Session 3
House of Vice: Pt. 1

Dane stayed up all night these past few days. He hasn’t put us on any real missions beyond normal patrol, and we haven’t caught much worth noting. He wanders, that is the only way I can describe it, the warehouse aimless and mutters to himself.

This morning I saw him wake Mykhailo in the midst of a nightmare. The Slav woke sweating, and had Dane with his hollow gaze and deranged smile looming over him, asking questions better left in the cold ground. The Slav got to the bar and sucked down a healthy draught of calm before he responded.

Dane was going away for a few weeks, he said, and he was taking Lawson with him. Where or why he wouldn’t say, but he left Myk in charge with little more than a lead on some house uptown that was evidently selling Vampirism to the wealthy. He didn’t care what we did, he just said take a look and decide. With that, he was gone.

I wonder why I do this.

Session 2
Mortal Ties

The warehouse that I was to call home was nice enough. It was wide, tall, and old, but the interior had been weatherproofed and blanketed in soft quilts of sound dampening foam, like the kind they sprayed into FBI interrogation chambers in the field.

I gazed around wearily at the crates that speckled the empty floor like toys in a messy room; they shined bright, new, and mysterious. I don’t know who brought them there, but it didn’t take a sharp mind to know that Dane didn’t do it himself.

Beside me, Chester was flipping through a stack of papers. I caught a glimpse at the numbers, maybe DNA sequencing? Either way, to me it looked like gibberish. In the corner, Mykhailo’s lumbering form dolled out small tarot cards in their pattern on the ground; he touched the edges gently, more gently than I would think someone like him was capable of handling anything.

Session 1
The Grand Conspiracy

Calm settles on Nicholas’ like a blanket and terror melts away. Outside, thunder cracks the sky open, spilling rain on New York all night. The water drips sickly down the window, casting eerie shadows that dance across the small one room apartment.

With the sick feeling of a dream unremembered, Nicholas realizes the phone is ringing. ‘Outside, two minutes.’ The voice cracks thick with Saxon speckled english. On the street, the haggard FBI agent meets the voice in his crumpled suit in a bad part of town. The man is wearing a tweed jacket, stetson hat and a white mask; black rimed eyes breath hollow and a cigarette juts from a slit where the mouth would be. Smoke, inky in the wet night, tries vainly to lift upwards.


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