Name: Simon Sebastian Maas, aka Ishmael
Player: Martin Stennert
E-mail Address: stennert@zedat.fu-berlin.de
Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Vampire
Nature: Masochist + Rebel (qv. Merits)
Demeanor: Sycophant (to domitor)
Clan: Follower of Set
Domitor: 10th Generation
Duties: Spy, Toy
Concept: Vassal (Ghoul)

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

ABILITIES:
Talents: Alertness-2, Brawl-1, Carousing-1, Empathy-3, Panhandling-2, Scrouning-2, Seduction-3, Streetwise-3, Subterfuge-3
Skills: Drive-2, Pickpocket-2, Stealth-3, Survival-2
Knowledge: Investigation-2, Linguistics-2 (English, Spanish)

DISCIPLINES:
Potence-1, Obfuscate-1

Background: Domitor-1 (Setite, 10th Gen.), Contacts 4 (Boardwalk Personnel)
Merits: Daredevil-(3pt, due to deathwish), Dual Nature-(2pt, Masochist & Rebel), Pitiable-(1 pt), Sanctity-(2 pt)
Flaws: Addiction-(3 pt, Morphine), Disease Carrier-(4 pt, AIDS), Low Self-Esteem-(2 pt),
Derrangements: Compulsive Self-mutilation-(mild, qv. piercing/tattoo), Dependent Personality Disorder-(Blood Bound), Self-defeating Personality Disorder (Masochism)
Clan Weakness: Bright light is unpleasant to the point of painfulness, prolonged exposure leads to dizziness, headaches and nausea

VIRTUES:
Conscience-1
Self-Control-1
Courage-3

Humanity-4
Willpower-3
Blood Points-7

APPEARANCE
Size: 6'1"/cm188, Weight: lb172/kg78, Hair: Thistleblond, Eyes: Stormcloud Grey, Description: Simon is slender and well proportioned (somewhat boyish) but has the lanky clumsiness of people who have always felt they are too tall. His shoulders are always a bit tense and he holds his head as if he should always be prepared to duck. He seems relaxed and easy going at first, although his expression is normaly guarded. He has a dreamy look in his eyes and a very charming boyish grin that returns innocence to his face. He wears his self cut hair very short and somewhat unkempt. His skin is of a pale pink that shows when he blushes and seems easily infected or irritated, especially around the eyes, the lips and the fingernails. His hands and feet are relativly large yet slender.

CLOTHES & AFFECTATIONS
Simon prefers to dress, depending on climate, in streetball shoes, jeans or cut-offs and sweatshirts or T-shirts, but his clothes differ very much depending on the demands of his domitor. The Setite often likes Simon to wear a solemn black suit and tie with a white shirt and a red kerchief (stuffed in the breast pocket). The Snake Vitae in his blood forces him to wear mirrorshades during the day and often a hat or baseball cap as well.
Simon sports a tattoo of a bleeding heart surrounded by a crown of thorns over his heart (yes: virgin mary symbol) and winding snakes around his right upper arm, shoulder, chest and side. He also wears a small gold ring in his left earlobe and another like piercing in his right nipple. He often wears a broad silver ring on the ring finger of his left hand.
Gear (carried): Wallet with some cash, a CA drivers license, a cash card to his account, a local filling station credit card, and a condom; Keyring with keys to motorcycle and flat
Possessions: Powerful motorcycle; dingy one-room appartment in a downtown backstreet close to the Boardwalk, furnished with a mattress & sleeping bag on the naked floor, some shelves with clothing and some paperback novels, a wooden table & chair and a huge 'rage against the machine' poster on the wall, a kitchen corner with grimy stove, sink and fridge, a bathroom with toilet and a filthy shower stall; bank account with some $200
Valued Possession: He still has somewhere the letter from his sister, although he believes he has forgotten all about it: in truth he guards it closely.

FAMILY BACKGROUND
Simon's mother Katrina [kuh-TREE-nuh] ran away to West Germany when the wall began to crack in 1988. He knows not what became of her. His father Edgar [ed-GAR] to his knowledge still lives in Berlin, unemployed and usually drunk. He has three siblings: his sister Susanne [zoo-ZANN-neh] is 4 years older and probably lives somewhere in the US (embraced?), his brother Konstantin [con-STUN-teen] is 3 years younger and still lives in Germany, perhaps with the father. His siter Franziska [frun-CIS-kuh] disappeared with his mother.

MOTIVATIONS
Traits: Towards authority Simon usually reacts rebellious to the point of violence. Strangers he treats with caution and easily appears arrogant. In private he is insecure, easily withdraws and his trust is hard to gain. If he feels at ease or wants to, he can be very charming and seductive, a mask he feels secure with. He is totally loyal and submissive to his domitor, loving and adoring to the point of self-sacrifice. (a bit torn, isn't he?)
Valued Person: He still wants to know what happened to his sister, but is emotionally totally absorbed with his domitor, whom he believes he owes everything including his life and his love. (He knows this to be a lie, but this knowledge he keeps absolutly secret, even or rather especially from himself. If accused so, he would fight the suggestion violently!)
Values: Although he once had very firm values, including his word, loyalty in friendship and his pride and honor, nothing of that remains. For his master he is willing to degrade himself, betray, decieve, even kill.
Feelings towards humanity: Convinced of his own worthlessness he wants to make himself believe that everyone out there is untrustworthy and no matter how nice someone seems in truth must be a bastard at heart.

HISTORY
Born in 1979 in Stralsund, East Germany. His father was a welder for the national wharf, his mother worked in the communal administration. When the wall cracked, his mother went over to the West, taking the youngest child with her. Simon never heard from them again. In the following years his father, like so many, lost his job. After the loss of wife and job he took to drinking and began to abuse his children. When Simon's eldest sister Susanne was 17 ('92) she fled together with Simon to the streets of Hamburg. At first she could keep them both fed with various petty jobs, but when she got hooked on the needle, she turned to prostitution. Soon Simon had to go as well. Later they moved to Amsterdam, where Susanne had some new friends. One day, not much later, she disappeared. A few month later a shady individual (kindred?) handed Simon a letter from her, in which she wrote him to forget about her.
Included were US $5000. Since most of these new friends had claimed to be from Seattle (or Portland or Vancouver), he stowed away on a freighter to New York City.
A year later he was at the end of the rope: a hustler in Portland, only weeks away from his final golden shot, his body diseased from AIDS and about every other known blood transmitted disease, and out of his mind either from crack or from withdrawl. He had given up on himself. This was the state his domitor, a Setite on the way to California, found him in.
It was the combination of corruption, moral decay and innocence, the mixture of ethereal beauty and carnal sin that first attracted the Setite. But after amusing himself for a few nights with his new toy on the way South, he got thinking that the boy might be employed for something more profitable. For now he got him new papers, a job at the Boardwalk, a motorbike and a dingy appartment.

CURRENT SITUATION
simon, who now calls himself Ishmael, has an evening job at the Boardwalk and runs daytime errands for the Setite. his domitor seems hell-bent on wrecking some havoc in the community, but what his exact aims are, is anyone's guess. He seems to be acting on behalf of another; so maybe be wants to keep tottering Santa Cruz a thorn in the side of the Anarchs; or he works for the Sabbat to distract the Camarilla from Settite designs on Seattle; or he is out to corrupt whoever might eventually follow the current prince in power; or he is just laying out grounds to set up a local temple. He also seems to have an ally or contact in the Santa Cruz kindred community (or is it a mage?), but maybe he is just boasting.
So far Ishmael is just doing petty jobs, which have included seducing and spying upon influential kine, and in one case he even had to kill, to further his master's enigmatic plans, and has of yet not met any kindred in town.

Saturday, August 5th, 1995 2:32 p.m.

Simon cocked his head to the right and swiped off the beads of sweat that stood on his forehead and temple with his raised shoulder. The movement was a reflex, and he cursed himself under his breath as soon as he'd done it. Watching the visitors walk by in the sun, he put his ivy green baseball cap with the colorful Boardwalk logo back on and hoped nobody would notice the faint pink stain on his white shirt. Not that it would make much of a difference, around the pits under his arms and on his back between the shoulder blades sweat was soaking the fabric. He finished refilling the prize-boards with stuffed animals and cheap electronic toys. This mess was a new development, only for a couple of days was there blood in his perspiration, just as it was in his saliva, mucus and urine. Good thing that this had not set in earlier, or he never would have passed the medical to get this job as a Game Operator at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Well, it wasn't intense enough to be visible directly on his skin, but sufficient to dye the white cotton pink after a while.
Another of these little problems of being a bloody Renfield that nobody tells you about in school. Kids, don't try this at home: Don't drink Vampire blood. Should come with a warning, like cigarettes. "Vampire blood can seriously fuck up your social life." Pink perspiration wasn't the half of it, after all. There was this terrible temper he'd suddenly developed, this raging fury that would suddenly rise up inside like a tide of blood and thunder in his ears like the surf down by the beach, drowning the voice of reason and whipping him into a frenzy to hit and hit again, to maim, to kill.
And then there was this rush of hormones completely out of control. It was being 13 years old all over again only ten times as strong; on some days he was so horny he could scream with frustration. After almost two years on H living in a body that had gone comfortably numb, his carnal desires were finally back on line - with a vengeance, and powered up by this thrilling new drug of his and the strength and stamina of 10 men that came with it. And, of course, there was His Love, or rather what he had come to think of as his Love, for what else could it be? This love and yearning for his new Master was burning in his blood, calling to him like the moon to wolves and women and the sea or like the changing seasons to migratory birds, a call that simply could not be ignored. It would sometimes rip into his soul like lightning, churning through his nerves, paralyzing him, diminishing him to a voiceless screech of loving pain, and then bring him back to life again.
Seriously, folks, what is a little bloody sweat, piss or snot compared to these emotions, emotions his frail mortal body simply was not fit to host. Still: getting kicked out of this new job for dirty clothing would not do at all. Not at all. And his Love would not be pleased!
Well, as soon as he could go to the toilet, he would simply have to change the shirt. Normally he would simply flex his new powers a bit and become invisible - well, maybe not directly invisible, actually nowhere near real invisible, but rather, hm, negligible or unimportant. He would become easy to miss. Like this old pulp character, the Shadow. How did it go? 'He has the power to cloud man's mind'? Yeah, something like that. People would simply pay him no attention as long as he remained reasonably still. Unfortunately he had to earn a bit of money; a Game Operator who could only present an empty purse in the evening would not be a Game Operator for long, either.
A girl walked up to the counter of his booth. A little boy, maybe her brother, was jerking on her hand and bawling about "cuties" or maybe "sweeties". The sound was quickly getting on Simon's nerves. He took the money the girl handed him and gave her three rubber balls in return. Absentmindedly he explained the rules to her. He tried to stare down the boy at her side, whishing he could stuff one of the balls down into his chocolate stained mouth. Deep down! He looked back to her, tried to smile encouragingly, and stepped back. She returned the smile briefly, then concentration settled on her face.
The glistening tip of her tongue flashed as she moistened her slightly parted lips. He rested a hand on the small cheat-lever below the counter that could be used to manipulate the game. Still concentrating on the board with the holes the girl asked the wailing boy to be silent and maybe she could win him a stuffed elephant.
Surprisingly the kid shut off its annoying siren sound and mumbled something while sweeping his arm across the grimy face. Simon still had to practice with the lever, but after almost two weeks on the job he could more or less reliably make or loose a game for the customer. The girl tossed the first ball and hit the hole dead on.
"Great shot, miss." Simon said, playing up his German accent.
She smiled at him. The boy started to bawl again, impatient for his "lellefunt". The girl tossed the second ball, almost a miss, but with a little help on the lever it tumbled into the hole.
"Woah, that was close. Now be really careful. Just one more!"
But the last shot was a far miss, no way to rescue that one. Simon looked apologetic.
"Sorry, miss. Better luck next time."
She smiled at him again, and there was a look of such innocent sincerity on her face that left him with a peculiar sense of shame. Puzzled he watched her go, talking with a calm and serious voice to her little brother. That must have been her little brother, after all, she was too young to have a child of her own already.
The sun was giving him a headache. He wished he could slip on mirrorshades, but the only concession the Boardwalk dresscode made to the sun were these silly baseball caps. With his fair skin and thistleblond hair he'd always been susceptible to the sun; he never got tanned, only sunburnt. But since he was hooked on the Vampire blood he also almost invariably got nausea and headaches in the bright California sun.
Why the hell did David require him to be here, in California, instead of some cool place up north? Well, he had his reasons, Simon was sure, and it was just another incentive to get that night-time job at the Boardwalk that he required.
After all he was not here to earn money but to find out something about the Vampire community of Santa Cruz. From what he had come to understand, it's social center was right here at the Beach Boardwalk.
But vampires being nocturnal, a whole lot of good did it do to hang out here during the day. He needed to get onto the nightshift. Unfortunately it was better paid and more desired by many employees and thus not easy to get. Especially as the newcomer he was he couldn't just walk into that position. Ever since he was here, he had been busy getting to know his co-workers, especially those in an influential position, in positions where they got to see and hear a lot and those on nightshift.
When he wanted to, Simon could be charming enough and he easily got people to trust him. Only his current boss, one of the managers, Pauline Winthrop, had so far proven herself immune to his easygoing charms.
Pauline was a real bitch. The girl selling tickets down the aisle from his game booth had told him recently over a beer after work that the word was Pauline had first fucked several of the bosses to get into management, and then she'd fucked them over, revealing irregularities, so that they'd gotten the boot. Sure sounded like her: cold, calculating, cruel, damn good looking and far too ambitious not to use that advantage for all it was worth.
Simon leaned against the back wall. He could feel the damp shirt stick to the lacquered wood. At least during the afternoon the sun would not be in his booth any more, although the air above the tarred boards of the amusement park and the sands down at the beach would have heated up so much that it felt like sauna. He thought back to the last winter, up in Portland. He had cursed the wet cold then, but now he longed for it.
He had been up in Seattle by October last year, a golden October, looking for his sister. He had not found Susanne, but by then he had learned enough about Vampires on his long arduous journey from Amsterdam to the American Northwest to know where to go asking.
At first things had gone fine. He'd gotten a job as 'animator' in a vampire club in Seattle, earning enough money to support his habit. He had had the feeling that he was finally on an upward swing again. After several weeks of careful investigation he actually found the trail of that mystery friend his sister had hang out with in Amsterdam shortly before she had taken off. The trail went south and had lead him to Portland. He had been in the pit before, his whole life sometimes seemed to be a chain of pits, all interlinked, one leading right into the next, but Portland, it had seemed, was the last rung on the ladder.
As far as he could gather, the Vampire, a stupid powerless neonate by THEIR standards had gotten himself fried at dawn in the fixer's corner of a park. Nobody had ever seen or heard of Susanne, and what had been such a piece of cake in Seattle - getting into Vampire society - was an attempt in running down brick walls in Portland. By New year he was still without job or shelter other than the bridges of Portland, the warm air vents of department stores, car wrecks and very occasionally the Street Light Shelter down Washington Street.
Mostly he was hanging out in the parks, bars and behind the greyhound terminal, trying to sell his body or to buy some crack or heroin - or anything that would ease the pain of having to suffer through another day and another night.

It had been a lightless early January afternoon in the 'Blue Boy Bar', one of Portland's seedier hustler bars. By then Simon hardly ever got past the bouncers of the more upscale meat markets. Down to the grungy clothing on his body and a handful of change, he had been sitting by the bar, hoping his well-shaped ass in the tight threadbare jeans would catch the attention of the middle-aged patrons enough to at least buy him a hot cup of coffee and maybe even a warm place for the rising night. Just as he had been about to make a move himself and chat up the guy that had been eyeing him for the better part of half an hour without getting the move on, a young man had extinguished a cigarette in the ashtray on the bar and spoken up:
"If you're desperate enough to try that pervert over there, boy, I got a better offer. You interested?"
Dressed in an expensive dark suit, crisp shirt and tie, with a crimson kerchief artfully folded adorning the breast pocket, the young man had looked more than outstanding in these run-down surroundings, and yet, although he must have been sitting right next to Simon for quite some time, Simon had not noticed him until now.
"What's your name?"
Barely older than Simon himself, he had been tall, graceful and well-built, with slate black hair and very pale skin. Russian blue eyes had gazed cooly through tasteful gold-rimmed glasses, studying Simon in turn. There had been a softness about the expressionless face, delicate, almost feminine, that had been both disquieting and enticing.
Although he had known he could not afford to reject the offer, Simon instinctively had not trusted the man. Having read Melville's Moby Dick recently, out of impulse he had quoted:
"You can call me Ishmael."
A brief smile had flashed across the other's face, and he nodded, as if to himself. Offering his hand, he had said:
"I'm Sasha. Let's get out of here."
The air that had greeted them outside the 'Blue Boy Bar' had been arctic and had immediately raised white plumes of breath in front of them, a raw cold that at once had seeped through Simon's clothing and cut to his bones. They had taken a cab to Jake's Famous Crawfish Restaurant. Simon's clothes had earned him disdainful looks at the door, but a generous tip from Sasha had gotten them in. Waiting for a table and drinking gin at the bar of the luxurious restaurant, Sasha had smoothly managed to get much of Simon's story out of him, Vampire stuff withholding. This whole thing had been much to good to risk it by now appearing like a lunatic. But Sasha had even guessed the drugs and shown not much more than mild pity. After they had been seated, Sasha ordered the Surf & Turf sirloin and lobster for his guest and a New York steak rare to raw for himself. During dinner he had seemed comfortable enough to simply enjoy the superb food and wine and relax in the warm and cozy atmosphere. Simon had shifted uneasily on his cushioned bench, insecure with this strange client and very aware of his sweaty and grubby outfit.
Nobody had seemed to pay them any attention, though. After a dessert of Jake's Sourdough Bread Pudding soaked in Irish Whiskey Sauce and an excellent sherry, Sasha with a subtle smile had returned his attention to his guest: "If you don't have anything better to do now, I would very much like to introduce you to a friend of mine."
There had been a faint echo of yearning and an adoration in the simple phrase 'a friend of mine' that it had made Simon look up. He had stared into the other's face, trying to pry his secrets from him, but all he had found was smooth, cool professionalism. For some reason he had found himself hesitant, in spite of the grim cold of that Oregon winter night awaiting him outside.

Simon smiled but shivered nevertheless in the grim heat of the early California summer afternoon. Unbelievable that all that had happened only half a year ago. A teenage couple in beachwear strolled up to the booth, and the boy won a plastic can of coke for his lady-love that would twist and turn to bleeping music and sing "Be happy" when activated. While the boy was concentrating on the holes, Simon could feel the gaze of the girl come to rest on his stained armpits. High time to go changing! As soon as they were gone, he picked up the radio and pressed the call button.
"Here Game Booth Four-Three-Nine! Hey, folks, I gotta go to the restrooms. Could you sent some some relief for a coupla minutes? Over."
Crackling static filled the time until he got an answer.
"Roger. Sorry Four-Three-Nine, but we're pretty short of operators right now. Heat wave must have knocked some out. We'll send somebody A.S.A.P. Over."
Fuck, Simon thought. What a mess. Well, nothing to do but wait.
Slowly the sun crept across the sky, and the shadows grew thicker inside the booth while the temperature rose.

As soon as they'd stepped outside, the night's frost had indeed bitten harshly into Simon's flesh, enough to make him flinch. He had pulled the sleeves of his thin jeans jacked down to cover his hands. The porter had walked up to the street to call a cab for them. Unexpectedly Sasha had taken Simon into his arms, wrapping his warm cashmere coat around him. The gesture had been gentle and had come very naturally, the considerate act of a mindful parent or an responsible elder sibling. Thankful Simon had huddled close to the warm body of this new found friend until the car had pulled up.
Sasha had directed the driver to the Heathman Hotel on Broadway. Once there they had taken the elevator up to the Grand Suites without stopping at the concierge's desk to pick up a key. Again the magic of the golden warm glow of luxury had embraced Simon on their journey through the corridors of the hotel; uniformed waiters whispering past, wealthy guests dressed in somber evening wear moving dignified in the plush halls, the air filled by the ever present though all but imperceptible hum of elevator engines, heaters and air-conditioning. And yet again nobody had seemed to spare the mismatched pair a second look, no waiter had sneered with disdain at Simon's shabby jacket, his worn-out sneakers and the grimy, too-tight hustler's jeans, no bejeweled rich man's wife had leaned whispering towards her husband as they passed.
"Why don't they bother us? Why don't they throw me out?" Simon had pleaded.
Sasha had turned an amused knowing smile to him and simply
said: "They cannot see you as long as you don't do anything silly to attract their attention."
When they had arrived at the suite, Sasha had opened the unlocked door and invited him in with a half-mocking half-proud grand gesture. Torn between curiosity and a terrifying sense of foreboding, Simon had hesitated on the threshold. He had looked into Sasha's face and had been almost taken aback when he had not encountered the expected cool professionalism he had come to associate with his benefactor but a turmoil of emotions: there had been a profound melancholy or compassion, a loving tenderness and yearning, a furious envy, naked fear and something akin to painfully helpless guilt. In the end the tenderness and longing - a feeling so unlike the banality of animalistic lust Simon was used to from his customers - had won out in the young man's face.
'I can still go.' Suddenly the fact that Sasha had walked through the door first and was now waiting on the other side for him to follow had taken on an immense importance in Simon's thoughts. 'He is still leaving me the choice to turn around and walk away, get the hell out of here.'
But then Simon had thought again of what awaited him, not only of the cold and the night, but of the empty days ahead; the pointless search for a sister who had forsaken him in the squalor of Amsterdam, the life on the street, on drugs, on his own. In all likelihood he would have to face all that again by tomorrow anyway. The warmth and comfort and sheer luxury of the place had caressed him as if saying good-bye. He had remembered the meal he had eaten tonight, food the like of which he had never tasted before. The moment of indecision had stretched into eternity, and then Simon had stepped into the room.

He forced himself to stop thinking about the past. The heat had become quite unbearable, and he could watch the pink rim of sweat and blood on his shirt grow by the minute. A couple of guests had stopped at his booth to try their aim, but none had won anything. Eventually Simon had decided to gather the shadows around him and turn 'inconspicuous' even if that meant no more money for the time being. He could feel an agonizing thirst burning in his throat, but he knew that only one sort of drink could quench it. Well, that would have to wait until he got home tonight.
It was impossible to explain how his "disciplines" worked to somebody who had never experienced it, just as it would be impossible to explain how to fly to somebody who never had borne wings. It felt as if all the surplus energy generated by the tidal forces of his frightening and exhilarating new feelings could be focused in one point, somewhere in the center of his chest. And from there he could direct it, from there he could make it flow into wounds and heal them in an instant, or he could draw on it from there to increase his physical strength or, and that was the best, he could call shadows to him, building a shield that directed the eyes and minds of people away from him.
He hated this job. The emotion was sudden and jarring. It was not only the heat or the sun, but the entire job. He distinctly disliked the entire boardwalk, its cheap and garish tackiness, the noises, the people moving in a never ending stream across the tarred wooden planks. The colors everywhere. And then everybody was cheating on everybody else: the customers tried to get through for free or stole, the operators would either manipulate the games or shortchange and otherwise rip off the customers and the management did not only increase prices all the time and ask exorbitant sums for food and drinks, they also ripped off the workers, took a share from the 'take' and even demanded kickbacks of up to 40 percent from the already low wages as some sort of regular commission for providing the jobs.
Not like Simon was actually dependent on the money; his Master provided him with a stipend and would also take care of extraordinary expenses, but as some sort of 'undercover agent' in the Vampire community, Simon had to act the role, so he lived in a low rent apartment in the shadows of the proud Victorians on Beach Hill and West Cliff. And all of that was for naught, as long as he didn't get the evening job. If for some reason that simply would not be possible, he would have to start cruising the city and try to find out the hard way where else the Vampires were hanging out. Only that in this annoying town nothing was as it should be and all the regular addresses had turned out to be of no help.
He'd read about gang violence over in Watsonville, so there might be some Nightcrawlers of the anarchistic Brujah Clan - notorious rowdies and trouble-makers in Vampire society - but he was ill prepared to get an introduction in the 'scene' with their lot.
Finally his radio hissed and crackled angrily. Hurriedly he picked it up: "Game Operator Four-Three-Nine here, do you copy?"
"Ishmael, this is Winthrop. I'm coming over myself, boy. Bear with us a couple of minutes longer. Over."
Fuck, fuck, fuck! The cold bitch herself was coming and he looked like he'd been showering with cherry coke! Jesus Christ... Simon ducked below the counter, tore off the soaking shirt, superficially tried to dry off his upper body, grabbed a fresh shirt from his backpack and more or less jumped into it. He finished just in time to adjust everything and put the baseball cap back on, when Pauline LaBitch, dressed to kill as always, strode purposefully down the aisle and entered by the side door without knocking.
She had worked with a travelling carnival before she had settled down with the Boardwalk and still knew how to run the games better than most seasonal employees who worked them all day.
"Looks like we've not a hand to spare, so I'll have to cover for you, boy. But since you had to wait for so long, take your time. You can have an extra five minutes."
She checked her watch, expensive but not pretentious, and it was well understood that when she said "five minutes" it was a precise measure of time that would need to be adhered to down to the second. So Simon just gave her a curt nod, picked up his backpack and stepped outside.
"Boy" - the contempt in her voice was plain and completely undisguised. He could still hear it echo in his thoughts. Sasha had always called him that to. He quickly walked down the path behind the stands and booths to one of the office buildings where the staff toilets were situated, lighting a cigarette on the way. Russian cigarettes, the only ones he smoked nowadays. He inhaled the smoke deeply and thought of Sasha again.

Alexander Mavortis had been of half-Russian half-Greek stock. The families of his parents had met somewhere in the Balkans in one of the European conflicts that habitually flared up down there every now and then. His father had died a soldier, killed either by a Turkish, Cypriotic, Croatian or Chechenian Nationalist, depending on the occasion. Sasha never had told much about his mother, only that he had loved her very much. At the one or other point of his life's story she always just was not mentioned any more. Once, in May, Simon had accompanied him to an Eastern-Orthodox Church, where Sasha had lit some candles and prayed for her. It had been her birthday, or so he had said.
He had always smoked these Russian cigarettes, horribly strong and with a tar-like taste that lingered forever in the back of the mouth. They were very had to get in America, but their Master prided himself on being able to always get anything, as long as the price was right. It had been something of a joke between Sasha and him to keep testing that. Simon had just once tried his tobacco and then decided to stick with Marlboros. That is, he had stuck with them until about a month ago, end of June. It had been a beautiful night in the Nevada desert outside of Las Vegas. Simon - still going by the name of Ishmael - had found fitting quarters for the next day. David had called both of them to him, and they had a long talk. It was then that David had informed Simon - Ishmael - of his assignment in Santa Cruz, and of the last thing he would have to do here.
The three had retired into the rented villa in the desert. They had intimately spent the night together and finally drifted off to sleep as the morning dawned. Later the following day Simon had shot up his daily dose of pure grade-A morphine and he and Sasha had driven into a small quiet town by the highway.
They had had a plain lunch at the roadside diner, each one smoking his brand of cigarettes afterwards over a slightly bitter cup of coffee and watched in shared silence the shadows of the Joshua trees crawl across the dusty tarmac outside. It had been Sasha who had finally stuffed his paper package and the bic lighter into his breast pocket, tossed a couple of crumpled bills on the aged PVC top of the table and strolled outside. Simon had watched him go with a mixture of melancholy and faint guilt. He had toyed with the silver straight-razor his Master had given him the other night; the handle had been ivory and mother-of-pearl.
Sasha had stood outside by the side of the road, hands in his pockets. Wind had ruffled his hair and shirt. He had turned his head to look up into the sky, squinting. A bird had been circling up there, too high for either of them tell the kind.
'Oh brother,' Simon had thought. 'Oh brother, what shall I do without you?' For a second he had envied the older boy, and he had been very scared about the future. Then he had stubbed out his own smoke, stuffed the razor into his back pocket and walked out. None of them had said a word on the ride back.
When Simon had locked the doors of the villa much later that night and strolled slowly down the path to the autumn-leave red Thunderbird and to the patiently waiting David Aspen, he had stopped to look back to the dead and silent mansion; then he had pulled out the pack of Russian cigarettes and lit one. Life went on and his duty and destiny was waiting for him in Santa Cruz. And his Love would keep him supplied with the required morphine and the Vitae and the tobacco, after all.

In the staff restrooms Simon locked the door and proceeded to set his shot in front of the mirror. He slid the needle into the red below the eyelids to make sure there would be no visible marks. Feeling better, he stepped outside to get himself a coke from the machine. Unlike security and managers he had to pay for food and drink, even though employees were given a slight discount. Can in hand he wandered around the offices. There was not anything particular he wanted to find out, but rather get a general feeling for the place and sense what might be where.
Again he cloaked himself in shadows, felt the rush of the power of the blood pulse in his chest, and moved unseen and unheard through the halls. But even with his advantages it was impossible to gain entrance to any sensitive area: security guards and electronic locks barred him every which way. Just great, what the bloody hell does a stupid amusement park need a private army for? But it just reaffirmed his conviction that this was the place to be.
When his time was up, he returned to his station. He must have miscalculated his timing for Pauline was already impatiently checking her watch and took off right away, with nothing but a brief nod to Simon. He watched her disappear into the crowed, closely shadowed by a security guard.
Relieved to have gotten past that bridge apparently unscathed, he leaned back. It was only when the next pair of teenagers stopped at his game to win a stuffed pink panther, that he noticed that there was nothing but a bit of change and a couple of one-dollar bills left in his cash purse.
For a second he could feel cold terror grasp for him. More than two hundred bucks were missing, he'd get fired straight away and he'd be lucky if he got out without being sued. He got a hold of himself and even managed to smile and tell the teenagers to have a nice day when they left. All the time he was asking himself when the fuck someone could have stolen the money - until he realized that no one else but the bitch herself could have taken it. Well, so much for getting a night shift. He realized that telling the truth to anyone, be it the management or the police, was at best a waste of time. No matter with how many folks he'd struck up acquaintance recently, Pauline
Winthrop was just too well established and too well connected in this boardwalk and this town for him to have a snowball's chance in hell to be believed. And she had the guard as a "witness".
Gottverdammte Scheiße, wie könnte er ihr auch nur über den Weg trauen? Aber wie zum Teufel haette er denn ahnen sollen, daß sie sich nicht zu blöd' ist, ihre eigenen Angestellten zu bestehlen??? Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck! Gottverdammter Mist!!! Was könnte er denn jetzt noch tun? Well, he could simply pay it out of his own pocket, that would pretty much clear him out, but that wasn't the problem. But then his cover would be blown and he could just as well quit. And quitting was not an option - he'd rather die than let his Love down.
Just thinking of his Master made his heart sink even deeper. He had to get out this mess somehow! Es müsßte doch irgendwie möglich sein?! That bitch, there just was not any way to win against her...
For a second he had been on the brink to that murderous rage again, but then a thought had stuck him. How did the old saying go? Wen Du nicht besiegen kannst, den sollst Du Dir zum Freunde machen. And considering what he knew about her, the irony would be to rich for Pauline for her to be able to withstand the temptation. Didn't she like to poker high?

What to do - outline for Move Two

1) The general idea is to win her over, not to antagonize her. Being good at seduction (and not anything else, really) it is the sort of strategy Simon would choose.
2) Pauline is from all I can tell a power person. She revels in power. Power is the be all and end all for her. Her weak spot is to give her that power she craves. She might like the idea of kicking someone around or hurting him like when she takes away his money and can then throw him out, but the chance to actually gain power over him, have him owe her, should be very tempting.
3) What he could do is to pay for the missing sum himself, go to Pauline, very submissively (with just enough pride to make him look like worthy prey) tell her what happened, and that he has put his life's saving in to stay out of jail and in the job, how important the job is to him, that he doesn't want to be back on the street, and that he would do anything to keep it.
4) Pauline seems to be very aware of her power over men via sexuality - see the way she supposedly got her job. Being a power person, she might get the real kick out of dominating someone sexually, hooking him and thus have him even more in her power. So if there is a chance for that (or a chance to make one) Simon would try to show massive interest, giving her the chance in turn to grasp that power. (Being on sexual overdrive anyway, it again is the sort of plan he would come up with. think around his hormones is not something he is very good at at the moment.) - A good strategy might be to show sexual interest but a lot of fear and timidity as well, so that she can 'tempt' him with it, watch him suffer his fear but 'fall for her' after all.
5) He is paranoid enough to realize that she might be in the employment of the local Vampires and that she knows or at least suspects his Kindred ties. (And that was the reason for her to try to get him out of the job without giving anything away.) But again, the temptation to gain power over him should then be even higher for her, since he becomes something of a poker chip. On the other hand it becomes even more desirable for him to have close access to her. The trick is to appear weaker than he is, but not so weak that she looses all interest in him.
6) This is a very delicate attempt, but before he simply gives up on the Boardwalk - or tries to steal the money back (given his stats and mental states) - he will go for this. But of course he will have to play by ear a lot, so I can't give you a detailed plan here and now. He will pay for the money himself, he will try to contact Pauline in private, in a bar she frequents or maybe at her home, and beg (but not too spineless) for his job. he will, if chances look anyhow good, try to get her to bed, again 'playing' the struggling but dependant sycophant to her (that should not be too hard) and see where to go from there. He will inform Chandra about his planned move, but might not reach her in time before he starts to act it. And he hopes that, should he gain Pauline's trust or maybe 'earn' a little slack, he might use her to get the sought after night shift job.

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