loss was not continuing, but was nonetheless vital, and I made the call I did."
He shrugged. "This is a mess. If things are weirder than this out there, Officer, I'm sorry for you."
"Yeah, I'm afraid to say that they appear to be going that way. One question Doctor. What sort of pressure would it take to completely snap someone's spine?
"Snap someone's spine? Depends on the circumstances. If you can brace the victim properly, an average person can do it. In a brawl, it would take a rather stronger than average person, but it's far from unknown...usually happens due to a fall or throw, though, rather than a simple punch or squeeze..._that_ would take a seriously strong individual." He looked around again. "Aren't they done yet?"
Pushing herself off the wall Morrison readjusted her cap. " I'd better
go and talk to Mr Thompson. Doctor, if you'd head along when you have some information, I'm sure we'd both appreciate it. Try and leave out the strange circumstances for the moment until we have something more to go on. I hope you understand that all of this is confidential. I don't want any of this going beyond official circles. If you could send me a copy of your final results, when you have them, I'd appreciate it. Anyway, thanks for your co-operation."
With this, Morrisonwalked back down the hall to the Reception room and Mr Thompson.
Brandon, having checked on Angela Thompson, noted that she was doing fine and that her vitals had stabilized, remarkably quickly. In fact, it was down right remarkable, a fact that hadn't escaped Fust, who was glowering over her, as if she herself were mocking Fust's capabilities.
"If your satisfied, Doctor," Brandon said, startling Fust, "I'm going to have her moved to a bed."
Fust didn't say anything and left x-ray abruptly. Brandon gave Ramirez specific instructions about the young patient, before leaving for his night out. All of the activity had burned some of his blood supply and he was growing dangerously hungry. And, unlike when he had been human, his was a hunger that could not be denied.
On the way out, Brandon could smell spilled blood and noticed that somone had cracked the large glass in one of the doors leading to the Reception room. Blood was still drapped down the cracked glass though an orderly was quickly wiping it up, having cleaned the floor.
"What happened there?" he asked an orderly, ignoring his hunger just long enough to satisfy his curiosity. Brandon thought he could smell the blood in the orderly's veins.
The orderly shook his head. "That guy! The father of the girl you've been working on, he just whacked that door when you and the cop took off talking. Boy was he pissed. He hurt his hand pretty bad too, but he refused to see anyone for it." Looking at Brandon, he added, "Oh, and he paid for the window, Doctor. He said he was sorry and he paid cash."
Brandon glanced out the door, noting that Mr. Thompson and the policewoman, Morrison were engaged at conversation. Looking at Thompson's hands, Brandon could see that they seemed undamaged and there was no sign of a cut. Brandon would have like to have stayed, but he had tempted fate too long. Heading out the door, he was soon in his car, headed for the Mall. He figured, he would hunt at the Catalyst, this night.

Sunday, June 4th 9:15 P.M.

Brandon stepped into the Catalyst, not sure what to expect. He was still a bit unsettled from that embarassing incident in the Blue Lagoon. It had taken him just a bit too long to figure out why none of the women there were interested in him, and he was sure he'd made a fine fool of himself. If there was one nice little side-effect of his...condition, it was that he didn't have to worry about an unwanted blush. In fact, it took quite an effort to create one.
Hmm. This place seemed allright, but the Lagoon had looked all right too. Not too many people here tonight (but then, it _was_ Sunday). Ah, there a number of mixed couples here. Good. He spent a bit longer looking around on edge, trying to see if he recognized anyone, if anyone might be following him. Finally, he relaxed, and began looking for his quarry.
It didn't take too long for him to find a sorority-girl type who was a bit tipsy. She looked like she'd been dancing but was taking a break. "Hi. Waiting for someone?" She paused as she looked him over. He knew he was only average-looking, but the fact that she was actually trying to decide what to say made him feel that she must not be here with a guy. "I thought you might like to talk." Not a good line, but he let the power that was within his blood flow out as Presence, and he could actually see her pupils dilate as she became fascinated by him.
Damn. It actually works._ Heady with confidence, he held off from the direct approach and spent a good half-hour, chatting and flirting and generally enjoying himself. He found out that her name was Chelsea Barnette, that she was a junior at UCSC (media arts or something, he wasn't sure), that she was a Libra....and on and on. Somehow, he managed to avoid saying too much about himself, giving just Franklin as his name (well, it _was_ his middle name).
As much as he was enjoying himself, flirting really, the Hunger would not be put off forever. He was just trying to figure out what the next move would be, when the conversation hit a lull and Chelsea looked around. "This place is dead tonight. I know a better place a few blocks off. Wanna hit it?"
He met her eyes and smiled. "Sure, sounds great." A bit later, as they were walking down the sidewalk, he went for the next move. "Hmm. I'm not sure how up for dancing I am. What do you say to a stroll down the beach?"
She tensed slightly, and he could almost see the thoughts clicking through her mind, slowed by the haze of alcohol. The fascination she was still feeling won out and she nodded with an almost shy grin. He felt a warm glow inside at the success he was having, but there was a queasiness, too.
It wasn't until they lay entwined on the beach that he figured it out. He had been murmuring in her ear, slowly mesmerizing her, but now that she was in a receptive state, he couldn't bring himself to _use_ her like he'd planned. Or could he? The Hunger was building, he could_smell_ her blood...he'd been holding himself back too much tonight. Much more and he'd lose control finally. But...she wasn't a nameless, faceless bleach-blonde any more: she was Chelsea Barnette, a nice, if somewhat shallow young woman.
He sighed. If it had actually been sex he was looking for, he'd have had no qualms in taking it right now; she was clearly willing. But
she couldn't know what he really needed, couldn't give her consent to that. "What's wrong?" she asked.
He pulled back and looked into her eyes. "Nothing's wrong with me. But how about you? You feel so tense. How about I give you a nice...long...backrub? Just relax." He carefully moved his hands along her arms. He thought he was going to have to use his powers, but she just smiled lazily (a little off-kilter, he noticed clinically; she was still feeling
her beers) and rolled over.
He positioned himself and began giving her a massage, his clinically trained hands rubbing slowly up and down her back. (Damn, he thought. If picking up babes is this easy, I should have been doing more back in med school...on the other hand, would she have even paid attention to me, back before I Changed?) He leaned in close beside her ear and whispered, "Just relax, relax, relax. Let your mind drift, your muscles unwind..."
Now he nuzzled lightly at her throat, keeping his fangs retracted by sheer force of will as the blood pounded by, just under his lips. She murmured pleasantly. Almost, almost... "Relax. Unwind. Easy...float free." Now he pushed with the force of his mind, mesmerising her. Obediently, he felt her relax beneath his hands. He turned his kisses into nibbles, and she didn't respond, just relaxed even further.
Now. His fangs nearly leapt forth as he bowed to his instincts, his Hunger. He bit cleanly into the vein (to avoid that nasty arterial pressure he'd mentioned to Officer Morrison earlier), drinking. He savored the experience, but didn't dare let it go on for long. After only a few seconds, he forced himself to pull back. His sensitive hands could plainly feel the shift in her pulse as he drank, and he knew how much he could afford to drink. She would feel tired, nothing worse.
There. The Kiss was begun and finished quickly, she moaned but didn't stir. With a quick, final kiss, he licked the wound closed, and cleaned the area around it. He nibbled a little more; she'd have a notable hickey there later, but no other sign. Most importantly, he could last a few more days now. Maybe by then, it would be safe to take a little more from the banks...or maybe an appropriate patient would check in.
A sudden paranoid chill ran down his back. What if he were being watched, even now? The Need had clouded his thinking, but now it was clear...hopefully, everything up to this point would look natural, if not exactly innocent. He'd have to play things out carefully. He nuzzled at her neck a little longer before leaning back and watching her. She slowly breathed in and out, rhythmically, evenly; she'd fallen asleep.
He stroked her back, gently, and looked up at the sky, and out at the surf. Time passed, he wasn't sure how much. Finally, he leaned over and whispered into her sleeping ear. "Chelsea...you're very tired, but very relaxed, aren't you? But you're going to wake up now, and I'm going to take you home, so you can get some rest. And you're going to eat healthily for a while, aren't you? Come on, Chelsea, wake up."
Once more, he put the blood-driven power of his will behind his words, and she stirred. After a moment, she rolled over and opened her eyes. He looked down at her and smiled. "Hello, sleepyhead."
She blinked and blushed. "Oh, Christ. Did I fall asleep?"
He smiled and nodded. "Oh, geeze, I'm sorry...I just seem to be so tired...that backrub put me right out..."
He smiled and nodded, and things went about as he expected, so that he dropped her off at her place not too long after that.
After that, he returned to the Catalyst, but the Hunger wasn't with him anymore (at least, not like before) and he didn't really feel up to it, so he eventually gave it up.
"Maybe walking the beach will help," he muttered to himself. After all, it had been nice down there earlier. And so it was that he found himself back on the beach.
As the salty breeze blew in his face, he considered his situation: a self-avowed vampire hunter was being held in the hospital. Two victims of a fairly blatant vampire were being held there too. There was at least one cop who was getting interested in the whole thing. What was he going to do about it?
Passing the buck had a lot of appeal...in fact, he supposed it was probably his 'duty' or something to tell the people in charge. But who were the people to tell? From Monica, he'd gathered that one's sire was always someone to go to...but he couldn't bring himself to confront Rebecca; that just wasn't in the cards. Purdy? He was the leader of Brandon's "clan"...yes, that would be good, if he could find him. The Prince? Now _there_ was a pleasant thought, but if anyone needed to know, it was probably him.
OK, he'd find Purdy, and tell him, then see about telling Prince Happy. Not tonight, though; he needed to get back to the hospital, check on the Thompson girl. And Fust. Luckily, it seemed that the outcome was supporting his side instead of Fust's, but there could still be a meeting with Donohue. Damn! He hated meeting with any higher-ups.
And what was the deal with Quinn Thompson's hand? That didn't seem exactly natural...it couldn't be that Quinn was a vampire, though. Brandon knew what happened when a Kindred got a cut like that, and it didn't involve leaving blood all over the place. Oh well, that seemed peripheral to the main issues.
Oh well, back to the hospital, and then home to bed.

Sunday June 4th, 1995 9:50 p.m.

Brandon entered the hospital, smiling at the surprised glances of the desk nurses in Emergency. As usual, Fust was back to his usual practice of not being around. Thank God for pagers, Brandon thought.
"Hello Doctor," Nurse Ramirez smiled quixotically. That policewoman who was here earlier left you a message. Ramirez handed Brandon a note. Stapled to it was a business card. It was from officer Katherine Morrison and read:
"Dr Lawrence, please send along your ideas & findings to me at the station."
"Anything else?" Brandon asked, hoping for a quiet night. He thought he'd check in on Angela Thompson before heading home.
Ramirez checked his sheet.
"Yea, that Speake girl is up and doing better. She asked for ice cream. In fact, she's being taken out of I.C. Your patient, Angela Thompson is still in serious but stable condition but it looks she's definitely improving with the blood transfusion." Ramirez looked up at Brandon in a congratulatory tone. "And there were those two others brought in with blood loss."
"What others?" Brandon asked.
"Well, they were brought in before the Thompson girl. In fact, Officer Morrison was on the scene of that one also and had to be treated for smoke inhalation. . One of pair was declared D.O.A. and he was been removed to the morgue. The other one is here in I.C. Her name is Donna Tirado"
Brandon realized that there had been another attack. He hadn't noticed it earlier because Thompson had arrived just as he was checking the arrival sheets.

Monday June 5th, 1995 4:45 a.m.

Brandon was unlocking the door to his apartment when he heard the roar of a motorcycle tearing into the parking lot. He looked but there was nothing. Putting the key into his lock, he realized he wasn't alone and his heart sank. Turning, he saw here right beside him. It was Rebecca.
She grinned at him, baring her fangs. He panicked. She was here to kill him, he thought.
"Don't worry, numbskull. I'm just here to deliver a message. Prince Happy has declared a Bloodhunt against the Gangrel Raphael. The Chicken drinker has embraced without the Prince's permission. He's also killed ghouls serving the Prince. If you see him, you are to rip him to shreds, both him and his chylde who is someone called Maria Azeglio."
Rebecca grabbed Brandon by the chin. "Both the Prince and Purdy want this lick, you hear? If you want to stay healthy, just consider it a mother's fond advice that you find and dust this Gangrel. Hear?"
Brandon nodded and Rebecca released his chin.
Someone opened a door and yelled out for them to be quiet. Rebecca hissed at Brandon's neighbor. Brandon heard the door slam shut. Looking back at Rebecca, he saw that she was gone. He heard her drive off, her Harley growling in the dark.

Monday, June 5th 4:00 P.M.

Slowly, Brandon pulled himself up out of murky unconsciousness. It
was a struggle to wake, to move, with the sun still in the sky. Why was he even trying?
<RING!> went his phone. Oh yeah, that was why. With an effort, he reached out and grabbed the receiver. "Hello?" he mumbled into it.
A familiar voice came over the line. "Dr. Lawrence? This is Father Donohue. I'm sorry to bother you at home," he said, not sounding sorry at all, "but I was wondering if we could talk this afternoon. Can you be in my office in, oh, an hour?"
Panic surged in Brandon. What could he say? "Um....not really. On this short a notice, it would take an absolute emergency for me to be able to make it." It certainly would, he thought. Oh shit! If he let Donohue reschedule for another day, that excuse wouldn't hold water! "Um, I'm on duty tonight...would it be possible for us to have our meeting an hour before I go on shift?"
There was a long pause. Donohue must be considering his own schedule,
he thought. "All right, that would work. I'll see you then."
A wave of relief washed over him as he put the phone down and began sinking back into the sleep of the dead. That was one bullet dodged. Right before he faded out, it occurred to him that now he wouldn't be able to look for Purdy until after his shift was over.

Monday, June 5th 7:15 P.M.

Father Donohue quirked an eyebrow at Brandon as he hurried into the room. "Late." The voice carried a tone of strict discipline. Brandon felt like a schoolboy, about to be punished.
"I was, uhm, grabbing a nap before my shift and overslept." He couldn't very well explain that he had slightly misestimated when the last light of the sunset would be gone, and had had to wait it out in his apartment.
"You took the time to shave." Was that approval or disapproval? He couldn't tell. Damn, but he hated this.
"Electric shaver in my car."
"Hmpf. Never found those to be worth anything. Takes a blade to get a close shave."
"I guess it depends on your hair type or something." Oh God, he was babbling, rambling on about shaving!
"Hmpf. I suppose you know what I wanted to talk to you about."
He certainly did. The next half hour was an excruciating discussion, point by point, of the things that had happened the previous night. Several times, Brandon found himself sorely tempted to Dominate Donohue, or at least Awe him, but he held out. Fortunately, Brandon was not just a competent doctor, he was _Good_. He was able to marshal a good, solid argument for his actions, and the results did tend to support him.
Of course, some of the strength of his argument were based on a bit of hindsight, and he was sure Donohue knew that, from the occasional glint of humor he caught in Donohue's eyes. Then Donohue threw him a surprise curve.
"Dr. Fust has filed a complaint about your attitude. He is your senior here, and he feels you did not show him the respect he deserves."
Brandon's jaw dropped open a fraction from shock. Fust said that, after what _Fust_ had said so publically about _him_? With great restraint, he forced his mouth shut and forced a calm reply. "With all due respect, I think that I did."
Donohue murmured to himself, but it was clearly audible to Brandon's supernatural hearing. "And which way do you mean that?"
When it was finally over, Brandon had not had to resort to his powers, but he wasn't sure if that had been the right decision or not.

Monday, June 5th 9:00 P.M.

With all of the paperwork out of the way, Brandon finally had the time to go visit the blood-loss victims, to ask them what their stories were. He looked through their medical files, but didn't find enough to satisfy his curiosity. Hopefully, they'd be willing to talk to him.
He stepped out of the elevator on the first floor and turned toward the rooms where the Thompson and Tirado girls were staying, just in time to see a large middle-aged man leaving through an exit at the far end of the hall. It took him a second to remember that he had met that man before; he'd been in the Speake girl's room a few nights ago...but the Speake girl wasn't on this hallway at all. Thompson? Tirado? He like the whole thing less and less.
Hmm. Thinking of things he liked less and less, he'd have to check on that 'vampire hunter,' see how he was doing, see if he could get him out of the hospital and make him someone else's problem.
First, then, were the bite victims; second was the hunter; third, once he was off-shift, would be heading down to the Boardwalk and anywhere else he could think to look for Purdy. He had to tell someone about this.

Monday June 5th, 1995 9:07

Not good. Not good. Definitely, not good.
Like a litany, these words kept running through Brandon's head. Thompson was alright. In fact, she'd improved remarkably and Fust had recommended her release the next morning. Brandon was furious, but then he noted Donohue's signature next to Fust's. The bastard had already O.K'd it. There was nothing he could do.
I should have dominated him, Brandon thought.
Tirado was still in serious but stable condition. She had gotten up but was sleeping when Brandon came on shift. He examined her scars, obvious puncture marks that were raw and swelling. If ever there was a violation of the 1st Tradition, there it was in this poor young woman's neck. Brandon hated to think what would happen to such a victim, what probably had happened to other such victims, in cities where the Princes had tighter control. Such kine - no, Brandon forced himself to rephrase that thought - Such People would simply disappear.
Seeing Tirado, Brandon decided to check on Speake, the young girl attacked at the Boardwalk and on Quentin, the self-styled vampire hunter. It was like two double whammies. His felt like it did after Rebecca had kicked him in the head in the exam room in emergency. Speake had recovered yesterday evening and had been eating and had given the police a report. Then, sometime after Brandon had left last night, she'd had a relapse. Examining her, Brandon could see that her puncture wounds had been reopened. She had been found on the verge of death - cause - exsanguination. Damn! Brandon cursed inwardly, but then he realized, how could he have known?
Suddenly, a cold feeling came over him. He raced upstairs to Quentin's room. The prisoner was supposed to be moved on Wednesday. When Brandon got there, he discovered that Quentin was already gone. He probed the night nurse.
"I'm not supposed to say anything," she told Brandon in a conspiratorial voice, "But he's escaped. Police don't know how he did it, but he just - vanished!"

Monday, June 5th 9:45 P.M.

Okay, he'd taken care of the little things that simply _had_ to be done, and he'd found an empty room whose phone he could use. He sat and stared at it in sudden realization: What did he do now?
He didn't have a phone number for the Prince, or for Purdy, or even for Rebecca. As much help as she'd been, he didn't have one for Monica either. Hell, he didn't have a phone number for _anyone_.
Okay, then. He'd have to go out and find someone. He could get someone to cover for him, probably...he could always take on two nightshifts for someone else. Maybe Tate or Yeh...he was on pretty good terms with them. Wait a minute: he didn't even know how to go about finding them in person.
Where _would_ the Prince of the city hang out on a Monday night? Or how about Purdy or Rebecca? There was always the Boardwalk, but that was probably only for special occasions, like the meeting over the weekend. Some of the other Brujah ("other" Brujah? He was beginning to think of himself as one of them, he realized. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.) looked like bikers, but going out and roaming biker bars just did not seem like a good idea to Brandon.
"This is all just great," he thought. A self-proclaimed vampire hunter has escaped from the hospital, and I've got a handful of patients who are so obviously vampire victims, it's like someone is _trying_ to break the Masquerade, and I don't know how to tell anyone. I don't have enough influence to cover up _anything_, really, and since the police are the ones bringing all these cases in, I don't think it would do any good if I did."
He blinked as a couple of ideas came together. "I wonder if someone_is_ trying to break the Masquerade? If someone had a hefty grudge against vampires, that'd certainly be one way to do it. And maybe they helped Carter escape?" He pondered the throught.
"Well, the Thompson girl was certainly attacked in a rather dramatic and public way...but not _too_ public, since no one actually saw the attack. On the other hand, if it wasn't a vampire, where'd the blood go?"
"And then there's the Speake girl. Attacked _here_. Almost right under my nose. So whoever's behind it came _here_...about the same time as Carter escaped? So maybe it's either someone trying to break the Masquerade and they let Carter go to further muck around with us, or maybe they came to finish off the girl, and decided to take care of an annoying hunter in the process? But if the second case were right, why not leave the body? They've certainly not had any problem leaving these young girls around."
He thought about the three girls, trying to find a pattern. Well, they were young women, that was a pattern, but it was the only one that occurred to him just offhand. In fact, if it hadn't been for the circumstances, they were all well within his own preferences. _That_ sent a shiver down his back, at least metaphorically. A faint pang of hunger stabbed at him, but he drove it down, ruthlessly. _That_ would have to wait...Mrs. Dunning was due to come in for another hemochromatic bloodletting in a couple of days.
He ran everything through in his head again, just for completeness, but it came out the same: he couldn't really think of anything to do, but he was becoming steadily more paranoid. Maybe it was time to take a few of the precautions he had thought of.
With a deep sigh, he moved out of the room just in time to catch the evening news, playing on a small TV in the nurse's station. The volume was turned low, but not so low that he couldn't hear it with _his_ senses. So the Carter escape was in the news...just great. Wait: a nurse was attacked? He hadn't heard about that...he opened his mouth to ask Nurse Williams who it had been, then shut it again just as quickly. There was no way a mortal could have heard that from as far away as he was. He'd have to drop it into conversation later that night.
He decided to go check on the Speake girl's condition. He was gratified to note that they had moved her into just about the most secure room they had, and a policeman was seated outside her door. The admission that they had problems with security was probably galling to Donohue, but after Carter's escape, they probably couldn't argue. The police officer came inside the room with him as he checked her charts and readings.
A fury began to rise in him. Not over the violation of the masquerade really, but at the affront to the dignity of life. Not settling for bringing her to the point of death once, this unnamed beast had done it _again._ And_here_. When she was one of _his_ patients. "This is...abominable," he half-murmured, half-growled.
The policeman looked at him oddly, half-nervously. "Doctor..?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Brandon saw that the man's hand was resting by his gun (out of nervous habit, almost certainly...the man couldn't really be seeing Brandon as a threat, could he?). In his angered state, this presented itself as a danger...no, an insult. He felt the fire beginning to race through his blood.
NO! With a tremendous effort, he shoved the anger down, down. He would_not_ give in. He was _not_ an animal. Still, he could _feel_ his fangs beginning to extend.
He breathed deeply, out of habit, and finished swallowing his rage, pulling in his fangs by sheer determination. He turned to the policeman. "Get the madman who did this. I don't want to see anything else like this."
Some of his anger must have still been showing. The policeman paled a little, taking a reflexive step backwards before he realized what he was doing and controlled it.
Shit. That wasn't good. Brandon tried to smile apologetically. "I'm sorry if I growled at you," (literally, he thought), "but things like this...the sheer inhumanity of it gets to me sometimes." He consciously turned on the charm, pouring it on. It seemed to work, as the policeman smiled back at him.
Shaking his head, he left the room, policeman in tow. "By the way, Officer...Swanson, is it? Do you know Officer Morrison? She asked me to send her something, and I was wondering if you could take it to her...well, I haven't written it yet, but I will, soon."
He left the officer guarding the door. He shuddered as he walked away, as the consequences of a frenzied rage at that place and time occurred to him. Now he'd have to write something for Morrison.

Tuesday, June 6th 8:30 P.M.

Brandon fretted nervously as he went about his rounds. He hadn't managed to find anyone (well, any Kindred, anyway) during the short time he'd had after last night's shift. In fact, all he'd managed to accomplish last night was writing his carefully composed notes for Officer Morrison. That reminded him...it was time to check on the Speake girl. According to Sister Egberda, she was still out cold...the severe loss of blood twice in quick succession may have caused brain damage. She was still under maximum security.
He went to check on her, seeing that Officer Swanson was on duty again. "Evening, officer. I've got those notes for Officer Morrison, if you want to take them." He handed him the sealed manila envelope that had Morrison's name emblazoned on them.
"Well, she probably won't get 'em until tomorrow night at the earliest, Doctor, but I'll hand 'em over." Swanson stood and let Brandon into the room.
As he looked her over, Brandon felt the faint stirrings of anger again, but this time he had prepared himself, and they didn't boil over. Still, it was so damned unfair to the girl.
A dangerous thought occurred to him. Monica had said something about Kindred blood giving mortals strength...could his blood undo the loss of hers? For a moment, the possibility loomed large in his mind, then it was shattered by the chill of uncertainty. Monica hadn't gone into any detail about that...or about how one Embraced a mortal. He remembered drinking Rebecca's blood as his last mortal act...if he gave this girl blood, would she recover her health or become a vampire?
The Gangrel, Raphael, was the subject of a Blood Hunt, partially for creating a Childe without permission. Brandon felt certain that he would face the same fate, even if he did it accidentally. No, he couldn't dare it...not without knowing more.
He left the room, shadowed by Swanson. He made conversation absently for a few moments, then went about his rounds. Tomorrow night he had off...he would use it to look for other Kindred; someone still needed to be told, and he had so much to learn.

Tuesday, June 6th, 1995 9:30 P.M.

You receive a sealed letter from Dr. Lawrence discussing the details of the bloodloss victims. It has been left on your desk. It details the following observations. All three (Emily Speake, Angela Thompson and Donna Tirado) are all young healthy females approximating ages between 14 and 24. All are caucasian. All are within their ideal weights and fat ratio given their ages. All have distinct puncture marks on the neck, which upon examining the wounds, give different measurements as to distance between punctures. Those of Thompson and Tirado have the same distance, while those on Speake appear to have a shorter spacing, indicating a smaller mouth. All appear to have been done with a very sharp instrument or instruments. There is no sign of infection. Examination of saliva remnants from the purported attacker(s) have not returned from the lab. In fact, the samples sent off were somehow misplaced and there is no replacement. The lab is located in Mountain View. Doctor Lawrence can offer no explanation for these wounds but says that he doubts that they were done by a wild animal.

Wednesday June 7th, 1995 12:10 a.m.

Brandon was filling out paperwork after having gone the rounds. It had been a fairly busy night thus far, with two emergency deliveries, an auto injury that hadn't, regrettably, turned out well, and a dog bite on a suspected burglar that required over an hour and a half's worth of stitches. He heard the sound of a gunshot! It was close - too close considering that he was on the grounds of a hospital. Just while all this was happening, Brandon saw a number of men rush past the half open door to his office. Peeking his head out, he saw them rushing on.
Seeing Sister Bridget, he asked her, "Sister, what's going on?"
The nurse clasped her hands to her face. She had liver spots on her hands that reminded Brandon of a leopard.
"Oh! That man! That man!"
Hoping to extract something a little more useful, Brandon encouraged her to continue.
"That terrible man who was in the paper! The one who killed the policeman and who attacked that girl, the one who's here! He's here! He's in the hospital! The police followed him here!"
Brandon realized that Speake was probably in danger. He ran off, heading for Intensive Care. He didn't bother with the elevator but launched himself up the stairs. Seeing him dart past her, Sister Egberda called out to him but he disappeared, leaving only Tate on duty. Brandon didn't even think about the hell he was going to catch from Donohue, but raced on upstairs, running for Intensive Care.
Just at the entrance, he was met by a stonewall of cops and hospital security guards, half of them in uniforms. Nurse Rodriguez had to intercede as the cops raised their guns, about to shoot Brandon.
Instead, one of them, a burly fellow with dark hair and a hideous bowl haircut, jumped into Brandon's face, yelling - "Doctor, I've got enough to worry about without you running the fuck around! Do me a big favor and just stay put! There's a lunatic around and if I don't want you to be his next victim!"
The police handed the Intensive Care staff a mug shot showing the "lunatic." He was Caucasian, nondescript with short cut brown hair.
"I need to check on Emily Speake," Brandon said.
"We already did that Doctor," the detective told him. "We've got two uniforms in there with her now. She'll be alright."
Brandon's next thought must have showed. The Detective asked him, "What is it?"
"There's another attack victim, similar pattern with puncture marks in her neck up on the third floor - room 345 - Donna Tirado!"
Brandon turned to head off but the Detective pulled him back before he got started, which was just as well. Running off like a linebacker with half the Santa Cruz P.D. on his back was hardly conducive to the spirit of the Masquerade.
"Doctor! Please! You stay here and we'll take care of it." The detective and the rest of the policeman rushed off, happy to have a lead. They had their guns drawn. Brandon doubted that they wouldn't shoot, but given their suspect's reputation, he felt he could hardly blame them.
They had just gone when Brandon heard something with his sharp hearing. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it sounded like it was coming from Room 203. Brandon casually walked down the hall. The rest of the Intensive Care staff were trying to follow the action from various views provided by closed circuit T.V. cameras, access thoughtfully provided by hospital security who were themselves trying to follow what was going on.
Brandon walked closer to Speake's room and could hear a distinct sound, too muffled for human ears. It sounded like choking. He ran not caring if anyone saw him and burst into the room. He didn't see the cops at first but noticed them later. One was obviously dead, his belly ripped open and intestines flowing onto the floor giving it a slippery coating of blood. He other was holding his throat, as if gasping for air. Speake lay unconscious while two men fought nearby. One of them exactly fit the photo of the man who the police and hospital guards were searching for right now on the third floor. The other Brandon hadn't seen before. He was young looking, his dark hair tied into a ponytail and had a unhealthy white pallor - a vampire!. He was snarling at the man, who was waving an antique looking sword around. Seeing Brandon, he yelled, "Look out! This freak's trying to kill the girl! Call the cops!"
Brandon gaped at the scene before him for just a moment, then shoved his brain into overdrive to try and deal with everything going on. [1 BP to activate Celerity.]
He tried to assess the combat going on between the vampire and the man with the sword, trying to decide if he had a clear line to the swordsman.
[If he does have a clear line]
The thought that he didn't really know which one of these two was the danger flickered through his mind, but he was in too much of a hurry right now. With one hand he grabbed something--a vase that was kept here for flowers--and threw it at the swordsman's head as hard as he could.
[If he doesn't have a clear line]
Damn! Too close together!
[Either way, the next thing he does is dive for the floor, to get a _fast_ look at the cops lying there. He's had a minor bit of inspiration...are their wounds from a sword, or from claws?]
[Also, does Brandon think the living cop's better chance is to be moved out into the hall, away from this, or to be assisted in place? Brandon will carry him to a gurney if he professionally thinks that's best. As he does so, he will shout for the police with every bit of volume he can muster. "POLICE! HE'S IN 203! GET THE COPS!"]
[Brandon's exact actions depend on what he finds and whether he threw the vase. If he decides that the swordsman was responsible, he'll go back into the room and try to help the vampire further, maybe by trying to circle around him, or maybe by trying to hit him with a chair, depending on the exact layout.]
[If, on the other hand, he decides that the _vampire_ attacked the cops, he'll try and help the swordsman...especially if he threw a vase at him earlier.]
[If he can't decide who got the cops, he'll try to get to the Speake girl and protect her from whatever happens next.]
(As an aside, right now everything is happening too fast for Brandon. Later, he might think of the cops' guns, but on the other hand, once he's had time to think about what's going on, he's going to be pissed and may frenzy.)
Is this the sort of response you're looking for?

Round 1:
Initiative (Man with sword, then vampire & Brandon)
a. Man with sword swings and hits the vampire squarely. Damage doesn't seem to be as significant as Brandon would have imagined.
a. Brandon: Burns blood to activate Celerity, throws chair (1 success) and hits the man, who seems jolted by the blow. Brandon then yells,
"POLICE! HE'S IN 203! GET THE COPS!"
b. Vampire moves with supernatural quickness, sprouting claws which drip a liquid that burns as it hits the floor. Moving faster than the man with the sword can react to, but not quite fast enough for Brandon to be unable to follow with his own Celerity, the vampire appears on the far side of the man, and apparently is clawing the man's side. The man winces in pain and falls to the floor, his abdomen smoking from a bloody gaping hole. Man with sword is Incapacitated and has no further move.
Round 2.
Initiative (Vampire then Brandon)
a. Vampire attacks Brandon. (1 success - 2 dodge - 2 soak). Attack fails.
b. Brandon's action is to dodge (2 successes).
c. Vampire attacks again! (5 successes - 2 dodge - 2 soak = 1 agravated hit. Brandon is bruised.
d. Brandon dodges again. (2 successes) Burn 1 blood point.
Round 3.
Brandon winced as the burning from the dripping fluid covering the vampire's claws scorched his coat. Tearing it away, he found that he wasn't hurt too badly - this time.
"How amusing, posing as a doctor," the vampire said, whirling into another attack.
Initiative (Brandon then Vampire) Vampire's declared action is to attack with clawed hands.
a. Burn 1 blood to gain Celerity. Grab the nearest cop's gun while dodging. 1st action - (3 success - 2 injury = 1 success) Brandon barely grabs gun. 2nd action is to dodge.
b. Vampire attacks Brandon again. (5 successes - 0 dodge and 0 willpower, since it will not help) Brandon takes 5 aggravated hits. He is now in Torpor. End of Combat

Wednesday June 7th, 1995 4:10 a.m.

Brandon awoke to see a dancing light bobbing above his head. He didn't know where he was but sensed that he was having great difficulty moving.
"Hold still," a woman's voice told him. "You're coming out of torpor."
His throat felt dry. He was hungry and needed to feed. As if sensing this, a felt a cold liquid enter his mouth. Nevertheless, it felt like burning fire. He felt a little better.
"Where am I?"
"Someplace safe."
Brandon didn't know why, but he believed her.
"What happened?"
"The cops came in on you just as the vampire was about to suck you dry. They shot him several times but he fled. The Speake girl is alright though and it looks like she's going to recover. They're holding that man who was with you for the murder of the two cops who were guarding the girl."
"He didn't do it," Brandon said, his throat feeling again dry. "At least, I don't think he did."
"Lay here and rest. It's going to be several days before you're fit to get up."
"What about my work? Didn't they ask questions about me?"
"We covered for you."
"And who are you?" Brandon ventured to ask.
"I'm a member of an organization called S.A.V.E. You were brought to us in order to study you. We have a lot of questions for you, as you might understand. We want to know all about you and everything you can tell us about your kind and where we can find them."
"I can't tell you that!" Brandon said, realizing with dread, his predicament.
"Then, you know what will happen to you."
The dancing light went out and Brandon was left in darkness. When he tried to shift, he felt the grip of the chains around him.
{For entering torpor, you must choose to reduce one Physical stat of your choice by 1. Brandon is now at Crippled (-5)}.

Wednesday June 7th 4:30 A.M.

Weak. So. Damned. Weak.
Brandon rolled slightly, in the very little slack the chains gave him. Even in that slack, his muscles seemed unbelievably slow to respond. Maybe rest would help...no, he couldn't really believe that. Only blood would help.
And these guys weren't going to give him enough blood to matter, he felt sure of that.
Somewhere, deep inside, a tiny spark of rage threatened to burn, but he was just too damned weak.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled until there was no more slack in the chains, and then he gave a _heave_ with all the strength he had. A creak, a groan. Nothing more.
"Damn," he whispered through dry lips. Dry lips? He'd never been this bad off, didn't know what it felt like. Now that he knew, all he wanted was not to feel it again.
What was he going to do? Caught by a bunch of damned vampire hunters, on the brink of death (undeath? final death?), chained down like an animal.
That's probably how they think of you. An animal. If not a demon. What would you have thought, if someone had proven that vampires existed? He had to admit he'd probably have done the same.
"Dammit, I didn't ask to be this," he whispered again.
That probably wouldn't make any difference to them, though. They had a vampire, and they were going to make him talk. But he _couldn't_.
Could he?
Seriously, why should he be loyal to the vampire community? What had they done for him? Rebecca had Embraced him without asking, and then the unnamed vampire with the claws had ripped his guts out. What loyalty did he have?
None.
Fear on the other hand...that, he had in abundance. Let any vampire learn he had betrayed them to hunters, and he'd be chased for the rest of his existence. Of course, if he didn't, these guys would probably make sure that existence wasn't very long.
It wasn't as though there was much he could tell them, really. He didn't know where any other vampires were, except for that meeting on the Boardwalk. And how much harm could that...Caitlyn Jackson. He knew her name, they wouldn't have too much trouble finding her.
He didn't know her, didn't know what kind of person she was. Was she an innocent, sucked into this world like he had been? Or was she a callous killer? He couldn't tell them about her without _knowing_.
Wait a minute...there was one vampire he probably _could_ tell them about: Raphael. With the Blood Hunt called on him, his death wouldn't mean anything to the Kindred...
No. _He_ didn't know whether Raphael deserved to die, he only knew that the Prince had decided he should. He wouldn't pass the buck that way.
That was it, then. Even if he decided the threat from these hunters outweighed the threat of vampire society, even if he decided that he had the right to imperil other vampires, he just didn't know enough to save his own hide.
Brandon lay in the darkness, stewing. He hoped he would be strong enough not to babble out everything he knew in the hope of gaining a few more minutes of existence.
But he just wasn't sure if would.

Wednesday June 7th, 1995 10:43 p.m.

Brandon resurfaced to his unlife by a sharp stabbing pain in his stomach. He looked down and noted that a long needle had been inserted into his abdomen, attached by surgical tubing to a bag of whole blood - type O+. Brandon could just make that out, though his vision seemed also weaker. A stopper valve was turned and the thin red line made it's way down through the tubing to the needle. A brief flush of warmth focused in Brandon's stomach started to flush the rest of his body, but all too soon, it was cut short and Brandon found himself once again growing cold and empty as the Hunger went unsatiated. Looking at him with a distasteful grimace, the young Hispanic woman had quickly turned off the valve. The red line stopped, tantalizingly near yet impossibly far as Brandon's weak arms could not break the strapping that held him down. It was as he'd feared. They intended to keep him going - but just enough until he'd given them everything they wanted.
The young woman took out a small silver crucifix and kissed it. Then, with a look of hatred in her eyes, she presented the cross to Brandon's face. He just looked at it. Perplexed that Brandon hadn't reacted, she slowly began to put the cross away.
"You must have faith, remember?" Brandon heard a voice touched with a slight accent say. The accent might have been French, or French-Canadian.
"I can't find much faith in this world," the young woman replied. "Not after what I've seen."
"You must try," the unseen voice patiently reminded her. "It is our most potent weapon against such creatures."
The examination table that Brandon was strapped to was elevated slightly and Brandon's upper body was brought up and turned. He saw that he was not the only one being held captive by the hunters. A young woman, also Hispanic he guessed, and like himself - strapped naked to an exam table, stared dully across the room. Her gaze seemed unfocused and her muscles seemed somewhat slack. Brandon saw that her straps were too tight and that they cut into her arms and legs where she'd struggled. The scent of her blood awakened in him once again the need to feed and the Beast within him caused him to thrash against his own restraints, but only for a second as his weakness came over him once again.
"You won't break loose," the man, now visible, warned him. He was of medium height, somewhat stocky in build. His dark hair had receded in the front of his head to reveal a shiny dome of tight skin while it seemed very thin as well elsewhere. Touches of grey were showing at the man's temples. Judging by his thin, well groomed moustache and beard and by the cut of his clothing, Brandon guessed that the man was a professional of some sort.
"I think it's time to show our specimens to the others," the man said to the woman. "Go ahead and bring them in."
Brandon could hear the woman walk off and a few minutes later, several pairs of footfalls could be heard walking across the concrete floor behind Brandon.
There were three more of them now, all men. One was a very tall, slender young man with short black hair and striking blue eyes. The other young man was Hispanic, and of a stockier build, and very muscular. No doubt he had a hard time finding clothes that fit as his large arms seemed to almost burst out of the tee shirt he was wearing, which Brandon did not doubt was extra large. There was some sort of emblem on the shirt and it said, U.S.M.C. on it. Brandon swallowed hard when he saw the last of them come into view. It was Quinton - the vampire hunter, who was also a killer and armed robber wanted by the police. Quinton gazed down at Brandon like a hungry man seeing a steak.
"How ya doin, Doc?" Quinton grinned in a manner that was not meant to be friendly. "I'll bet you're sorry you didn't finish me off the first time - when you had a chance."
Brandon strained once more against his bonds, but it was just a formality, really, no strength behind it at all. Looking up at Quinton, he shook his head, tiredly.
"I never 'had a chance' to 'finish you off,' Quinton. You were a patient. I was the doctor. There's a little thing called the Hippocratic Oath, you know."
He closed his eyes for a moment. Opening them again, he looked over at the older man who seemed to be in charge. "What now? Shall I do a little act? I can't do a song-and-dance at the moment, I'm afraid, but I know a couple of neat card tricks."
As he spoke, he tried to draw himself up in the bonds, to attain a position of a little more dignity, but when he finished, he slumped back down.
"Interesting," Poincairé said, stroking his neatly trimmed beard. "So you still maintain that you are bound by your doctor's oath? Do you mind if I ask you how long you've been - undead?"
Brandon blearily focussed his eyes on Poincairé. "Of course it still holds me. I swore it, didn't I? Nothing in it about 'until you turn into a vampire', is there? "
He frowned suddenly. "Heck, that bit about 'sharing my substance' with 'he who taught me this art' seems eerily appropriate."
Brandon's eyes wandered slowly around the room, but he didn't seem too happy with what he saw.
After a few moments silence, he spoke again. "And to answer your other question, a couple of weeks or so. I think. I'm not sure what today is."
Rather than speaking more to Brandon, Poincairé turned to others assembled, addressing them much as he would a class of freshmen.
"Observe, mes étudiants, how it clings to the values of its human existence. This is because it is a very new undead. Though we are not privileged to address one of the older, and might I add much more dangerous vampires, you would note how far removed they are from humanity - even to the point of becoming more like animals than anything even of a tiny semblance human, other than the general shape that is. Though it is not apparent in this particular specimen, already the process of this degradation has started. As it continues to feed, preying upon what were once it's fellow humans, the process continues. I believe that the mind of the undead is still very much active, but in a state of denial. Witness this specimen's claim to adhere to its doctor's oath, quite possibly true - for now. But one cannot deny the facts that this one feeds on the living, has in fact become a vulgar parasite. And it is these facts that cause something approaching a psychic break with aspects of its nature. It must do terrible things to survive, things that were once quite abhorrent to it. And though at first, these creatures try to deny this and claim that they are still the same, the cycle of murder and parasitism preys upon their emotional state, driving them to homicidal madness and insanity, or even worse, into a depraved contempt that allows them to think that they are superior beings to us.
Do not doubt that though they are the epitome of evil, and that they soon begin to loose the trappings and values of their human existence, they still retain their rationale cunning. They stop actually having the feelings that you and I, as humans possess, but they remember these feelings and will use them against us in a most cunning manner."
At this, Poincairé gave one of the group, the young quiet man, a concerned look.
"Never trust them. Learn from them, but only that which it takes to destroy them."
"What are we going to do with the Doc, here?" Quinton asked.
Poincairé gave Brandon a cold look. "I don't think giving these creatures names, even titles such as 'Doc' really helps us here. They have after all, ceased to be human. Learn from them, mes étudiants, in order to better destroy them. Listen to them, but never believe them. And even pity them, if you would. But never trust them and always beware their powers - strength, inhuman speed, transformation, and the ability to even influence your own thoughts. Being aware of these abilities - especially the latter, is your only chance to guard yourself against them. Weaker ones such as this one are not so much a problem once they are found out; but the older ones have been the source of misery and terror through the centuries and have survived through not a little cunning and through their remarkable powers. Consult some of the SAVE files, copies of which I have in the secret library. You'll note that more than one SAVE party has come to grief through underestimating these things."
Turning once more to Brandon, "Tell me, what others of your type are known to you? If you are helpful, it will aid your survival. And I will reward you." Poincairé nodded to Maria, who unstoppered a bottle containing blood. She waved it under Brandon's nose and he nearly went wild, struggling against his bonds.
"You see, how the evil lies under the surface, ready to emerge with nothing but a lust for blood and killing. Well, do you think they are so human now?"
It was obviously with difficulty that Brandon brought himself back under control, staring hungrily at the blood before him.
"Try waving a steak in front of a starving man and see how calm _he_ takes it, why don't you? Of _course_ I want that blood. It's my _food_, and I'm _hungry_."
Licking his very dry lips, Brandon continued. "And as for being a parasite...parasites don't give anything back. I'm a doctor. I try to heal people. We all take something from this world, and some of us try to give something back."
He strained towards the blood again, his eyes full of his hunger. "I wish I had something to tell you, but I don't know much. I'm too new. There was the vampire who made me a vampire, but she didn't stick around and tell me her name. I ran into another vampire who called himself Raphael."
And again he strained, trying to break his bonds, to reach the container of blood so near him. His control began to slip, his speech breaking down into inarticulate grunts.
"Alright then," Poincairé nodded. "Tell me about this other vampire called Raphael. And tell me, what is YOUR relationship to him."
Brandon tried to shrug, though the bonds still held him tightly, foiling his efforts.
"Well, he was fairly average looking. He had some kind of accent, French maybe. Might have been Cajun, I guess. Dressed casual, needed a shave."
Brandon paused, frowning. "And as for our _relationship_...we didn't have one. We both understood what we were. We introduced ourselves. He left. That's about it."
Brandon chuckled hollowly. "Please forgive me if I'm glad I don't know anything else about him to tell you."
"How did you come to meet?" Poincairé smiled to his entourage. He held the blood bag up, dangling it before Brandon's eyes. "And where did this meeting take place? If I believe your answer, you'll be fed."
Damn, damn, damn. Brandon felt the bonds cutting into his flesh as he strained towards the vitae. He _needed_ that blood. He'd probably be berserk by now, if he wasn't so weak. He could feel the Beast within, a hollow echo of normal, a paper tiger.
What was he going to say? Truth. The more lies he told, the more likely he was going to get tripped up, screw up royally. Especially in his current conditon.
He had to think. If he was careful, he could make sure everything he said was literally true. But he'd met Raphael at the big meeting, and he didn't want to mention that...cut and paste, slap together patches. Skip over time between. That could do it.
Brandon stared at the lifegiving fluid, his hunger showing clearly in his eyes. He licked his dry lips.
"It was down near the beach, near the Boardwalk. I...was hungry, had to feed. I found a woman coming out of a bar, a bit drunk. I put her to sleep, managed to get what I needed...about as much as she'd have given at a blood bank. Her boyfriend showed up, so I left."
Brandon couldn't move his eyes from the blood. So _hungry_.
"It was after that that Raphael introduced himself. I suppose he could have seen me feeding; he knew I was a vampire, and he let me know he was, too."
Once more, Brandon strained at the bonds, moaning softly.
One of the men other than the professor exclaimed, "DAMN! Why do we bother with this loser vampire when I just cought a perfect werewolf to do some intresting experiments on? It seems to me that you wouldn't have bothered if I got back in a body bag from my last assignment"
"Come now," the professor chided the young man. "I see we are all very tired. Perhaps we should all retire. I need to think. And yes, you're right Victor, we will need to attend to your werewolf as well. There's much work to do and we've been handed two very nice boons here."
Leading the others away, the Professor ushered everyone out and turned off the lights to the room as he shut the door. The wounded werewolf fell in unconsciousness, its breathing tired and laboured. In his hunger, Brandon could visualize it there in the darkness - a feast for his imagination - inhuman though it was. In his heart, he lusted for its life.

Thursday, June 8th, 1995 1:49 a.m.

Brandon awoke from his starving stupor when bright lights poured into his skull. As his eyes swam into focus, he flayed about, the unsated hunger awakening the Beast within him. Someone slapped his face and nearly got bit for the trouble. Still, the pain helped Brandon focus - but only barely.
He saw a young Asian woman looking down at him. Her long hair seemed unkempt and matted and her eyes were red and swollen, as if she'd been crying. She held up a bag of blood to focus his attention.
"Please" he begged.
She smiled, a cruel smile he thought. He couldn't help thinking that she must hate him for what he was. He didn't know why he thought that.
"Do you want this?" she taunted him.
Brandon tried to break his bonds, but he was held down fast by the metal straps.
"Those are very strong bands," she told him. "I doubt you would be able to break them, even if you were at full strength - not without help that is."
Brandon remained silent. Obviously she had something to tell him - something she wanted.
"I want you to do something for me," she told Brandon. "If you do it, I'll see that you're set free." She poured some of the blood into Brandon's mouth. He went wild and she pulled back. But, tasting the burning energy in his mouth, Brandon felt more alive than he'd ever been. The full ecstasy of sustenance was his.
"Like that? Better than Candy, huh? God, you're disgusting," the woman said.
Brandon, a little more focused now, regarded her.
"Do you work with Poincairé" he asked her. He was surprised when she started laughing - rather maniacally. If he didn't know her for human, he would have thought her a Malkavian. When she didn't answer him, he changed the subject. "What do you want?"
Looking rather guilty, she glanced at the floor. "I don't want to die," she mumbled so softly that Brandon barely heard her.
Then he realized what she was asking.
"No," he told her.
"I don't think you have a choice," she said, seeming more lucid again. "Don't think that little snack will stay with you long, not the way you've been banged up."
She was right. Already, Brandon could feel the hunger welling up inside him again.
Smiling at him, the woman took out a very nasty looking knife and slit her wrist. The smell of living blood almost cried out to Brandon.
"Please don't do this," he begged her.
She let the blood drip into his mouth. Her taste was sweet and vital.
"After you're done, you'll still be strapped down. Don't think you'll escape without me. You'll need me to undo your bonds and I'll be dead. There'll be only one way and I think you know what that is."
"Please" Brandon begged her as she drew her wrist away.
For an answer, she regarded Brandon with a look that seemed more hateful than hopeful. The woman went over to a console and began punching buttons. The metal straps holding Brandon's left wrist and arms snapped open and Brandon was able to pull that arm free. Even so, tugging on the other solid metal bands produced no affect.
"You won't be able to escape," she told him.
"I can't do this. Our kind forbids this act. I cannot."
"Then you will be destroyed," she told him. "That's what 'They' will do to you. I'm your only chance."
"If I do what you ask, I'll be damning you. And don't think that I won't be punished for it. It's forbidden."
"Then I guess we'll just both die together. I don't think my friends will appreciate how you killed me. Their revenge won't be quick - but it will be painful."
Pausing for a moment of reflection, the young woman tied her right arm across his legs to straps on the table with a bit of cord. Brandon wasn't sure why she did this. .Pulling her hair back, she bowed her head, and offered him her long satin neck after first smearing it with blood from her wrist.
Smelling her that way in the state he was in, Brandon couldn't have helped himself though he tried to stop what he was doing. Again, he couldn't say why but he sensed that what he was doing was wrong. (Loose 1 willpower point for trying) As his fangs sunk into her neck, he began to drink the woman deeply. She was young and strong and drinking her blood was like kissing a soul. His mind revelled in the flavors of her life as its force ebbed into his own unlife.
He didn't know how to stop and kept drinking, the Beast within him taking control. He knew it was over when the hunger pains had stopped and he seemed to be more himself. The woman's body, sagged down upon his chest, laying heavy upon him. When he moved his left arm, her body fell away and would have fallen to the floor had not the cord around her wrist kept her corpse from falling.
"What have I done?" Brandon cried, the bloody tears washing down his face. He was sated but he realized what had happened. (Restore all lost blood points) What frightened him most was how good the woman's life had tasted and how much he had enjoyed taking it.
What have I become, his mind screamed.
Again, trying the straps, he found that even stronger, almost fully healed, he was unable to free himself. Checking the woman's corpse, he found nothing to help him. He was still trapped. How would the vampire hunters react to finding this woman dead upon him?. He looked down at her. If he embraced her, as she wanted, she would be able to free him. But would she? And could he bring himself to do such a thing? Alone, save for a dead woman and dying werewolf, Brandon tried to focus. All he could think of was to wonder what the woman's name had been.
Everything was so still and quiet. Brandon, alone with a corpse and an unconscious lycanthrope who wouldn't speak. Looking down at the dead woman, looking for all the world like she was sleeping, Brandon pondered what he must do now that his hunger was sated and his Beast reposed.
Realizing that he didn't have a choice didn't make it easier either. Brandon scratched open one of his fingers, letting his thickened blood flow out. Awkwardly maneuvering the woman's mouth closer to the cut, Brandon was able to smear most of it over her face and hoped that at least a few drops made it inside her.
For several minutes, nothing happened and Brandon was forced to try the procedure again. He had just painfully opened another wound when the woman's body started to violently convulse.
Brandon swore under his breath. The dead woman's body jumped and twitched and it's arms started to reanimate, flailing about and brushing or beating his face. Then a terrible moaning sort of shrieking emerged from her mouth. It went on for some time, and Brandon thought for sure that it would wake the hunters. But the building must have been soundproofed for no one came.
The woman - vampire now - had collapsed. A few eternal minutes more and her arms started to stir, languidly. She sniffed at Brandon's torn fingers and began to feed - deeply.
"Stop!" he begged her, feeling the unlife drain from him.
She did stop, gazing at Brandon with a strange sense of wonder. Flexing the cord that held to the table, the woman flexed her arm and the cord snapped like a bit of dry grass.
She laughed. Running her hands over her body, she looked at her hands as if for the very first time.
"I don't believe it! I'm dead but I feel wonderful!"
She looked at Brandon for an answer, but when he didn't provide any, she just smiled at him. Going over to the console, she punched in some numbers and the straps holding Brandon prisoner sprang back. He was free.
"Thank you," he said, rubbing his wrists. His fingers were slowly healing. She had taken back some of the blood from him, so much of it that he was hungry again and would have to feed.
"Help me free, uh, it," he said, pointing at the werewolf.
"Why?" she asked. "That wasn't the deal."
"Nevertheless, I'm not letting this thing just wait here for the others."
"No," she told him.
Brandon glared at her. "Look, without me, you won't survive. If you don't help me, you're on your own."
She waited, her joy of undeath vanishing. She didn't seem to like being told what to do. Punching the console next to the werewolf's bed, she gave the commands that freed it. It just lay there.
"Help me move it," Brandon told her. She started to protest but ended up helping Brandon drag the beast over to some bushes. He was incredibly heavy, much more than any two normal humans could have managed. And feeling somewhat weak, Brandon was satisfied to leave it concealed a few houses down, noting that it was starting to awaken.
"Let's get out of here," the woman advised.
Brandon agreed and the two of them headed back down the hill, back toward Santa Cruz.
"What's your name?" Brandon asked her, all the while thinking of what to do. Raphael was under a bloodhunt because he embraced without permission. Could Brandon's own punishment be any less?
"I'm Patricia Nakahara, but call me Patti. And now, I want you to tell me all about vampires." She stopped in front of him, looking him in the eyes. "I want to know everything about them - how they live, feed, where they are, who all the vampires are and most of all - who the Master vampire is in the area. I assume you do have a Master, right?"
Brandon raised an eyebrow. Obviously, the woman had been watching too many late night movies. Her real education was only beginning. Brandon eyed the shadows of the night. If one of the Brujah patrols or some of their ghouls wandered by, Patti's unlife might be one of the shortest known - and Brandon wouldn't exist much longer.
"What do you think of San Jose?" he asked her.

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