August 2nd, 2014

Day 2

Chicago, Illinois

2 PM - O'Haire Airport

The large jet lands safely on the landing strip. Inside, the relieved passengers clap and relax. Reverend Jeremiah Thomas, in his priestly outfit, rests comfortably in his aisle seat. His eyes blink open at the clamor, and he smiles as he realizes the plane is rolling on the tarmac. He gazes at the small child in the window seat bouncing up and down, eyes in awe. The window has been rolled open and the boy gazes out into the warm sun.

In between them is the boy's mother, a proud if not portly woman in her mid-thirties. "He watched the entire landing." she confides. Reverend Thomas grins and nods.

"First time flying?" He asks her. "Yep. We're here on a little vacation. And you, father?"

"Oh, business I'm afraid. In fact, I will likely be staying for a long time."

Reverend Thomas walks along the long corridor with the other passengers, not a care in the world to look at him. He ducks into the bathroom. He gazes into the mirror, examines his reflection. Fine. He looks absolutely fine.

A white teenage punk rolls in, heads to the urinal. Reverend Thomas watches in disgust as the miscreant spits a piece of chewing gum into the urinal. That, Reverend Thomas knows, will be a disgusting job later for the poor janitorial staff to deal with.

As the teenager passes him to wash his hands, it is an easy matter for Reverend Thomas to snatch him, his supernatural fangs extending and biting into his victim's neck faster than the boy would have thought it possible for anyone to move. As he savors the blood, and the teenager writhes in ecstasy helplessly, it is then an easy matter to drag him into one of the empty stalls. The ritual for making himself immune to the sun is a draining one, and Reverend Thomas drinks deeply. But, he reasons, the boy's crime was not so great as to warrant death. He stops himself from killing the boy, despite how good the vitae is, and supernaturally licks the wound closed.

He whispers a relevant passage from the Bible into his ear, and makes sure he'll never speak of this by using a simple Dominate command.

Ten minutes later, Reverend Thomas retrieves his suitcase from the luggage carousel. He checks his cell phone messages but there is no one he can call back now, and walks out into the blistering day.

He extends his arms wide. The sunlight feels so warm. So good. He smiles at the sun. Its going to be an excellent day.

Reverend Jeremiah Thomas has arrived to participate in the Contest of Will

11 PM Gary, The Docks

A coffin is wheeled down the ramp by staff. Lucian's outstretched hand is the symbol that stops the worker, who then abandons the coffin and goes back inside for different cargo.

Lucian approaches the coffin carefully, and slowly lifts the lid. "Don't worry. You are safely arrived in Gary. You are on dry land, and it is night."

Pablo Acosta pops up, a wide, charismatic grin on his face. The Spaniard, well-built for his average size height, slides out of the coffin and immediately shakes Lucian's hand. He grabs his professional jacket out of the coffin. It completes his very fine suit.

"Thanks very much for the service, Lucian. I'll be sure to spread the word of your capabilities."

Lucian lets a wry smile leave his face. "Right. Well, there's a car waiting for you."

Pablo straighten his tie. "Actually, there's two cars waiting for me." Lucian spins around and sees a cream colored Jaguar pull up next to the limousine. "I'll take the fast one." Pablo winks and pats Lucian fondly on the shoulder.

He hops into the passenger side of the Jaguar. His faithful butler and retainer Magnusson, a tall, proper Swede, drives him off to The Hotel, where they park in the dingy, disappointing parking garage.

"No, no! This will never do at all." Magnussen gasps.

"Yes. This place is very dirty Magnussen. But, that's why we're here. To clean it up."

Magnussen's mouth tightens. "For some of us, that will be more literal than others I am afraid."

Pablo laughs, and pops out of the car. "Sir, shall I bring the-"

"Of course."

Pablo enters the lobby, and immediately whistles at the perfect rear end of the woman standing near the counter. Salihah, an extremely beautiful Egyptian woman with a lithe, athletic frame turns her head, and seeing how pleasant Pablo himself looks, smiles salaciously at him.

Jeeps hands her the keys to her room. Nearby, the young woman dressed like a bellboy watches shyly.

"Well," he says, "I'm going to have a real problem competing against you."

Her grin widens a bit. "Then don't compete against me, boy." The shy bellboy girl pulls a large, golden chest near Salihah's feet with no effort whatsoever.

Salihah followers her up the stairs.

"Begging your many pardons, sir." Jeeps says. "I only have the one employee at the moment, and I must stay at the counter myself. But if-"

Magnussen strolls in, rolling a huge chest on wheels behind him. "No problem at all." Pablo says and hits the elevator button. "My key?"

Jeeps hands it to him, then looks at the giant chest. Worry crosses his face. "Sorry to say, sir, that the elevator is out of service."

"What?" Magnussen grimaces. "How am I supposed to get all of this up the stairs?"

"We can take it together Magnussen." Pablo says, and promptly helps lift it up. They slowly walk together towards the stairwell. "So sorry." Jeeps says genuinely.

"When's it gonna be fixed then?" Magnussen inquires. "Um. Well, I suppose when one of you fixes it, sir." Jeeps replies. Magnussen glares at him as he reaches the stairwell. "What?"

"It's all in the rules of the Contest of Will sir. Which you'll find in your room. Also, further instructions in the Central room. Also on the third floor, sir. And my name is Jeeps. Just holler if you need something."

"Thanks, Jeeps." Pablo says, his mood not remotely dimmed as he and Magnussen start the long ascent up the stairwell.

Inside his room, Pablo reads the rules of the game as Magnussen unlocks the chest. "I suppose I can sleep out here, sir. I'll have to ask Jeeps for a cot. Wish I'd have thought of blackout spray. I assumed the windows would be-"

"Yes, that is troublesome. I think I will deal with the windows. All of them. I want you to locate the best window-makers in Chicago. We'll do the whole building in one sweep."

"Very good, sir."

"I'm going out."

"What? You just had a very long journey. Should you really-"

"Exactly. I'm low."

"Mmm. Very well, sir. It's your call."

Magnussen lifts the top half of the chest, to reveal a compartment underneath. Pablo looks down into its contents.

A few rooms away, the shy bellboy girl long gone, the door closed and locked, Salihah has her own trunk open.

She lifts a small altar and puts it in the corner of the room. On top of this she brings out an idol...the head of Set. She prostrates before it, and prays.

1:30 AM

On a small, dismal concrete park, the basketball post leans to the side, sags a bit. Combined with the ripped net on the bent rim, playing ball here awkward at best.

The three gangbangers aren't interested in the man's basketball skills. He stayed at the pub too long, staggered out on the streets on his own. They want his wallet, and they want a little payback against society at large. They aim to get both. He whimpers, holds the wallet out to them. There is some cash inside, but not enough to assuage their rage.

They kick him. Then again. And again. He pleads, begs, whimpers. It only eggs them on.

And then the Night Fist leaps down from the sky above, in his jet black suit, made of 3d0 Xion-gear padding, it is the latest and greatest thing in vigilante armor technology. The gold fist emblem on his chest is simply for show.

He lands next to the gang bangers, and punches the first one in the chest thirty-two times before the others can even begin to react. "Oh shit!" the second one yells. Night Fist uncorks a can of whoop ass on him as well. The third gets the message and tries to run away. Night Fist rushes towards him, and despite the obvious extra weight of his body suit over the regular clothes the criminal wears, it is an easy matter to catch up to him.

He clobbers him with a punch to the noggin, and he's down for the count.

Night Fist walks over, snatches the man's wallet off the ground, and hands it to him. "Thanks. Thank you for-"

"You shouldn't be out on these streets alone at night sir. Gary has become a dangerous place for the average citizen."

"Yeah. Yeah I know. I really need to move out. But nobody will buy my house, ya know? What are you some kind of...super her-"

"I'm the Night Fist. Have a safe evening, sir."

They shake hands and the man staggers uneasily down the street. Once he is out of sight, Night Fist looks down at the three punks. He lifts one up and as his fangs extend from his mouth, he savors the first taste of blood he's had in days. It hits the spot all right!

He drinks only a little, but from all three, and that fills him up well enough. The men, now woozy from an ass-kicking and blood loss, are easy to control now. He turns on the Presence to full blast.

"Criminals. Go immediately to the police, and confess your crimes. Turn yourselves in, and never commit crime again. Also, don't mention me."

Not understanding why, all three men agree to do it, and they hustle off towards the police precinct, where a very surprised sheriff will have three new prisoners to deal with.

Back at The Hotel, Night Fist slides into the third floor window of his room. Magnussen has unpacked the rest of the contents of the chest. There is quite an arsenal set up now.

"How did it go, sir?"

Pablo removes his Night Fist mask. "A very good first night out. Yes, I think we're going to do a lot of good here Magnussen." He beams brightly. "A lot of good."

2 AM CHICAGO. The Chantry

Abraham DuSable makes his usual rounds. His missing arm noticeably itching today, Abraham is in an odd frame of mind. It shouldn't itch at all, since he's not even alive. And since it isn't even there, hasn't been since that werewolf tore it off and cursed him with that strange vomit even as he died from Abraham's magical bolt, it certainly shouldn't itch at all. But it does. "It must be psychological." Abraham mutters, entering a large room full of bookshelves.

"Most things turn out to be caused by that exact thing, Abraham." Reverend Thomas says to him from the easy chair, letting the book he has been perusing for the last several hours slide to a close.

Abraham is taken aback for just the briefest of moments, then he nods his head in respectful greeting. "Jeremiah. It is good to see you again. What brings you to Chicago?"

Reverend Thomas stands. "I was very sorry to hear about the death of your progeny, Abraham. Garwood Marshall had great promise. I hear he bravely sacrificed himself during the battle."

"He died well." Abraham says abruptly. There is just the faintest hint of emotion in his voice. Though Jeremiah knows that even just a hint is a big compromise for the usually stoic Abraham DuSable.

"And I appreciate you mentioning it. But, you didn't answer my question."

"Didn't I? With Garwood's death, there is a huge vacancy here at the Chicago Chantry. I personally requested the position and was granted it."

"This is good news. An experienced hand such as yours will be of great use to us here."

"I thought as much. And the Elders were of like-mindedness about this. The Garou do not strike in cities like that without a huge provocation. And Lodin would not have been stupid enough to initiate one. This, I fear, was a successful gambit by the Sabbat."

"You suspect that as well, though we have no proof. But that is your specialty area Jeremiah. We will leave the investigation to you. Our meetings are every Tuesday evening. I will have suitable quarters prepared for you."

"No need. I have also been granted jurisprudence to conduct an experiment in Gary. I have already created a haven for myself there."

"The Prince of Gary has approved of this?"

Reverend Thomas lets the question hit him seriously for just a moment, then he gazes sternly at Abraham. "Why, you old kidder." He beams. Abraham laughs as well. "Modius is an incapable fool." DuSable says with a shrug. "He's weak. You can have all of Gary if you like it. We will support you."

"Glad to hear it. I can be contacted the usual way."

"I will introduce you to the rest of the clan here on Tuesday evening. Please be prompt."

"Of course, Abraham. I look forward to working with you, as well as the others."

Abraham DuSable is a Tremere Elder in Chicago.

3 AM - GARY, the Docks

Lucian stands firmly on the wooden dock, the wind blowing in his hair. "Nice breeze tonight." A crewman says as he wheels a coffin to where Lucian stands. "Third one of these tonight. Gary's getting popular, eh?"

Lucian practically growls at the man. "Just do your job. You are paid well enough not to speculate."

The worker's eyes fill with fear. For a moment, he had forgotten just what this thing pretending to be a man in front of him actually was. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

The man retreats as quickly as he arrived and Lucian proceeds to the coffin. Gently, he opens it a crack. "You may awaken. You have arrived safely in Gary. You are on dry land. You-"

He opens the coffin lid entire. Empty. "Not again. What-"

Suddenly, the coffin fills with the ugliest creature Lucian has ever seen! A blackened, furry, half man-half bird like creature that takes him completely by surprise. "What? What the-"

Mortimer T. Smith looks up at Lucian and grins, or what passes for a grin on his beak-like face. "Sorry. I am always obfuscated when I sleep."

"You...you are a Nosferatu?"

"What was your first hint?"

"I apologize for my reaction. I am Lucian, Elder of clan Gangrel."

"Mortimer. I guess I need to go to somewhere called The Hotel."

"Yes. I have a car waiting for you, but there are mortals. I-"

"Got it covered." Mortimer rises from the casket, a monster no more. Instead, a handsome man emerges. Mask of 1000 faces is a useful tool.

"Is that what you used to look like? Before you were embraced?"

"Yeah."

"I am sorry."

"Yeah."

Mortimer walks down the dock towards the limousine that awaits him. The drive to The Hotel would only be ten minutes but to the Nosferatu, they seemed like 10 hours. He bubbled inside with anticipation at what he might find there.

But which face is the real Mortimer T. Smith?