Character Sheet: Opium Appearance Prelude
Journal Entries:
Name: Opium Player: Jenne Hirschman Status: N.P.C. (player resigned) Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Vampire Nature: Fanatic Demeanor: Child Clan: Toreador Generation: XIIIth Haven: Apartment Concept: ATTRIBUTES: Physical: Strength-2, Dexterity-1, Stamina-3 Social: Charisma-3, Manipulation-2, Appearance-4 Mental: Perception-3, Intelligence-4, Wits-3 ABILITIES: Talents: Acting-3, Alertness-1, Empathy-3, Subterfuge-1 Skills: Animal Ken-1, Drive-2, Etiquette-2, Music-2, Stealth-1, Survival-1 Knowledge: Computer-2, Linguistics-1, Politics-1 DISCIPLINES: Auspex-3 Backgrounds: Allies-1, Resources-1 Merits & Flaws: Light Sleeper VIRTUES: Conscience-5 Self-Control-2 Courage-3 Humanity-9 Willpower-6 Blood Pool-10 Appearance: (to be added later) Prelude: (to be added later) Thursday June 1st, 1995 6:48 p.m. Opium stirred restlessly in her box. She would have liked to have gotten up, but, checking her wristwatch, she knew that it was still light outside. What the kine so loved about summer, what she had loved about summer, as a Cainite she hated - all kindred hated - the length of the days. It made the nights so very very short. But the verve, the energy, the jazz of the season infused the blood of the kine and Opium could taste its energy when she "kissed" them. It was the best vintage of the year, she felt. She hadn't fed in days, not since leaving Monterey. She was hungry, but she was even more scared. It was known around Monterey what the Brujah of Santa Cruz did to vampires who were found unwelcome on their turf. She remembered what had happened to Eduard after the night he said he was going to go Cruzing up in the north bay. Apparently, he had been staked to a redwood and blasted clean by the sunlight. Yawning, she stretched and then turned on her flashlight to read some of the comics she had bought down at the Boardwalk. She didn't know why she had bought them, but the store peaked her curiosity and it had been a convenient place to jump into when some other vampires had shown up. They looked like Anarchs. Maybe they were the ones who had done it to Eduard. With the fall of Monterey, Santa Cruz would be next. And Opium was glad. The more Opium thought about it, the better San Francisco sounded. The Toreador of the City were said to be not so in dutch with the Prince Thomas, but the Prince was tough. San Francisco had kept Anarch power at bay for years and it seemed like her best bet for rest. She'd just have to get in close with the Toreador primogen. She could put in a good word for Opium and get her permission to stay - hopefully. Opium tossed the comics aside. They were drivel and they failed to put her mind off her hunger. She would have to feed - tonight. If she was discreet, if she kept it quiet, she could do it and tomorrow night, be on her way up to the City. Then her car rocked and there was the sound of breaking glass. Spanish speaking voices could be heard outside her box. and then the someone yanked on the box real hard. Somebody was dragging the box away, and her with it. Now what should she do? When she thought about it, she realized there was really nothing she could do. She couldn't open the box and expose herself and she damn well better not make any noise lest the ones outside decide to open it. Going along for the ride, she was knocked over to one side as someone heaved the box onto something. There was the sound of a starting engine and she felt the momentum of being driven away. Thursday, June 1st 7:45 p.m. There was more than one of them, of that Opium was sure. But only one beat on her box, thumping on the heavy plastic, trying to pry it open. She, on the other hand, was trying to desperately keep it shut. It wasn't sunset yet and she knew that if they succeeded in opening her box, she was gone. There was an initial crack as a crowbar broke through the plastic. A beam of light flooded into the box, but fortunately, it didn't hit her. Using one of the comic books, she plugged it up. Then she yelled to her captors. "Hey! Stop it! Leave me alone!" It wasn't very inspired, but the sudden appearance of her voice at least stopped them from continuing. The one hitting her box yelled out and seemed to be stepping away. There were numerous voices now and they seemed to be trying to decide what to do. Her shouting had bought her more time, but eventually, they would return to finish, now even more curious. "Who are you?" One of them called out. "What are you doing in there?" "I'm a police officer," she lied. But the lie seemed to cause some consternation in the group outside. She thought she could hear some of them running away. But, it didn't take care of all of them. "If you're a policewoman, how come you're in a box?" One of them challenged her. She tried to think. She only needed a half hour or so before sunset happened. "I was captured by a gang. They put me in here." There was a pause as this was translated to another. "Then why don't you want to come out? If you were put in there, you would want to come out, yes?" She didn't have an answer to that one. She thought some more. Lying wasn't her best quality, but maybe she could influence them. So much of her ability to influence others came from her physical appearance and persona, hardly things she could demonstrate from within her cramped confinement. Hoping that her voice would be enough, she tried to talk them out of opening her box. It didn't work. A crowbar jabbed itself into the box. She grabbed and held onto it but that only delayed them. A series of heavy blows began in earnest. It was cracking all over. Finally, with one wrenching tear, the box lid was thrown open. Two sweating Hispanic teenagers were standing over her. The one holding the crowbar was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, despite the heat, and had a hairnet over his jet black hair. The other, was large and overweight slightly, and also had a hairnet, but was dressed in baggy jeans and a greasy shirt. In his hand, he held onto a handgun. Both wore green bandanas around their necks. Opium was relieved to find that the light she had perceived was not sunlight, but light from a strong halogen lamp that shone down on her from above. The youths had apparently dragged her box into a garage or storeroom and at the sound of her voice, all but these two had run off. "What were you doing in there?" the large one holding the gun asked her. Standing up, she shrugged. "O.K. I'm a hooker. I was put in there by my pimp, because he wanted to punish me. I was afraid, if you let me out, he would find out and get mad." As she told them this fanciful tale, Opium found herself drawn to them. The sound of their strong young heartbeats was driving her insane. She could actually smell the blood flowing in their veins and as she imagined it, her hunger tore at her from inside. Grabbing at the real pain in her gut, she knelt down onto the ground. "Hey, what's going on?" the one dressed in flannel yelled out. "I don't know," the other one replied. This one came closer to her. "Hey, you O.K? You need some water or something?" Opium thought they were awfully obliging thieves. It seemed a shame about what happened next. "Hey, don't worry, we ain't gonna hurt choo," the large one promised. She pretended to sob and he tucked his gun in his belt as he knelt down to comfort her. Opium was so starved, it didn't matter what she did, as long as she could feed. Tucking herself into his body, as if for comfort, she pulled out the gun and fired it point blank into his stomach. The larger one groaned loudly, holding onto his stomach where she had shot him. The red stain around his hands spread, colouring his greasy shirt. As the other one reached into a drawer, Opium rose and shot at him. She wasn't familiar with guns, so her first shot went wild and her second only wounded him. Continuing to fire, the scent of blood made her go wild and she emptied the clip into the young man's body. It was over, precious blood spilling wasted onto the dirt floor of the garage. Like a starved animal, she bent down to feed from the large one, who was taking his time dying. She hadn't been at it very long when she heard a woman screaming. Looking up, the little blood she had drunk calming her somewhat, Opium saw a large Mexican woman pointing at her and screaming. She rose to say something, but then the woman ran off. Opium realized it was not a good situation, so she went to the drawer where the other youth had reached into and found a shotgun there. She took that and bent down to feed. She was so hungry, she would have to drink a little more before fleeing. And it seemed such a shame to waste their lives like that. The woman returned, holding a plaster cross in one hand and an image of Virgin Mary in the other. Opium almost laughed, but given the situation, it would have seemed in bad taste. Standing up from the groaning large one, who wasn't quite dead yet, she raised the shotgun, more to scare the woman off. She already felt regret for what she had done and didn't want to cause the woman any more pain. The woman ignored her and continued to advance, mumbling hail marys. It was the first time Opium had ever felt it, but the cross and icon held power somehow and as the woman advanced, Opium found herself pushed back. Worse, the symbols made her afraid and were even starting to cause her pain. Crying out herself now, Opium tried to flee, but the woman was backing her in a corner. Looking up, she saw what the woman was up to. Knocking over some boxes, the woman revealed a painted window, which she proceeded to break by throwing a wrench through it. The final rays of the dying sun just broke into the room, sending a clear shaft to illuminate the bodies of the two boys. Now, no longer with fear but with horrific anger, the woman continued to advance and now turned Opium back, pushing her into the light. Opium pleaded with her to stop, but there was no mercy to be found from the woman. Just about to be pushed to her final death, Opium crying tears of precious blood, raised the shotgun and fired. Thursday, June 1st 11:23 p.m. After having fled the Beach Flats area, sirens sounding behind her, Opium had darted into the river and walking below the bike path and skirting the thrusting hands of lecherous drunks and addicts lying in the bushes, she made her way back to town, trying to ignore the stares of onlookers gazing at her and at the blood on her dress. Stealing some clothes from bags left at the Goodwill, she changed in the public restroom of the Metro Center and, though not as stylishly dressed, she still felt less conspicuous so she took to the backstreets. Eventually, passing along Center Street, she came upon the Jahva House. Hearing the sounds of jazz, she went inside and found herself in a coffee house, which doubled as social scene for the young who weren't old enough for bars and for those who didn't drink. The sexual energy was high, no doubt fed by the stimulants sold at the bar. Opium bought a coffee and sat under a plant, watching the jazz trio on the low stage perform, conversations and laughter and courtships being played as well as the instruments. Opium found she liked the energy of the place. It was calming after her evening arising. Seeing the shocked look on the faces of the poor families in the Flats, she didn't want to think of it. They were only kine, she tried to tell herself. "Can I buy you a drink?" She looked up and saw the face of a young man, probably a student from the University staying over for the summer. There were a lot of students who came to U.C.S.C. and stayed over for the summer. "I have one," she held up her tepid coffee. "How about if I buy you one?" Surprised, he smiled and nodded, ordering something cheap. She laughed and went up the bar to get what he had ordered. Without looking around, she could feel his eyes following her body as it glided to the bar. She was starting to like Santa Cruz. Friday, June 2nd, 1995 3:53 a.m. After having fed deeply from him, she let the young man sleep. Stroking his fine brown hair, she told him, "No, I won't hurt you. I never wanted to hurt anyone." She convulsed, trying to stop the tears, but they came anyway and there was nothing she could do to stop them.
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Drawing "Sasha," by Jonathon Earl Bowser