Snovi koje nemani sanjanju

Black Hand evicted
Party poopers

March 20th, 1985.

In the dead of night, in downtown Helsinki, a man was walking purposefully through the dark alleyways. His black oxford shoes were trampling the fresh untouched snow, and detritus underneath, under the combined weight of himself and whatever he was carrying over his shoulder. On some other night he might have contemplated poetic parallel of snow covered rubbish juxtapositioned versus the shinning lights of Helsinki and whatever scum it was shielding against unwanted gazes… But on this night there were more urgent matters on his mind.

Like a couple of dogs chasing a wolf only to find a bear in the cave… This really was a close one… Jacob is barely ''alive'' and Fritt Fall and his goon ran away with Stina… but Connor is dead… bloody hell, Connor is dead! Good thing he answered our blind charge with blind hatred, better yet that Jacob was the target and not me… he smirked.

If I haven't emptied my revolver in his face when I did, Jacob wouldn't be coming back from this nap. He was a beast, a raging beast, and I'm not ashamed to admit , to myself, I would not want to go one on one with him… speaking of numbers, where did Abgail run off to? Hopefully she will not end up on tomorrow evening news…

He paused to readjust his burden, then continued plodding along…

All this running around chasing our tails is starting to piss me off, how the hell do they constantly have more information than we do, something needs to change soon around here… Shit! Those plonkers are gonna pump Stina for even more info, and then the waiting for them to make a move so we can react starts all over again! Alton was starting to up his pace unwittingly, mumbling to himself.

Soon enough he exited the alley near a Volvo with the engine running. Alton threw the Prince in the back, then turned towards the driver: 'George, take him on a ride 'round the city until he comes to, then take him wherever he wants to go. If it starts dawning and he is still out, take him to the embassy!'

'But sir…', George stopped himself, he knew not to point out logic when his master got that look in his eyes. 'Yes, sir.'

Alton slammed the door and ran back into the alleyways. Fueled by anger and his potent vitae, his legs began pumping faster and faster as he ran towards the other side of the huge apartment block, where he thought the kidnappers went. I have to finish them, they will go to ground again, and I will have to look over my shoulder for the next mischief they pull…

He was at the stairwell in mere seconds, and had to slow down. Anger was all well and good for getting your blood up, but for a fight, a level head was better, some would disagree, but he was no Brujah, and it wasn't his style. Soon he heard one set of footsteps two floors up, so he went as quickly and quietly as possible. Soon enough he saw Fritt Fall walking down the hallway away from him carrying Stina over his shoulder.

Alton began slinking down the hall with his weapons drawn. Just a bit closer… two more steps… At that moment the Pander turned on his heel, a hand on his gun. Fuck!

But it didn't matter anymore… Alton was severely inconvenienced by this point, and an inconvenienced Ventrue is stark raving mad by any other standards! Fritt Fall was lying in a pool of blood in moments…

'Call your sire to pick you up!', Alton said to Stina as he pressed a cell phone in her trembling hand. There was a sound of running feet from the floor above, but when the goon showed his face, he took one panicked look at Alton and the scene behind him, and took a running jump through a second floor window…

Alton took one step forward, but then his ears picked up the faint sound of police sirens getting stronger. He is just a dumb shovelhead, fuck him! Walking back to Fritt Fal, he snarled at Stina: 'Go! Move!'

He picked up Fritt Fall's body and hurried down the stairwell to the basement where it all began. There he quickly scanned the bomb shelter for any interesting nick nacks. He hastily pulled the canines from Fritt Fall and Connor, pilled the broken wooden furniture on top of them, then set it all on fire.

He jogged out of there into the cold night air filled with the bleating of bystanders and police sirens blaring. He took Stina through the police cordon flashing them an inspectors badge that wasn't really there, and walked calmly towards the parking lot where Inti Alainen was pacing nervously.

With an angry glare directed at Stina and a quick motion to get in the car, that brokered no discussion, Inti turned towards Alton: 'There you go again Warwick, you keep surprising me, and I don't like surprises… but still you are growing on me… like fungus.'

Alton flashed his cold smile: 'What can I say, fungus likes dead, thick, tree stumps… Talk to you later Inti, I'm sure you want to tuck Stina in, and read her a bedtime story.' He turned and walked away not needing to see to know there was a giant scowl on Brujah Primogen's face.

My charm is gonna kill me one day, but what is the point of eternity if don't have fun with it. He thought to himself walking away from the noise and hubub.

The driftwood in Psyche's river
A tale of dumb luck

Vantaa, Helsinki
November 17th, 1984.

For the first time since that night in Valla's bunker, Jacob felt a step ahead of his enemies. This was his moment – victory's soft caress was steadily easing the pains of betrayal. 

Before him, curled up in a ball of mental agony, was the subject of his rage, the spoils of his victory, his dumb luck – a broken mask, it's shell meticulously crafted into an instrument of deceit. A snake in his hen house. An insurgent at the seat of his power. A knife under his throat. A weapon wearing the face of Benkku Ursoakkor. Hilsfrid's bishop posing as his rook. 

His opponent's eyes, now meek and submissive, never left his harrowing sight - Jacob's sadistic glare was rampaging through the last of his opponent's defenses. Psyche versus psyche, the entirety of their minds' powers on an esoteric battlefield.  Where his opponent ran, Jacob pursued. Where he lashed out, Jacob evaded. In the darkest recesses of their minds, weaving through the last few, frenzied attacks of a cornered animal, Jacob began to battered the doors of his opponents mind palace. And then, with a whimper, they fell. Unable to contain Jacobs merciless assault, the doors crumbled, giving way to a mind's unstoppable flood. 

Even then, his opponent was a devious one, offering many faucets of himself simultaneously, drowning Jacob in endless streams of tall tales and half truths. This could not last. As if with a siv, Jacob worked those rapids, every meandering answer revealing even more detritus of an alien intelligence that lay hidden somewhere deep, somewhere upstream. Devious or not, a rare few can withstand an experienced Ventrue's dissection of their id. Openings were pressed, fallacies uncovered and before long, the murky waters cleared. From their depths, a corpse surfaced.
The Saracen. 

The moment of victory lasted for a while. Every question answered, every newfound fact prolonged it. The tape from Pyotr's bunker had stopped playing hours ago and dawn's first vexes were just beginning their slow creep into the ruined living room at 8 Yläkaskentie street. 

Blood. Glass. Corpses. Debris. A shattered window showing a busy street, alive with the night lights of Helsinki. Helsinki. His besieged kingdom. All forgotten for a moment, that brief, fleeting moment of victory. Still drunk on a long forgotten emotion, his face not revealing any, Jacob turned his back on the ending night as he addressed his 3 compatriots. 

I know what she wants. I know why Hilsfrid's here.

We're so fucked.


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